...from “I’ve Got To Write a Book!”
by Ira Wiggins
Flying Days (part 1)
If I were told that I must eliminate all hobbies and diversions except for one, it would be a difficult choice between snorkeling and flying. As a child my most pleasant dreams were of flying an airplane; I eagerly devoured books and stories about flying. Before ever being inside an airplane I knew by heart that to take off one had to: a, open the throttle wide, b. push the stick forward to raise the tail (tricycle gear was not yet in use), c. gain speed and, d. pull gently back on the stick to leave the ground. To think that I would actually ever accomplish such a thing, however, was entirely unbelievable. I did not expect to ever possess the financial means or the fortitude of character to perform such deeds.
In March of 1958 I had been in busy general practice as a family doctor in a small town for almost 12 years. We had two active, healthy children and some money in the bank. One evening I abruptly made the announcement, “Betty, I’m going to take a flying lesson.
“You’re what!!”
“I’m going to take a flying lesson. Maybe just one I don’t know. Maybe I won’t like it. If it looks even a little dangerous I’m not interested, but I’d like to try it once.”
“Well, O.K. if you think you should.”
Lauren Hammond had retired to a small farm just outside of Jonesville, Michigan. He was a flight instructor and loved flying to the extent of using a considerable portion of his valuable farm land as crossed, sod landing strips. He was well aware that the use of the land as landing strips produced only a small fraction of the income that could have been attained if the soil had been used for the production of crops. But love of flying and rational thinking are seldom compatible. Lauren was mild-mannered, soft spoken and a man of few words - but the words were usually well worth noting.
I had never been inside a small aircraft and knew little about them other than what I had read. When I called Lauren to make an appointment, I asked, “Do I wear anything special - like tennis shoes?”
At the other end of the telephone line I could hear his soft chuckle. “No. Just wear whatever you usually wear, doc.”
It was with great anticipation and a certain amount of trepidation that I showed up for my first lesson at his farm-airport (according to my log book) on March 30, 1958. We first walked around the aircraft as he explained the various parts to me and told me what to look for to be sure that the airplane was safe to fly.
The plane was a two-passenger Cessna 120, registration #N1979V, with an 85 horse-power Continental engine. It had “conventional gear”, i.e. tail-wheel rather than a nose-wheel, making it much more subject to ground-loop or, as the book says, “instability of directional control”.
That it had had many hours of hard use was obvious: scratches, scrapes, small dents, nicks in the propeller, mottled oil and gas discoloration of the fabrick. There was no radio, no flaps, no starter. Starting was done by “hand-propping”, in which Lauren turned the propeller while I sat inside to manipulate the switches, throttle and brakes according to his instructions. The procedure, I later learned, can be done by one person if the airplane is securely tied down and the wheels chocked to prevent a runaway. After fighting the gale from the propeller to enter the aircraft and buckling himself into the right-hand seat, Lauren gently suggested, “If you’ll reduce the throttle to idle when a passenger enters, it will be easier for them.” That was only the first of several hundred mistakes he was to correct in the course of our association.
“We’ll be up for about 30 minutes,” he informed me.
“I’d just as soon take a full hour as long as I’m here.”
“Well, I find that usually, for the first lesson, half an hour is enough, but we’ll see.”
As usual he proved to be right, for at the end of that time my senses were reeling under the impact of all the new sensations, instructions and admonitions - many of which were entirely opposite from the rules on the ground: the higher you are the safer you are; use only one hand on the control column (wheel); going slowly is dangerous; going fast is safe; when making a steep turn, do not lean to one side as in a car; when landing, keep the airplane from landing as long as you can (sounds absurd).
Having two runways, there were four possible directions for taking off, depending on the direction of the wind. Since the land was valuable, Lauren had not wasted any by making unduly long runways. In one direction the only obstacle to be cleared was a low fence. In the second direction there were telephone wires a short distance from the end of the runway. In the third direction were electric wires and in the fourth direction, a few hundred feet from the end of the runway, loomed the neighboring farmer’s silo. This latter demanded a change of direction immediately after take-off. The amount of runway an aircraft requires for take-off and the rate at which it climbs are determined by several variable factors: weight of passengers, amount of fuel in the tanks, air temperature, wind speed and direction and elevation of the airport above sea-level. Lauren was intimately familiar with all of these factors as well as with his aircraft.
When we were a few hundred feet in the air Lauren reduced the throttle, headed into the wind (a fact I was ignorant of) and adjusted the trim tab for level flight. I looked out my window on the left side. We were going slower and slower, as I became painfully aware by looking at the ground below. Lauren said nothing, the only time I recall that he failed to explain beforehand what we were about to do and what would happen. I wondered if he really knew what he was doing.
“Won’t we fall?” I asked.
“Rate of travel over the ground isn’t important; air-speed is what keeps you in the air. Later I’ll show you what happens when we go too slow. The airplane doesn’t fall.”
He had effectively demonstrated to me well-controlled slow flight.
I then took the controls as he advanced the throttle, and thereafter the only time he ever touched them was to briefly demonstrate a maneuver to me or to take over on landing when things got out of control. He once said to me, my job is to ride along and keep you from killing yourself until you learn how to fly.”
When I returned from that first lesson, Betty asked, “Well, how did it go?”
“It’s not dangerous. - And I like it.”
She knew I was hooked.
Due to my medical practice the lessons were not as frequent as I would have liked but I always returned from them happy and rejuvenated.
True to his word, Lauren soon showed me what happened when an airplane flew too slowly. This was called “practicing stalls” - an ominous sounding name. I had visions of the engine quitting, but the “stall” does not refer to the engine. It is the wing which stalls when air is not passing over it readily enough, i.e. not enough “lift” is generated to keep the airplane at the same altitude. At this point the plane does not fall or “pancake” as I had imagined. Rather the nose drops down, causing air-speed to build up and air to flow more rapidly over the wings. It is dangerous only if it occurs too close to the ground (for obvious reasons) or if one wing-tip is allowed to dip too low, causing the plane to enter a “spin” toward the ground with insufficient altitude to recover from the spin. In other words, stalls are not dangerous as long as there is sufficient altitude.
Each time we went up we practiced forced landings. I came to expect my instructor, at odd times, to reach over, pull the throttle closed and calmly say, “You’ve just had engine failure. Pick a spot and land.” my choices were often ill-advised but improved under his tutoring. When we got within about 200 feet of the surface he’d say, “0kay, take off,” and up we’d go for more practice. Once on such an approach he remained silent and I fidgeted as the ground loomed alarmingly close. It wasn’t that good a place to land. Finally he smiled and softly drawled, “You’re not really going to land, are you?” “No, I guess not,” as I pushed the throttle full in and cleared the trees by what to me at the time seemed a narrow margin.
Landings were the final and most difficult hurdle. Taking off is easy; an airplane wants to fly; it doesn’t want to land. It was very difficult not to induce those wheels to touch the ground as soon as possible once the runway was below them, despite Lauren’s oft-repeated, absurd-to-me instructions to, “Hold it off! Don’t let it land. Keep that wheel all the way back!” After we’d bounced to a landing he’d reach over, pull the wheel back another inch and say, “You didn’t have it all the way back.” One day he told me, “You’ll make better landings today.” To my surprise, I did.
He explained, “I let the grass grow, so the surface was about 10 inches below where it looked to you.”
One of the best compliments I ever got from him came shortly before I was ready to solo. “About the time you students get to where you give me a pretty decent, smooth ride I have to get out and I don’t get to ride with you any more. Pity.”
The first page of my log book covered March 30 to May 14, 1958. It shows 11 separate flights with “dual instruction” on each one, totaling 7:30 (7 hrs.&30 mins.).
The first entry on the second page shows 20 mins. of dual instruction and 1 hour of solo flight. The day was calm and clear, so, after 20 mins. of instruction and three acceptable landings (not to my complete surprise), he said, “Let me out here. You’re readY to take it up alone.” Every pilot has vivid impressions of his first solo. I remember how quickly the plane got off the ground and how fast it climbed without Lauren’s added weight. I remember how easily I could see out of the right window with no one sitting in that seat. I remember bursting into song as I was higher than usual above the telephone wires at the end of the runway. I can really fly! I recall how, on landing, it was more difficult to get the plane to settle to the ground, due to the lesser weight.
Thereafter I recorded frequent solo flights of one to one and a half hours. By Aug. 10th I had acquired 10:25 (10 hrs.&25 mins.) of dual instruction, including instruction in cross-country flying - use of compass, watch and air-speed indicator to determine position on the map at any particular time. My solo time had reached 21:50.
On Aug. 16th I took my first solo cross-country flight: to Toledo, Ohio, then Brian, Ohio and back to Jonesville. The only thing that went smoothly was the navigation. The air was quite turbulent and I had always been subject to motion sickness. At one point I was sure I was going to vomit in the cockpit. I had no “sick-bag”. I was not sure I could vomit and fly the airplane at the same time. I had not yet been convinced that a plane would not crash as soon as the controls were released. On the ground, my stomach and the air both settled down and I was able to take off again and to proceed to the next stop with minimal discomfort.
I took and passed the written examination which is required before one can take the “flight test” and be issued a private pilot’s license, without which one cannot be accompanied by any other person other than an instructor.
Lauren assured me that I was ready to take the flight test. On Dec. 14, 1958 I flew nervously to Jackson, Mich. and bounced mightily (three times!) as I landed on the long cement runway. “The grass should have been taller,” I muttered. Then, “Oh, Lord, I hope the guy who’s examining me didn’t see that.” He dourly informed me that he had.
The examiner was a lanky, sour-faced (he was probably remembering my landing) individual who informed me that he was having one of his frequent bouts of migraine headache and “would just as soon get this over with.”
First there was a brief oral quiz. He was satisfied.
Then, “No radio in the plane, eh?”
“No, sir.”
“O.K. We’ll simulate. You sit on the other side of the table and I’ll sit here. You’re the approaching pilot and I’m the control tower operator. Make contact and get permission to land.”
I gave an embarrassed and inept performance. All I knew about radio was what little I had read. All he said was, “Let’s get in the airplane,” but I could hear him thinking, “God, I hope this guy knows more about flying than he does about radio.” I was mentally prepared to be flunked.
During the flight test we performed only a small portion of the maneuvers I had been prepared to demonstrate.
“Head back to the airport,” he instructed. “Remember I never pass a student if I have to help him with a landing.” That sounded reasonable to me and, with great concentration, I made only a hint of a bounce on touching down.
As we climbed silently from the plane, he could sense my anxiety.
“Relax. I’m going to give you your license, but I want to tell you three things: First, this license is a license to continue learning - and don’t you forget it. Second, when you take up passengers don’t fly like you’ve been of necessity flying in your training period - steep turns, stalls, abrupt maneuvers. Do everything gently, for the comfort of your passengers. Third, tell Lauren he should give his students more instruction in the use of radio.”
I burst into off-key song as I flew home. I’m a pilot! I can take people up! It was a thrill surpassed only by getting my M.D. degree, getting married and by the birth of our two children. In the next few days I proudly took members of our family, one by one for it was only a two-place plane, up for rides. The children gloried in it. Betty went only because she knew she was expected to. She did not then, and never has, enjoyed flying for the sake of flying. Moreover, she was not about to be left behind if the destination was someplace of interest. In other words she flew with considerable misgivings: “I just don’t see what holds the thing in the air!” and, as she looked out the window, “Those wheels sure do look funny just hanging there and not resting on anything.” Some years later she did consent to taking a few flying lessons, “so I can get this thing on the ground if anything happens to you.” Then, to make sure I knew where she stood, “I’d never take it out of the ‘barn’ on my own!”
In the spring of 1959 I joined the near-by Hillsdale Flying Club and had access to a Cessna 140 - still two-place, but with flaps, radio and a starter - and to a Cessna 170-B - 145 horse-power with 4 seats. At last I could take my entire family with me. Over the next few months I flew to most of the airports in that area of southern Michigan and then began flying, on occasion, into nearby areas of adjacent states. It was an easy way to visit my parents in Kankakee, Ill. (about 60 riles south of Chicago) without a long and fatiguing drive. Mother could never be induced to fly with me but dad rode happily along with a constant grin on his face, gazing at the scenery below. Neither of them had ever been up in a small airplane.
I must pause to explain here that the true flying stories which I will relate represent the unusual and do not in any way represent the average time spent in the air. Flying is hour after hour of perfect delight interrupted by an occasional “memorable incident”. I apologize in advance for what you will recognize as poor judgement, lack of skill, illegal procedures and sheer stupidity as factors in most of these incidents. Forgive me.
The Hillsdale Flying Club acquired a third aircraft - a Piper tripacer four-place, with 135 h.p. It was in this aircraft that our family was flying one crisp, hazy, winter day en route to Grant, Mich. to visit Betty’s family. We had been in the air about 20 minutes when I noticed that the engine was running slightly “rough”. Betty was a “nervous passenger” and I was relieved to see that she apparently had not detected it. The roughness got slightly worse. Could it be carburetor ice, of which I had heard and read but with which I had not had any first-hand experience? I cautiously pulled out on the button labeled “carburetor heat” and the engine at once sputtered loudly in protest. I hurriedly pushed it in as Betty looked questioningly at me. I certainly didn’t want to alarm her further so I kept the carburetor hat full in (off) as we flew along. The roughness of the engine increased as I began to realize there was a gradual loss of power and an increasing vibration in the entire airplane. Looking back, I could see that the horizontal portion of the tail was visibly vibrating. By now Betty and I were both alarmed. I recalled putting in a quart of oil just before take-off. If I had left the cap off the filler neck, could this have caused our problems? Right then an airport appeared in full view and we hastened to land with the little power that remained. As the wheels touched down, the struggling engine became completely silent and we rolled to a stop about half-way down the runway. We gave a sigh of relief then, on impulse, I pressed the starter button and was amazed as the engine sprung to life. “What the hell!” I thought. There was a mechanic on duty at the airport and I explained to him what had happened.
“Sounds like carburetor ice,” he said, “temperature and humidity conditions are about right for it.”
“But why was I able to start the engine again after I landed?”
“Simple. Once the cool, moist air stopped flowing through the carburetor, the remaining engine heat melted the ice. Presto, you’re in business again. I suggest you take it up alone for a flight around the pattern, being liberal with carb heat and see if it doesn’t respond normally”. Of course he was right. And that’s how I really learned about carburetor ice. The reason it had sputtered loudly when I pulled out carb heat was because the applied heat was melting the ice on the butterfly valve of the carburetor and the resultant drops of water were being drawn into the combustion chambers and caused sputtering. Had I left the carb heat on despite the sputtering, full, smooth engine power would have been quickly restored. When I could have prevented further carb ice accumulation by leaving the carb heat part way on. Lauren had instructed me in the use of carb heat by intermittently pulling the button full out. On this trip I had neglected it.
*****
