Wed Nov 07, 2012 12:05 pm
#1116121
The dog that bit
‘Patience’ is missing from this grumpy pilot’s checklist. Adrian Bleese takes time-out to tell us the story
It would be a cold day in hell before Pilot X would admit that he couldn’t be there on time. What was the point of bragging about his aeroplane and his flying licence if he turned up late or, worse still, by train? He swore at the cold, miserable fog as he drove to the airfield, cursing the radio for its lack of weather reports.
The cheery engineer by the hangar – saying he’d heard that it would clear soon and at least the fog would give X some time to de-ice the aeroplane – did little to lift his spirits. If the engineer had a dog, Pilot X may well have kicked it. He stomped over to the parked Cessna, frowning at all the tie-downs. It was perfectly
safe behind the hangar and the trees! Why people insisted on tying the wings and the tail down he had no idea; he certainly never did. He dragged over the steps and climbed up to check the fuel contents; the gauges were worse than useless and it was bound to need refuelling, no one ever bothered. It would be better if the gauges were just plain broken, at least then there’d be a possibility that they’d read correctly once in a while.
Pilot X had given up checking the fuel in-flight, there was no point; he knew how much he started with and how long he’d flown for, that was enough. It was a pointless item on the checklist for this aeroplane.
“Oh, great, typical.” Pilot X fought with the fuel cap and, had he been in a lighter frame of mind, even he would have to admit that the fuel cap being frozen solid was less than typical. He spent a bitter and miserable time de-icing the aeroplane before finally wrestling the fuel cap free only to find out that the tanks were full to the top.
‘Who the hell flew this aeroplane last? No-one ever bothers filling it up, usually,’ he grumbled to himself as he climbed down and tried with numb fingers to loosen the cold, wet ropes tying the little Cessna to the ground. He finally finished his walkround and headed back to the little clubhouse to smoke desultory cigarettes and kick at inanimate objects; the fog had still not lifted.
Time and again he glared at his watch, which seemed to move in an odd, jerky fashion; he’d look at it six times in a row and barely a minute would have passed. Then he’d glance it at again and realise just how late he was going to be and how little of an option even driving there now was. Not even anyone to grumble to, the engineer had left while X was doing his checks, wisecracking his way past him about how he loved an optimist.
Always the optimist
He walked down to the runway and, as he did, the day seemed to warm up slightly, there was blue up above, the fog swirling around the trees and hangars was the very last of it; he could make it after all. He quickly checked the TAFs for his destination on his phone as he walked back to the aeroplane, his mood lifting with the mist; even the actuals en route were looking promising.
He jumped in and whizzed through the checks, giving an extra pump on the primer for good luck. The engine started first time and he taxied out, checking the brakes and switches as he went. A quick blind call on the airfield frequency and he backtracked to the end of the runway, carrying out his power checks there to minimise delays. Full power, everything in the green, he was going to make it.
Climb out at 65kt, through five hundred feet, start the turn to the left, then… a cough, a splutter, silence and a windmilling prop.
“This can’t be happening!”
X looked disbelievingly at the throttle that he was still holding and the mixture lever next to it, both fully forward.
“It just can’t be bloody happening.”
Six hundred feet. What to do now? Carry on the turn that he’d started and get back to the airstrip or pick a field somewhere ahead? He lowered the nose to keep up the speed and made his decision; he was on final approach. There was a field up ahead, which looked good but he was probably too high, then there was a road, then another field. If he tried to get into the nearer one he might overrun and end up on the road; he was at the point where he didn’t need to make the correct decision, any decision would be the right one.
The speed was OK. Try a Mayday on the frequency in use which he knew to be unmonitored, but hoped to God it wasn’t… he crossed the first field, the hedge at the far side looked tall and close, but he cleared it. He pulled back and he was over the road and could feel the aircraft juddering as he crossed the far hedge, dropping into the field. He touched the surface and the cloying mud of the furrowed field grabbed the main wheels, bringing him to a sickening, crunching, shuddering halt. No time to turn anything off, just get out and run.
As he forced his way out, his legs gave way, just as those of the Cessna had done seconds before. Pilot X dragged himself away and clambered to shaky, unsteady feet; moving further from the poor, shattered and buckled little aeroplane. The only emotion that he could summon up was pity for the mangled flying machine in front of him with crooked and collapsed undercarriage and bowed and broken starboard wing.
Suddenly, he felt very cold and aware of the silence that surrounded him; everything had stopped and there was no sign of fire.
Pilot X pulled out his mobile and, standing shivering in the bleak and melancholy mud of a ploughed field, spoke into the handset, “Police, please.”
His next phone call was, in some ways, even worse.
“Hi,” he mumbled. “I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a hold-up. I probably won’t be there on time.” ■
Questions
1 What may have been the cause of the engine failure?
2 At 600ft with fairly still conditions should Pilot X have turned back for the field?
3 Should he have landed in the nearer field?
‘Patience’ is missing from this grumpy pilot’s checklist. Adrian Bleese takes time-out to tell us the story
It would be a cold day in hell before Pilot X would admit that he couldn’t be there on time. What was the point of bragging about his aeroplane and his flying licence if he turned up late or, worse still, by train? He swore at the cold, miserable fog as he drove to the airfield, cursing the radio for its lack of weather reports.
The cheery engineer by the hangar – saying he’d heard that it would clear soon and at least the fog would give X some time to de-ice the aeroplane – did little to lift his spirits. If the engineer had a dog, Pilot X may well have kicked it. He stomped over to the parked Cessna, frowning at all the tie-downs. It was perfectly
safe behind the hangar and the trees! Why people insisted on tying the wings and the tail down he had no idea; he certainly never did. He dragged over the steps and climbed up to check the fuel contents; the gauges were worse than useless and it was bound to need refuelling, no one ever bothered. It would be better if the gauges were just plain broken, at least then there’d be a possibility that they’d read correctly once in a while.
Pilot X had given up checking the fuel in-flight, there was no point; he knew how much he started with and how long he’d flown for, that was enough. It was a pointless item on the checklist for this aeroplane.
“Oh, great, typical.” Pilot X fought with the fuel cap and, had he been in a lighter frame of mind, even he would have to admit that the fuel cap being frozen solid was less than typical. He spent a bitter and miserable time de-icing the aeroplane before finally wrestling the fuel cap free only to find out that the tanks were full to the top.
‘Who the hell flew this aeroplane last? No-one ever bothers filling it up, usually,’ he grumbled to himself as he climbed down and tried with numb fingers to loosen the cold, wet ropes tying the little Cessna to the ground. He finally finished his walkround and headed back to the little clubhouse to smoke desultory cigarettes and kick at inanimate objects; the fog had still not lifted.
Time and again he glared at his watch, which seemed to move in an odd, jerky fashion; he’d look at it six times in a row and barely a minute would have passed. Then he’d glance it at again and realise just how late he was going to be and how little of an option even driving there now was. Not even anyone to grumble to, the engineer had left while X was doing his checks, wisecracking his way past him about how he loved an optimist.
Always the optimist
He walked down to the runway and, as he did, the day seemed to warm up slightly, there was blue up above, the fog swirling around the trees and hangars was the very last of it; he could make it after all. He quickly checked the TAFs for his destination on his phone as he walked back to the aeroplane, his mood lifting with the mist; even the actuals en route were looking promising.
He jumped in and whizzed through the checks, giving an extra pump on the primer for good luck. The engine started first time and he taxied out, checking the brakes and switches as he went. A quick blind call on the airfield frequency and he backtracked to the end of the runway, carrying out his power checks there to minimise delays. Full power, everything in the green, he was going to make it.
Climb out at 65kt, through five hundred feet, start the turn to the left, then… a cough, a splutter, silence and a windmilling prop.
“This can’t be happening!”
X looked disbelievingly at the throttle that he was still holding and the mixture lever next to it, both fully forward.
“It just can’t be bloody happening.”
Six hundred feet. What to do now? Carry on the turn that he’d started and get back to the airstrip or pick a field somewhere ahead? He lowered the nose to keep up the speed and made his decision; he was on final approach. There was a field up ahead, which looked good but he was probably too high, then there was a road, then another field. If he tried to get into the nearer one he might overrun and end up on the road; he was at the point where he didn’t need to make the correct decision, any decision would be the right one.
The speed was OK. Try a Mayday on the frequency in use which he knew to be unmonitored, but hoped to God it wasn’t… he crossed the first field, the hedge at the far side looked tall and close, but he cleared it. He pulled back and he was over the road and could feel the aircraft juddering as he crossed the far hedge, dropping into the field. He touched the surface and the cloying mud of the furrowed field grabbed the main wheels, bringing him to a sickening, crunching, shuddering halt. No time to turn anything off, just get out and run.
As he forced his way out, his legs gave way, just as those of the Cessna had done seconds before. Pilot X dragged himself away and clambered to shaky, unsteady feet; moving further from the poor, shattered and buckled little aeroplane. The only emotion that he could summon up was pity for the mangled flying machine in front of him with crooked and collapsed undercarriage and bowed and broken starboard wing.
Suddenly, he felt very cold and aware of the silence that surrounded him; everything had stopped and there was no sign of fire.
Pilot X pulled out his mobile and, standing shivering in the bleak and melancholy mud of a ploughed field, spoke into the handset, “Police, please.”
His next phone call was, in some ways, even worse.
“Hi,” he mumbled. “I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a hold-up. I probably won’t be there on time.” ■
Questions
1 What may have been the cause of the engine failure?
2 At 600ft with fairly still conditions should Pilot X have turned back for the field?
3 Should he have landed in the nearer field?