THE STORY OF RICHARD ROE: And How He Learnt To Fly

New Zealand Listener, Volume 6, Issue 156, 19 June 1942, Page 6

THE STORY OF RICHARD ROE:

And How He Learnt To Fly

*« THIS is the story of Leading Aircraftsman Richard Roe, a trainee at an Elementary Flying Training School "somewhere in New Zealand." He is a typical young New Zealander, a few years out of secondary school, one of the many thousands of keen youngsters who decided that flying was the job they were going to do in this war and, for better or worse, handed over their lives and destinies to the Royal New Zealand Air Force. If all goes well, it won’t be long before he is sporting a pair of cloth wings, worth about three and sixpence in hard cash, but an insignia which he will prize above any other he wins during his flying career. In six or nine months’ time, depending on whether he goes on to fighters or bombers, he’ll probably be flying a Spitfire or a Hurricane or a Kittyhawk, or ferrying loads of high explosive to industrial Germany. Richard Roe, need we explain, is not the name of the trainee who appears in the pictures on these pages. Let us imagine that he is a composite of all the trainees at E.F.T. schools throughout the Dominion.

T didn’t take Richard Roe long to make up his mind that it was the Air Force for him. He had been crazy about flying ever since he was sixteen years of age --since, to be exact, the day he had , gone out to his local aero club and, greatly daring, had splashed a lot of hard saved pocket money in a flight with mild aerobatics in a Gipsy Moth. Club filyihg, when he was earning three pounds a week as a clerk in an insurance company, had been beyond his means; he was quick, therefore, to appreciate that the Air Force was going to teach him to fly and pay him for it and keep him in a decent standard of comfort in the process. Now, as a fully fledged Leading Aircraftsman with fifty hours and thirty minutes flying time in his log book, he could look back with tolerant amusement at his initiation into the R.N.Z.A.F.; it had all been rather shattering at the time, no use denying it. The endless physical training and parade ground discipline; the struggle he had had to put his brain back to school to learn elementary theory of flight and the first principles of navigation. The P.T. was tougher than any training he had done at school, and he had dropped into bed

at nights with every muscle in his body complaining and his brain a jumble of great circles, rhumb lines, triangles of velocity, and methods of recognition of aircraft. He had also been given the rudiments of such things as Air Force Law and the Official Secrets Act, and he’d begun to understand and appreciate the Air Force outlook on saluting and morale. In his spare time he had learned how to look after his kit and how to lay it out. Language of Letters At the E.F.T.S. came his first introduction to aeroplanes and the serious business of learning to fly. Here, too, he learned to speak the Air Force language of capital letters, and to comprehend automatically that the C.G.I. was the Chief Ground Instructor, the C.F.L, the Chief Flying Instructor, an A.S.I. an air speed indicator, E.T.A. estimated time of arrival, an A.T.S. an Advanced Training School, and so on through the alphabet. Sleep has become the most important factor in his life; sleep to re-create his mind and body after the mounting strain of learning to fly. He’s asleep long before the official lights-out at 11.15, and: the hooter’s insistent call to get up, in the cold dark just before dawn, is the least welcome summons of the whole day.

Breakfast and the morning parade over, his day now consists of an almost unbroken sequence of lectures and flying, with short breaks for "smokos" and

meals. Some days it’s flying in the morning and lectures, with perhaps a spell on the Link Trainer, in the afternoon. Other days the order is reversed. The

main consilderation always is not to waste good flying weather. If the weather is at all decent, the first aircraft are buzzing around the aerodrome soon after dawn; often there’s night flying training to wind the day up. His First Flight Three events stand out in Richard’s memory-his first flight, for "air experience," his first solo, and his first night solo. Having drawn all the necessary equipment-fiying boots, overalls, helmet, and goggles-and having been given a parachute (soon he was calling it a brollie) and told how to put it on, he was introduced to his instructor, a Flying Officer who didn’t look much older than himself but who had had a couple of thousand hours up. There were five pupils allotted to this Flying Officer, and one morning, after kicking his heels for what seemed an interminable time, the call came for him to get into his flying gear. With his parachute awkwardly bundled over his shoulder, he strolled to the bright yellow trainer where his instructor was waiting. He put his parachute on, inserting the suspension straps into the quick-release box one by one, and then clambered into the cockpit. They taxied slowly across the aero- drome, his instructor plying him with information about aerodrome regulations and rules to observe when taxi-ing. In a far corner they swung round to wait their turn to take off; them it came, and with a roar of engine, the little aircraft began spurting over the short tussocks. There was a slight movement as the tail came up, and before he knew what had happened, the bumping had ceased and the ground was falling away beneath him. They climbed away from the aerodrome, circled at three thousand feet and straightened out. Like most trainees, he’d had his leg pulled by stories about first solos, There

was the pupil who got safely into the air and made a steady circuit and then tried to land twenty feet above where the ground really was. There was the pupil who made seven attempts to come in, touching down and then giving her the gun nervously and making another circuit, and all the time he had been able to see the fire engine and ambulance standing by. On His Own It seemed he would never go solo, that he would never get rid of the helmeted head in the front cockpit. Hour after hour he practised circuits gand bumps, turns, figures of eight and spins. He was beginning to think he must be the dullest and slowest pupil ever. But at last, one morning, his instructor said in the most casual manner, "O.K. Take her off and do a circuit and. bump by yourself." And before he had time to ask " Do you really think I’m ready to go solo?" he was strapped in and was taxi-ing away. As he paused before the take-off, his mind was a fierce jumble of worries and anxieties. But he choked them back, and automatically, almost in a daze, went through his drill of vital actions and took off. He climbed straight to 600 feet, adjusted the trim, turned across wind, flew down wind, across wind again and came in for the approach. Here, in spite of himself, he began to sweat as he throttled down, adjusted trim again and tried desperately to keep one eye on the air speed indicator and one on the ground ahead and below him. The ground was rushing up. Quick, back with the stick; back further; here she comes. Then, with a bit of a bump, aircraft and Richard are back on the aerodrome again, miraculously intact. ~ Another Crisis His first night solo was another crisis. Again the station humorists had told him stories of how easy it was to fly into

the trees at the far end of the aerodrome, or to get lost and fly around for hours until your petrol gave out. But once again he survived, and earned further cautious ptaise from his instructor. Leading Aircraftsman Richard Roe’s time at the E.F.T. School is very nearly up, and soon he will be posted to an Advanced Training School. He isn’t at

all keen to go to fighters, as he has worked out that a thoroughly trained bomber pilot will have a good chance of a job. with a commercial airline after the war. Strangely enough, it no longer matters to him whether he gets a commission or becomes a Sergeant Pilot. What is important is that three and sixpenny pair of wings. ...