UNDERGRADUATE PAGE

Night Solo

By DESMOND E. HENN (King's College, Cambridge.)

IT was already dark by the time I reached the airfield, and the slight uneasiness which had been troubling me all day suddenly blossomed forth into wild alarm. Perhaps my instructor sensed this, for he radiated quiet confidence. "All set ? " he enquired with unprecedented solicitude, as I fumblingly collected parachute, flying-helmet, gloves and torch. I nodded bravely, and together we trudged out on to the tarmac.

Our Chipmunk looked at once jaunty and demure, its red and green navigation lights glowing remotely at the end of wings vaguely outlined in the darkness. We climbed into the two cockpits, he with the placid boredom of the professional, I with the wistful fatalism of one whom circumstances are conspiring to destroy.

We jolted to a stop beside the "Christmas Tree," an eerie triangle of blue lights marking the beginning of the flare-path. My head-phones hummed again. "I'll just do one circuit to jog your memory," came my instructor's voice, "and then after you've done one you can go off solo." My mouth suddenly felt very dry. "Wizard prang," I managed to croak; no one could say I wasn't entering into the spirit of the thing.

We took off, did a text-book circuit with each turn an exact ninety degrees, and landed as smoothly as a feather settling on a mill-pond. We taxied back beside the flare-path and braked at the end. "There you are. Nothing to it," came the voice I dreaded. "All right. It's all yours. 1 won't say a word."

My hands were damp inside the leather gloves. I felt for tit; radio transmitter button and called the control tower. "Melody Charlie take-off clearance," I mumbled. The reply came back, "Charlie, clear take-off on green," and almost at once a green beam from the mobile control trailer raked our plane. I edged it forward, and swung round facing down the flare-path, the string of lights on my left receding towards some invisible horizon. Another green signal, throttle eased forward, and we began to gather speed.

Take-offs have never been my strong point. In the daytime it is possible to concentrate on keeping the aircraft pointing in a given direction and just wait for it to leave the ground. Quite often such a technique is successful. But not this time. The plane bounced over what may have been a large ant-heap and took off prematurely; in order to keep on flying I pulled the stick hard back, with the result that our tail-wheel hit the ground with a jolt that nearly broke my safety-belt. I heard a moan from the back cockpit as we staggered into the air. Gradually our speed rose above the danger mark; at a thousand feet I levelled off and began tracing one of my elliptical circuits, an innovation that is still causing a good deal of com- ment in aeronautical circles. So far, so good.

As we glided on to the final approach I began repeating in a stage whisper the ageless litany of landing checks: Brakes off, mixture rich, fuel on, flaps down. Ahead of us the flare-path looked very dim and much too short. I peered out, trying to remember what the flashing three-colour beacon indicated: Amber, too high; red, too low. It appeared to be green now; at least our height was all right. With the engine coughing in a relaxed fashion we sidled over the perimeter track at sixty knots and approached the first flare.

The theory of landing is quite simple. You just fly along a couple of feet above the ground while your speed drops off to a figure at which the plane will automatically stall and settle in the orthodox three-point manner. The only time it gets difficult is when you can't see the ground. I levelled off at what seemed to be about the right height, and watched the air- speed indicator with the fascination born of unfamiliarity. At exactly thirty-seven knots we stalled abruptly, and began to fall with the exhilarating rapidity of an express lift. We went on falling for quite some time. Finally we came to earth with a crash that must have registered on every seismograph in the country. Our Chipmunk couldn't even muster sufficient energy to bounce; it just trundled wretchedly down the flare-path, looking for a convenient spot to disintegrate.

My instructor's heavy breathing rasped over the inter-corn. "Back to dispersal," he whispered hoarsely. When we had parked in front of the hangar he began undoing his safety straps. "Well," he said evenly, "that was quite a perform- ance." He was obviously impressed. "Suppose you try one on your own. Come into the office if you get back. I want a word with you." He climbed put and shut the cockpit cover. Then he patted the fuselage with a gesture of affectionate regret, and tottered over to the admin building. I was alone.

As I taxied out again, my confidence returned. Nothing to it, he had said, and he was quite right. Landings could do with a little polishing up, perhaps, but otherwise the whole thing was perfectly simple. Skill, good nerves, good judge- ment—that's all you needed. I kicked the rudder-bar over, and lined my plane up on the flare-path with insolent skill. Nothing to it.

Perhaps I kicked it too hard. Gathering speed, the plane began to yaw viciously, first one way and then the other. The zig-zagging ceased only when we lurched into the air, side- swiping the end flare. I called up the tower to tell them I was airborne. The controller's voice responded at once, manfully suppressing a. note of rising hysteria : "All other aircraft are to stay away from the circuit until further notice." 1 coloured modestly and climbed straight ahead.

We all have our little vanities. Mine happens to be a belief that I never make the same mistake twice. Turning off the cross-wind leg, I took a solemn vow not to level off too high. I Would keep one eye on the flares and judge my height by them. Languidly I pressed the transmitting button. "Charlie on finals," I drawled. My fist tightened resolutely round the control-column, and we glided down at sixty knots, the first flare winking at me through the propeller. " Musn't level off too high," I gibbered, as the altimeter dropped away from the hundred-feet mark. " Mustn't . . " With a noise like the crack of doom we flew straight into the ground. The Chip- munk reared up as though it had been stung by a wasp, and then fell heavily back again. Dimly I heard the noise of a tyre bursting. With decreasing agility the plane ricocheted across the airfield, subsiding gradually like a tired yo-yo.

I parked on the hangar apron, switched off the engine, and climbed out. I was feeling really rather pleased. I had flown at night all by myself, and here I was back again, safe and sound. I waved a cheery greeting to the mechanic, who was staring open-mouthed at my plane's sagging undercarriage. He didn't reply.

In the office my instructor was sitting behind a desk with his head buried in his arms. He looked up as I came bustling in. "Well, sir," I said, "what do you think are the chances of me getting my wings ? "

He told me. He told me at considerable length and with a great deal of quite unnecessary repetition. I sat down on the edge of his desk and listened good-humouredly, occasion- ally jotting down an unfamiliar word in -the back of my diary. Eventually he got tired, and just sat there, breathing hard. I put my. diary away. "By the way, sir," I said casually, "I had a spot of trouble with one of the tyres. Faulty main- tenance, I imagine." I paused to light a cigarette. " Shall I put the plane U/S ? " He laughed thinly, like gravel falling on a tin roof. "No." he said harshly, "better put it down as totally destroyed." Then he noticed my upper lip trembling, and his expression softened. He got up from the chair, and came over and patted me kindly on the shoulder. "My boy," he said, "it's a pretty tricky business, flying." He thought for a moment. "Why don't you take up chess instead ? "

I was genuinely shocked. "Oh, I couldn't possibly do that, sir," I said, "I haven't received my bounty yet." His face hardened again, and his hands clenched convulsively a couple of times. Then he turned away. "Oh well," he said, more to himself than to me, "thank Heaven there's not a war on."

I had to agree with him there.