there was just enough time for one remedial flight, of which I remember little. Another flying instructor went over my weakest areas and I plodded through the exercises, aerobatics, circuits and another PFL. UA recoveries would have been practiced again to ensure that I would apply the correct technique. After landing, I found that I was to be given my one chance: a ‘scrub ride’ with Flight Lieutenant Edwards. It was to be on the following day, Friday, the last flying day of the working week at this training base before the Christmas stand-down commenced.
The Senior Naval Officer had been informed of my failure.
After my remedial flight that afternoon, there was an end-of-course bar session with the instructors, and I dutifully showed up. All my course-mates had completed their BHTs and were in various degrees of elation and relief, now focused on the final administrative procedures involved with clearing Point Cook and taking leave over Christmas before starting advanced training on the Macchi in Western Australia. I was still not through, and this time my inconsistent performance had reared its head on a test. Rocky approached me in the bar, a little softer in demeanour. He would have spoken to the instructor who had carried out my remedial flight. Almost apologetically, Rocky again ran through the points that he hadn’t liked, which was almost too much for me. I fought tears of frustration and self-pity as he spoke, and, at least believing my own words, could barely blurt out, ‘Thank you, sir, I’ll do my best tomorrow,’ and I retreated to the block.
The following morning was gorgeous: a deep, cloudless blue sky, the air cool for December and not a breath of wind, which was unusual for the area. Port Phillip Bay glinted beyond Point Cook’s runways. The flight line was quiet except for one other CT-4 starting up. In grim determination after a fitful sleep and desultory breakfast, I changed into my flying clothing and presented at Edwards’ briefing cubicle. Soon we were airborne, the flight lieutenant in the CT-4’s right seat.
After some general handling, Edwards said, ‘All right, Mark, show me your aero’s.’
In preparation, I cleared the area, diligently looking for other aircraft, and there was that other CT-4, also airborne, less than a kilometre to our left, its wings flashing yellow as it manoeuvred. I was rattled. Should I start aerobatics with that aircraft in sight? Was he too close? I waffled on with more ‘clearing turns’ and wingovers until Edwards, in frustration called, ‘Come on, get on with it.’ After the conclusion of some very average aerobatics, I took us back for some circuit work, flying the various types of pattern. Now we were climbing out after a touch and go on the grass runway.
‘OK, just fly one more “normal” and make it a “full stop”,’ Edwards directed.
I didn’t know what to think. No gross mistakes, but an uninspiring flight. Edwards hadn’t said much. Was that it? I supposed I would go for Observer training, or maybe Air Traffic Control. Maybe Seaman Officer – I liked ships. How would I tell my parents after throwing up Medicine for this? What would I tell my prospective girlfriend?
It was now time to complete the crosswind turn for that last circuit. Edwards yelled, ‘Practice!’ and cut the power, simulating an engine failure at a very awkward point that was past the far end of the runway. What would I do? There was no wind. My brain worked seemingly on a separate channel as I recited the simulated emergency checks. Nil wind! With no wind, it would not matter which way I landed the aircraft. If I could manoeuvre it to any runway, not just the ‘duty’ runway designated for operations by the control tower, I could land.
‘If I turn now, I’m in a position to land on the other runway, sir,’ I said.
This would give me the full length of the longer runway to use – if I could pull it off successfully. Edwards just sat there, blank under his black helmet visor. I spiralled down tightly, careful not to let the speed decrease in the simulated glide. With no wind, and the only other aircraft flying on this exceptionally quiet Friday morning still out in the training area, the airfield was mine. With those circumstances, application of training and by blind luck, I flew a safe approach and the wheels kissed the asphalt.
My successful practice forced landing had salvaged the ‘scrub ride’. Of the entire flight, it was the only exercise that had impressed Edwards. After his debrief, there was an interview with Scrubber. My ground school results, fortunately, were solid and I showed promise with the all-important instrument flying. But, Scrubber told me, ‘You had better get comfortable in the air, it’s not that strange an environment, alrighty? You need to show some confidence and ability.’ To him, I was immature and not military pilot material. But, against his better judgement, he advised the Senior Naval Officer that I was suitable for further training.
Nearly half of my course-mates had already been failed on this brutal course. However, notwithstanding reservations from the navy and the air force about my ability and just three months into my nineteenth year, I was off to the jets with the other boys.
6
THE BLACK SWAN
1977
We couldn’t help ourselves. Although we had only just arrived at RAAF Pearce, with our gear still unpacked we walked straight down to the flight line of Number 2 Flying Training School, known as 2 FTS, in the northern outskirts of Perth. On this training base weekend, the Macchi jets sat quiet under big white open-sided ‘car ports’ that fended off the Western Australian sun. The jets’ undersides were silver and the topsides of the wings, tails and fuselages were painted in panels of alternating white and orange. Prominent ‘tip tanks’ full of fuel were bolted to the wingtips, orange outside but the sides facing the pilots dull black, as were the tops of the noses ahead of the curved windscreens. The rounded noses were tipped with small panels of shining polished metal, with a little round ventilation hole at the very front. Emblazoned on each tail fin, behind vertical stripes of the standard RAAF red, white and blue ‘cockade’, was the badge of 2 FTS, a large white circle with a grey torch aflame, superimposed over that unmistakable symbol of the city of Perth: the black swan.
During the early sixties I had gazed out from the front windows of our house towards Willan’s Hill and the glowing west at sunset: it always seemed to hold promise of an exciting future. Now it was January 1977, and I was in that golden west. If I could just apply myself and not foul it up … I shared a car from Melbourne with three course-mates. I was still not licenced to drive, but the two other boys were happy to let me have a go at times, not that there was much steering to do on the interminable straight stretches of road that ran tangential to the abrupt limestone cliffs of the Great Australian Bight. Near the long journey’s end, our car coasted down the hills east of Perth toward the city, clean and shimmering in heat haze, with the sparkling Indian Ocean beyond. Then we turned north to Pearce, which sat on flat terrain to the west of the line of hills. We were in a new world after grey Victoria: tawny brown grass, small eucalypts and sandy soil. We passed low scrub and dull green pine plantations with the hills always prominent to the east. The land baked in dry heat. We came to the village of Bullsbrook which was outside Pearce’s main gate on the Great Northern Highway. It included a few ancient wooden air force houses, a few of which were still being used as married quarters for base personnel.
The students’ accommodation comprised relatively modern brick buildings of three storeys, constructed during the Vietnam War to fulfil the requirement for large numbers of air force and navy pilots. Now half lay empty with the Cold War still rumbling on but Vietnam’s ‘hot’ war over. A modern brick Mess building catered for the students of, as at Point Cook, the three pilots’ courses that were resident.
The Western Australian base was dedicated to just one task: the advanced training of air force and navy pilots; namely, to transform them from cadets and midshipmen who could just barely operate a basic training aircraft, to budding operational
