COMBAT AND COMPETITION.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

COMBAT AND COMPETITION
Otherwise there was nothing. Just miles of open country, devoid of
cover, the heartland of Canada's cereal farming in the iron grip of
winter.
Four thousand feet and a stall turn to start the sequence. Hold the
dive and pull through into a loop. Up and over. Another loop. And
again. Pushing the learning curve. Aware of the CFI's 1 test to come.
Now a slow roll - horizon, snow and section lines slewing horribly
across my vision.
Bloody awful..... I could almost hear the familiar voice ringing in
my ears:
"More top rudder! - Keep the stick forward!"
The next one was better. And the next. But I must talk to Roy
about my slow rolls.
A change to forced landings. Cut the throttle and swing earthwards
in a long descending arc. You're getting too close to the field!
Remember to warm the engine. Your still too close! Another quick
burst of power. Down and down in a long slipping turn..... You're too
high!..... More sideslip!..... Then up and away before the snow can
catch your skis.
My chosen field, exactly one mile square and flat as board, was too
easy by far. But there was no alternative, they were all the same,
hundreds of them, as far as the eye could see.
A first crack at low flying. On an afternoon when Roy was feeling
benevolent. Real scenery, for a change, in the foothills of Riding
Mountain. A fascinating sense of speed, as the countryside flooded
past like a river in spate. Features on the surface - a farmhouse, a
group of tall trees, or a sudden escarpment - rushed at you
destructively.
We all longed for the day when we could practise it on our own.
But the RAF knew better. They understood the dangers, the
impetuosity of youth, and the deadly temptation to fly ever lower. Our
time would come at OTU and not before. Unauthorised low flying
was, and still is, the most heinous crime in the book. It could finish
your flying career in a number of different ways. All of them
unpleasant. Better by far to rely on the presence of an instructor.
Amongst that album of memories there is a vivid picture of night
flying. The last landing at the end of a session. With my eye well in
and my finger out. Crosswind on the final turn. Flares guttering
against the snow. Green all the way on the Glide Path Indicator2 . The
round-out neat and precise. The touchdown smooth as silk. It was a
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