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Waldo.Pepper
03-01-2005, 01:10 PM
The Gosport

Note: A Gosport is a rubber speaking tube that runs from the instructor back to the seat occupied by the pupil.

An RAF pupil, out on emergency landing practice, dozed serenely in the luxury of his post breakfast somnolence as his instructor flew the aircraft. Then something registered. Yes! That was it! The instructor had closed the throttle! Once aware, his reactions were faultless. Grabbing the stick with his right hind, he shoved it firmly forward. (Rule 1: if your engine dies on you, put the aircraft into a gliding attitude to maintain flying speed.)
He was always rather vague as to what happened next. One thing was certain he hadn't maintained his grip on the stick, for the next moment he was cavorting freely around the sky; and his N3N, with a very empty rear cockpit, was cruising along towards Pensacola, 100 feet below him. At this point his reflexes entered a short period of lethargy, for he admitted that it was fully five seconds before he realised what had happened. More importantly, what was going to happen if he didn't pull his ripcord pretty quickly.

He parachuted safely into a ploughed field where he sat for an hour awaiting a pick-up truck, wondering why the hell he hadn't rigged his safety harness.

The instructor had felt the jerk on his Gosport tube, the violence of which had almost removed his head. He looked into the rear-view mirror preparatory to delivering a blast to the pupil-but no pupil. Searching above and below for him, he finally located him above and some distance astern, with his parachute just blossoming. Having seen him land safely, he high-tailed it back to Curry Field.

Charlie Culp was in the CFI's office when this instructor strode in. He was of Teutonic extraction and, at the time, hardly the type to be a pro-British raver. To the CFI:

'Chief, you know that ****in' Limey you sent out with me?' 'What of it?'

'Well, you gotta believe it, but this is all I got left of the sonofa*****.' Before the CFI's face he dangled his face-mask and mouth-piece-but no Gosport tube.



Kick the Rudder.

I took of with an instructor who, until that moment, was a complete stranger to me. He was what the Air Arm called a short-arsed little bastard, about five feet three in his regulation socks.

Unlike Charlie Culp, he was a great talker who beat my eardrums to pulp all the way up to 8,000 feet. At that altitude he uttered something intelligible for the first time.

'Well, this is how she goes, son!' he confided to me in a bellow down the voice-pipe. 'No need to be afraid. Just listen to every goddam word I say.'
I had little option.
'And here we go, Limey! Keep your *** in one piece and hold on!'
Flying straight and level, he than half-rolled to invert the N3N; and we were hanging on our safety harness. I heard the engine die and saw the nose climb away from me. Then came the jerk as he kicked the right rudder bar-and we were flung into an inverted spin.

The immediate sensation was of someone trying-with the utmost determination-to pull my eyeballs from their roots. The whole weight of my body was straining against the safety harness, accentuated every time we passed '12 o'clock' on each spin. With my head flung back by centrifugal force, I could see far below us the coastline and the blue, blue water gyrating madly. The aircraft was buffeting roughly in the disturbed air from the stall bouncing over its wings. I felt like Dante romping around in his Inferno. To add to it all, our friend up front was screaming his head off. He was almost hysterical and no sense whatsoever came through to me. Eventually, over the tumult, I interpreted what he was bawling about.
'Kick the *** off the goddam rudder, for Chrissake!'
So I kicked port rudder hard to the fullest extent of my long left leg.
The spinning stopped. The noisy one in the front cockpit pulled back the stick and, after a second or two, half-rolled into the normal position. He opened up to cruising revs and flew straight and level. It was a pleasant change.
'Hey! You! When I tell you to kick that goddam rudder, you just stop ****in' about there and kick the sonofa*****! How the hell do you think I can reach the god dam thing with my legs?' (Ah! So that was it!) There was a pause while he lifted his goggles and wiped away the perspiration from his brow.
'****! How I hate these ****in' spins! They scare the **** out of me, that's for sure!'
We did three more and I duly kicked the goddam rudder as soon as the urgent invitation was extended. At least, that's what I assumed he wanted, for I still couldn't hear a word he said as soon as we hurtled off on the merry-go-round.
He was all smiles, all talk and all cigar as we walked back to the hangar.
'You see, son, I got the shortest legs in the whole state 0' Texas, that€s for sure.€ Then he leered quite charmingly. €œBut don€t you go thinkin€ the rest of my anatomy is on the same scale, boy! Christ No! I€m really something when the pants are down!€ There was a slight pause. €˜Anyway you did OK. You know what€s wanted. Good luck, sailor!€
He passed out of my life.

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Waldo.Pepper
03-01-2005, 01:10 PM
The Gosport

Note: A Gosport is a rubber speaking tube that runs from the instructor back to the seat occupied by the pupil.

An RAF pupil, out on emergency landing practice, dozed serenely in the luxury of his post breakfast somnolence as his instructor flew the aircraft. Then something registered. Yes! That was it! The instructor had closed the throttle! Once aware, his reactions were faultless. Grabbing the stick with his right hind, he shoved it firmly forward. (Rule 1: if your engine dies on you, put the aircraft into a gliding attitude to maintain flying speed.)
He was always rather vague as to what happened next. One thing was certain he hadn't maintained his grip on the stick, for the next moment he was cavorting freely around the sky; and his N3N, with a very empty rear cockpit, was cruising along towards Pensacola, 100 feet below him. At this point his reflexes entered a short period of lethargy, for he admitted that it was fully five seconds before he realised what had happened. More importantly, what was going to happen if he didn't pull his ripcord pretty quickly.

He parachuted safely into a ploughed field where he sat for an hour awaiting a pick-up truck, wondering why the hell he hadn't rigged his safety harness.

The instructor had felt the jerk on his Gosport tube, the violence of which had almost removed his head. He looked into the rear-view mirror preparatory to delivering a blast to the pupil-but no pupil. Searching above and below for him, he finally located him above and some distance astern, with his parachute just blossoming. Having seen him land safely, he high-tailed it back to Curry Field.

Charlie Culp was in the CFI's office when this instructor strode in. He was of Teutonic extraction and, at the time, hardly the type to be a pro-British raver. To the CFI:

'Chief, you know that ****in' Limey you sent out with me?' 'What of it?'

'Well, you gotta believe it, but this is all I got left of the sonofa*****.' Before the CFI's face he dangled his face-mask and mouth-piece-but no Gosport tube.



Kick the Rudder.

I took of with an instructor who, until that moment, was a complete stranger to me. He was what the Air Arm called a short-arsed little bastard, about five feet three in his regulation socks.

Unlike Charlie Culp, he was a great talker who beat my eardrums to pulp all the way up to 8,000 feet. At that altitude he uttered something intelligible for the first time.

'Well, this is how she goes, son!' he confided to me in a bellow down the voice-pipe. 'No need to be afraid. Just listen to every goddam word I say.'
I had little option.
'And here we go, Limey! Keep your *** in one piece and hold on!'
Flying straight and level, he than half-rolled to invert the N3N; and we were hanging on our safety harness. I heard the engine die and saw the nose climb away from me. Then came the jerk as he kicked the right rudder bar-and we were flung into an inverted spin.

The immediate sensation was of someone trying-with the utmost determination-to pull my eyeballs from their roots. The whole weight of my body was straining against the safety harness, accentuated every time we passed '12 o'clock' on each spin. With my head flung back by centrifugal force, I could see far below us the coastline and the blue, blue water gyrating madly. The aircraft was buffeting roughly in the disturbed air from the stall bouncing over its wings. I felt like Dante romping around in his Inferno. To add to it all, our friend up front was screaming his head off. He was almost hysterical and no sense whatsoever came through to me. Eventually, over the tumult, I interpreted what he was bawling about.
'Kick the *** off the goddam rudder, for Chrissake!'
So I kicked port rudder hard to the fullest extent of my long left leg.
The spinning stopped. The noisy one in the front cockpit pulled back the stick and, after a second or two, half-rolled into the normal position. He opened up to cruising revs and flew straight and level. It was a pleasant change.
'Hey! You! When I tell you to kick that goddam rudder, you just stop ****in' about there and kick the sonofa*****! How the hell do you think I can reach the god dam thing with my legs?' (Ah! So that was it!) There was a pause while he lifted his goggles and wiped away the perspiration from his brow.
'****! How I hate these ****in' spins! They scare the **** out of me, that's for sure!'
We did three more and I duly kicked the goddam rudder as soon as the urgent invitation was extended. At least, that's what I assumed he wanted, for I still couldn't hear a word he said as soon as we hurtled off on the merry-go-round.
He was all smiles, all talk and all cigar as we walked back to the hangar.
'You see, son, I got the shortest legs in the whole state 0' Texas, that€s for sure.€ Then he leered quite charmingly. €œBut don€t you go thinkin€ the rest of my anatomy is on the same scale, boy! Christ No! I€m really something when the pants are down!€ There was a slight pause. €˜Anyway you did OK. You know what€s wanted. Good luck, sailor!€
He passed out of my life.

http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif

Texas LongHorn
03-02-2005, 01:03 PM
The gosport tube story reminds me a comic event that happened like twenty years ago. While in AC school we were required to do check rides in the AC we had repaired. A big hulking DH Beaver was a rare beast in that it had a radial engine. My partner in crime picks up the releif tube in the back and starts in; "Pilot to bombardier, Pilot to bombardier!" He spit up all over the plane when he figured out what he was holding to his mouth. All the best, LongHorn

Jungmann
03-02-2005, 07:07 PM
Some of us twelve-year-old hangar rats did the same thing in a Coast Guard ASR B-17 on the ramp at Santa Monica airport around '52 (one of the last B-17s on charge). The crew let us burrow aboard--we spread out to every station and yelled to each other like we were bombing Berlin through what we thought were voice-powered speaking tubes. A friendly sailor clued us into what we were yelling into. You should have seen the spitting and wiping.

Still, they gave us screwdrivers and let us tighten every phillips head screw on the outside of the fuselage, of which there were hundreds. Something, after ten gazillion hours on that poor airframe, they apparently had to do every few days.

Cheers,

VMF-312JarhedEd
03-03-2005, 07:22 AM
I used to work for DynCorp at the U.S. Navy Test Pilot Shool a few years back. At that time we maintained all USNTPS aircraft and the N.A.S. Patuxent River SAR helos, (SH-3D Sea Kings) Late one night during a maintenance turn on one of the SAR birds, one of the navy guys in the helo has a need to relieve, but he can't leave in the middle of the turn up, so he hits the relief tube. The relief tube on the Sea King just drains out the bottom of the hull. Well, The sharp eyed plane captain sees a leak all of a sudden. He goes under the helo, looks at the puddle,...nope can't tell what it is,...puts his fingers in it and checks for texture,..nope, not oil, so he puts it to his nose. BINGO! He is off to the bathroom at Mach speed to power wash his hands. Ahhhh the memories,..... http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif

p1ngu666
03-03-2005, 11:45 AM
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