high-pressure courses comprising young men, the ethos was ‘work hard play hard’. After a late afternoon trip to the canteen or private study in the classrooms, I often approached Block 46 to the increasing sounds of running water, shouts then a splash, swearing and laughter from the downstairs ablutions area, where semi-naked figures were chased by others wielding towels or metal waste paper bins full of water – it was horseplay at its finest.
One evening, when I was working upstairs in my wooden room, I heard the sounds of high-jinks downstairs that developed into a commotion. The noise brought me and others to the ground floor. There was blood and glass everywhere on the veranda outside. A naked ashen-faced cadet was being held with a reddening towel around an arm that was gashed from wrist to shoulder. While being chased he had accidentally thrust his arm through the glass door at the end of the passageway. At that moment, Schmitty, the laconic ex-lawyer, emerged from his room. He eyed the mess of water, blood and shards of glass for a moment and, referring to preparations for the forthcoming ‘panic night’, remarked, ‘Christ, who’s on verandas this week?’
Soon, actual flying training would begin. Now interspersed with the theory classes were ‘Mass Briefs’: lectures from the flying instructors on pure flying technique, stick and rudder, effects of controls, use of checklists and emergencies. Prior to the first Mass Brief and outfitting for flying equipment, we were marched to the Flight Operations area, directed into a classroom and told to sit. An imposing squadron leader strode in, and patches on his green flying jacket denoted that he had flown the American Phantom fighter bomber, a legendary brute of an aircraft that had up until recently been operated by the RAAF. He was one of the senior instructors, and his nickname was already known to us: ‘Scrubber’.
‘Stand fast!’ called the course orderly, and we sprang up to attention. He motioned for us to sit. An incongruously high-pitched voice emanated from the big man: ‘You’ll soon be coming down to “flights”, alrighty? You had better start putting the work in, get into those books. You’ve got to come up to standard in the required time, and if you don’t, you’ll be on your way out, alrighty?’
‘Point Tower, Dual Three Seven, taxi one, P.O.B. two for area famil, clockwise from above,’ Squadron Leader Heyfield radioed to Point Cook’s control tower. He had started the CT-4’s engine and remained in control of the aircraft, and I sat passively, trying to take it all in. The CT-4 did not smell of the Auster’s dope, leather and oil: a more sickening aroma of plastic and fuel permeated the cockpit. Even on a winter’s day it was hot under the Perspex canopy while clad in flying suit, gloves, life jacket (Mae West) stuffed with survival gear, and a helmet that seemed a size too large on my narrow head, but at least the helmet somewhat attenuated the rattle of the engine. The cockpit comprised metal panels with no soundproofing, in military grey. The pilots looked forward over a black painted nose and the view to the side was remarkable: the wings were tiny! I tried to follow the drills as Heyfield taxied, ran up the engine and carried out the before take-off checks. Then, after a brisk acceleration down the runway, for the first time I was airborne in a military aircraft.
Even this first flight was to be productive, because it was the Area Familiarisation. Several designated training areas had various boundaries, mainly roads, towns and coastlines of Port Phillip Bay, all of which, along with the altitude limits, were to be memorised. And this aircraft was no Auster. The CT-4 flew some fifty knots – or 92 km/hr – faster and Heyfield, a fighter pilot, purposefully manoeuvred it around the training areas, pointing out the boundaries and questioning me as to whether I was absorbing it all. He then started manoeuvring more violently, saying, ‘We’ll do a few aero’s before we go back’, and he commenced some aerobatics.
It is hard to describe ‘g-force’ (or just plain g to pilots) to someone who has not experienced it. As an aircraft moving rapidly through the atmosphere changes direction, the laws of physics dictate that it and its occupants will want to maintain their previous state of motion; that is, to continue in a straight line. As a turn steepens, or the nose of the aircraft is raised abruptly, one’s apparent weight will increase, as at the bottom of a high-speed elevator ride. But, unlike the elevator, a high-performance aircraft can maintain this change of direction, and the sensation is increased and prolonged. It is as if one is lying under a leaden quilt, with the force of the direction change pressing on every cell of one’s body, arms and legs. In extreme cases, ‘tunnelling’ of vision occurs as blood is momentarily drained from the visual centre of the brain (this is painless, and vision ‘opens out’ when the g is removed).
G came on as Heyfield pulled back on the control stick and pulled the nose to the sky to start a ‘wing over’, where he over-banked the wings to nearly vertical to the horizon. Off came the g and the nose ‘fell through’ in an arc downwards past the horizon, then more g came as he pulled up to regain level flight. The view of fields and houses when I looked outwards through the canopy and then filling the windscreen was unforgettable. Then we did a loop, with four g showing on the cockpit ‘g meter’. I felt a momentary violent weight of four times my normal: the nose sliced up into a clear blue winter sky and I felt a floating sensation over the top of the loop with my head back while I looked for the horizon to reappear, until the nose once again pointed down vertically at fields and rows of trees. The g came on again as Heyfield pulled the nose upward towards the horizon to complete the loop. The world then spun ahead of us in a roll. Nauseated by the manoeuvring and the smells of plastic and sloshing fuel yet exhilarated, I was given control of the aircraft for a short time, its controls highly responsive. I still could not get over how stubby those little wings looked. But the noise, the smell, the brusque, no-nonsense instructor, the equipment I was wearing, the g, and the academics that had to be applied to this … adequate performance in the class room was one thing. But now, Scrubber’s words: “You’ve got to come up to standard in the required time, and if you don’t, you’ll be on your way out, alrighty?” appeared ominous indeed.
Flying training began in earnest. Up at – oh – six-thirty, with breakfast, ground school, then flight – or flight, then ground school – before completing the day with evening study. It became obvious that this was a ‘pressure’ course. The aim was to weed out the academically weak, the airsick, the unassertive, the argumentative, that was, seemingly, almost everyone. Unlike Jack and Simon at Pilotmakers, these instructors were not teaching paying customers in a benign civilian environment. These men had all served on operational squadrons, and some had flown in the Vietnam war as helicopter, transport and bomber pilots. It became apparent – even now to a nineteen-year-old recent civilian – that many of them did not want to be at Point Cook. Some derided the comparatively dainty CT-4, calling it ‘The Plastic Parrot’, after having flown its predecessor that was still being used to train the senior course, the manly Winjeel with its bellowing engine of over twice the CT-4’s power. The Point Cook sky would still reverberate with the Winjeels’ rumble for a few months yet.
There were usually some three pilot’s courses at any one time at Point Cook, and at morning briefing, all students gathered in the briefing room, where a weather report was given and operational and administrative announcements made. The quiz officer would then rise and commence questioning, and on the cadet or midshipman being called, he was required to stand, snap to attention and answer the question, which usually regarded a procedure, an aircraft limitation, or an emergency drill. An incorrect answer would be responded to by a contemptuous, ‘Remain standing,’ and further victims were selected until the question was answered correctly. All instructors were ‘Sir’ on the ground and in the air. At any time a ‘squawk box’ in the students’ crew hut could rasp, ‘Spare student to Ops,’ requiring one of us for a menial task such as making the instructors cups of the ubiquitous powdery Service instant coffee, or running an errand.
My flying training started reasonably well. Heyfield was generally patient, but would become short with me when I muddled or forgot checklist items or procedures. I made progress with Turning, Climbing, Descending and Effects of Controls.
The
