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Aviation History
1953
1953 - 1344.PDF
498 FLIGHT ENGINES—ARE THEY NECESSARY? . . . high-pointing machine, with two head-and-shoulder silhouettes, one on either side of the wing-supporting central pillar, rising from the wide, boat-like hull of the fuselage of the T.21A (so appropriately known as "the barge"). Occasionally, a pipe-smoking occupant of the starboard seat would be seen to lean out and knock out his pipe on a convenient strut. . . . Indeed, power flying was never like this. Another intriguing aspect of gliding, appreciated very early in the game, is that observers on the ground can hear quite distincdy what an instructor in the circling "two-pew" is saying to his pupil —and, of course, equally distinctly any reply the pupil dares to make. This can prove acutely embarrassing to the airborne pupil, as precise details of his incompetency of pilotage are thrown to whichever of the four winds is not blowing in his face at the time, and carried with crystal clarity to the delighted ears of those below. Later experience proved, incidentally, that in fact you heard the instructor more clearly when he was in the air and you were on the ground than when you were both in close proximity with one half of a T.21 strapped to your respective backsides. Soon came the time when I had to cease watching everyone else flying and actually to sample the real thing myself. Observation of the T.2Fs activity since my arrival had pointed to the fact that it was, in spite of its appearance, airworthy, and capable of at least making a circuit and landing in the same general area from which it was launched. This knowledge did something to relieve the doubt occasioned by the sight of extremely primitive- looking stick and rudder pedals, a small wooden sphere attached to a wire (surely not for flapping the wings in an emergency?), a panel of only three instruments, and no seat—just a slighdy raised portion of the floor. The central instrument, between the altimeter and the A.S.I., was intriguing, and apparendy consisted of two thermometers vertically mounted. This, I was informed, was actually a variometer, the gliding equivalent of a rate-of- climb indicator. Installed in the hollowed-out space (laughingly called a cockpit) between the nose and the wing pillar, I strapped myself in and prepared for the pre-launch check-off list. The mnemonic for this was "Scrubcat," referring in turn to Straps, Control move ment, Release (so my small wooden sphere released a cable, not flapped a wing?), Undercarriage (none fitted) or Uncover pilot, Brakes operative, Canopy fastened, Altimeter set, and Trim (none fitted). This formality over, a "one up" call to the batsman resulted in the signal to "take up slack," followed by "two," otherwise "all out." The wire tightened, and we began to move forward over the ground, rather more smoothly than I had expected. Then we were rising into the air, with an almighty rushing noise and the feeling of being pulled face-first through a howling gale (although the unabated steady nature of the gale gave one rather the impres sion of being a model, suspended at a high angle of attack in a high-speed wind-tunnel). My streaming eyes just managed to perceive that the nose seemed very, very high, before my instructor pushed the stick forward, released the cable, and handed over the controls to me. I commenced the circuit with a turn to the right. Any belief I might have held that turning a glider was identical with turning a powered aircraft was quickly dispelled as slow-speed effects and aileron drag played their part. The application of moderate right bank immediately caused the nose to swerve to the left—an interesting phenomenon, but not what was desired. Much and early rudder was obviously needed, at least to begin the turn. A general sloppiness of the controls was apparent, and so we slopped around the circuit, as if steering a barge sideways, forwards, allways across a many-current river. My clumsiness at the controls was heightened by the lack of any indication (to me) of whether I was flying accurately or not: The faithful barge, two-pew or plain T.21A; an admirable vehicle for dual instruction. George Scarborough is at the controls. indeed, the machine did not seem to fly, but rather to slide and wallow erratically, though in the right general direction. Rather disconcerting at first was the impression that what one did with the controls bore litde relation to the subsequent behaviour of the aircraft. After a blundering sort of downwind leg (with one highly suspicious eye on the A.S.I, needle, apparently frozen rigid at 30 m.p.h.) I began to turn crosswind, but was too high for a straight-in approach. My instructor took over and, showing how it should be done, made a wide S-turn before coming in to a smooth landing. It seemed that landing judgment would be easier in gliders; the ground did not rush up suddenly, as with powered aircraft, and one felt nearer to it and better able to judge one's precise height in the final stages just before touch-down. This, then, was gliding. A bewildering, hectic three minutes spent slithering around a circuit with a howling gale blowing in one's face. If only because it was bewildering, and because one wanted more fully to understand it, there remained the desire for more—a desire that soon developed for me, as it has for many others over the years, into an answer to the peculiar, compelling fascination of the sport of gliding. Sunday was an extremely busy day, and the T.21A, being the only two-seater available at that time, was in great demand, so that I was unable to obtain a second circuit. Instead, I absorbed the atmosphere of a good-weather Dunstable Sunday: the colour ful, high-performance machines questing and circling up from the hill in search of thermals; the lowly beginners hesitantly lunging around an erratically flexible circuit in the barge; and the outside audience changing from a lone early-morning equestrienne reining- in her mount at the foot of the ridge to the air-minded picnicking groups who covered the afternoon hillside. Circuits and Bumps The following day, on our first circuit, I was allowed to perform the take-off, dimly remembering the briefing "Let her get a litde way up from the ground, then gradually press back on the stick." This I did, "That's right, higher," advised John Simpson, just as I was about to keep the nose where it was. Hesitantly, a little more back-pressure. "Good. Higher." Higher? Oh, well, why not, the whole thing was ridiculous, anyway. Higher still, and then with the stick right back the nose eventually hegan to pull slowly yet firmly down—we had arrived at the top. Forward on the stick before release—but not enough, for there was a slight jerk as we came off the wire—and then a right turn into the circuit again. On the downwind leg, we came level with the launching point fairly quickly, for the wind was strong, but I was told to turn in sooner than I intended. The strong-wind technique for elemen tary pupils is apparendy to fly a crosswind beat just behind the boundary, from which one is certain of getting in at any point, rather than run the risk of being carried too far downwind and not reaching the field. A starding and revolutionary procedure was then suggested (or rather ordered) by my instructor as a preliminary to the landing approach. One was not to decrease speed from what might be termed "normal cruise" for the landing, as on a respectable powered aircraft; on the contrary, one increased speed. Pushing my mental reservations firmly aside and the stick firmly forward, I increased speed from about 30 m.p.h. to a relatively breathtaking 40. Subsequent thought on the matter approved the new concept; as one is flying normally very near the stall, it is as well to have a litde speed in hand when landing, in view of the marked wind- gradient effect near the ground. My actual landing was no more than adequate. My powered- aircraft training reared its ugly head—as indeed did the T.21—as I brought the machine in, very smoothly, on its tailskid. "Hmm, yes," commented J. S., "most power pilots seem to do that." Subsequent circuits indicated further faults to be cured: a tendency to fly too slowly, and with one wing low. Slowly the feel of me controls improved, though I still caught myself on occasion looking for the non-existent turn-and-slip indicator. Experience of its action at low speeds, as well as my instructor, soon taught me to ignore the A.S.I., and I had no reason to look at the remaining two instruments. One touch-down which I made very near to the launching point resulted, to my surprise, in the disapproval of my mentor, for it was thought a good thing (by the instructors if not the retrieving party) for pupils to play safe and land well into the field at this stage. Landing on the grass-covered roller-coaster that is the Dunstable flying field is indeed an alarming prospect at first, and one feels grateful somehow for the presence of a second and more experi enced person in the cockpit of the T.21. A deep, diagonal gully separates the two crests from which the launches are made, while along one side looms the soaring ridge. There are power cables,
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