My War - Installment 3

(Sorry I couldn't post to the blog yesterday, I was on the road driving from Baton Rouge, LA to my home in Santa Fe. I went there to visit my children and meet a new grand daughter.)

Along with all of our ground school classes, we would have to be trained as officers. We would also be required to know as much about the mechanics of our aircraft as the crew chief with whom we would someday hopefully be flying. The pilot has the ultimate responsibility for the flight worthiness of any aircraft that he flies. Interspersed with all of these activities were marching, calisthenics, and an abundance of hazing by our TAC Officers and Top Sergeant.

The TAC Officers were on us continually. When we were not in class, we were nose-to-nose with the TAC's. They were there with us perpetually every waking hour of the day and night

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"WARRANT OFFICER CANDIDATE ROLLASON, where are your dog tags?" was yelled in my face from time-to-time. "If you crash and burn, how are we going to know who the hell burnt up in the crash? If you forget your dog tags, you'll be wearing these." He held up some plywood dog tags, that were at least twenty-four inches long by nine inches across and must have weighed a good five pounds.

"Stomach in shoulders back, you turd! When are you going to start to look like a Warrant Officer Candidate? You better shape up if you want to get through this school, asshole!"

I was fortunate; I never had to wear the BIG TAGS. Stan was not so lucky. I liked wearing my tags. In fact, I had grown quite accustomed to them. Having gotten used to the tags, I never took them off. I had one less thing that I had to worry about. I figured that I could forgo that form of humiliation.

It was good for all involved that our TAC's were not our instructors. By not being our instructors, they could keep up their facade of constant displeasure with us without having to be nice. If they had been our instructors, they could never have given us any encouragement or praise. A TAC instructor's comments would have to be: "You shit head, why can't you do anything right. Your hovering is about as coordinated as a spastic eating an ice cream cone. Pull your head out of your ass and sit up straight. Then maybe you can see well enough to fly this thing.

All of this seemed rough, but there would be some consolation. We would be relatively free on the weekends, and I did have my car which would allow me to move about freely. I would be able to do a little sight seeing about the countryside. After all, this was Texas, the second largest state in the Union. There were places to see, things to do. There was Texas beef to sample, Mexican foods to taste, unusual terrain to explore, and southern girls to check out. We had already heard about the girls of Texas Women's University in Denton. I was tentatively making plans to take a run up that way as soon as I could get away or when my hair grew out, whichever came first. The hair had gotten a good start since I had left Fort Jackson.

Unfortunately, all these things were just dreams, pieces of information gathered about things to look forward to. These glimmers of hope were the carrot on a stick, always just out of reach. The only things that would sustain me in the months to come, as in basic, were my faith in Christ as my Lord and Savior and my desire to become a 06-2B Army Aviator, a “somebody.”

It was a grin and bear it, or rather stay straight faced and bear it, situation. Down the road, I would be able to look back and see the relevance of all the harassment. It was all an integral part of combat readiness training. Many could or would never admit that there was any relevance at all.

Our class was WOC Class 66-11. After a month which seemed like an eternity of harassment, Mickey Mouse routines and drills, running, marching, classes, ground school, and BS, we were finally going to the flight line.

At Fort Wolters in late 1965, there were two types of helicopters used for training. These were the Fairchild Hiller H-23 models and the recently acquired Hugh's TH-55s. We had the old and the very new in training helicopters. I was not sure how the breakdown of our class was achieved, in regard to what part of the class would use the Hiller H-23s and what part would use the Hughs TH-55, but I was happy to find that I was to be in the Hughs half of the class.

The Hughs looked like an orange wasp. It was powered by a four-cylinder opposed Lycoming engine. The power was transmitted through a series of "V" belts to the transmission. The Hiller, on the other hand was powered by a six cylinder-opposed engine and was gear driven to the transmission. For some reason a lot of the potential pilots did not like the idea of a belt drive on a flying machine. It made no difference to me as long as I was going to fly something. The aircraft had to have already been approved for airworthiness by the FAA (Federal Aviation Administration), so I was not about to let it concern me.

The Hughs design appeared to be light and responsive in comparison to the Hiller. The Hiller, due to design factors, had an inherent control lag. The Hughs had a three bladed rotor system while the Hiller was a two bladed system with control paddles. All this was information which I had gained from my reading before I entered the service. I was anxious to find out, first hand, whether or not all the "facts" that I knew were true.

"The helicopter is an inherently unstable flying machine," said the IP (Instructor Pilot). "It is not like a fixed-wing airplane which will almost fly itself. There are five basic controls which require constant attention to achieve hovering flight. Attention to these five controls is lessened somewhat during forward flight."

"Shooo, I can't wait," I said. "I've been dreaming about this moment. I've been anticipating this flight for almost a full year." I was so hyped that I believed that I could fly solo right then.

I was glad that I just thought these things instead of stupidly voicing them. The only thing that had come out was the "Shooo.” Having read about control movements and about anticipating the helicopter’s movements, I drilled myself about thinking in terms of the machinery being an extension of myself, about becoming one with the aircraft, about the movements becoming automatic responses to a multiplicity of variables. All this was running through my mind as I walked beside the IP. We approached the aircraft and began the preflight inspection for my first helicopter flight. This was it. This was the beginning of bringing all this mental imagery, all the facts, into reality. In the near future my civilian IP would tell me that he considered himself and me to be in the top 2 percent of helicopter pilots. Apparently, all my study and psyching myself had paid off. The big moment had actually arrived. Here I was, Samuel H. Rollason, WOC, aged eighteen, decked out in gray flight suit, carrying my own flight helmet, ready to slip it onto my almost bald head and take my orientation ride with the military IP.

I was almost breathless with excitement as we finished the preflight and climbed into the tiny craft. The IP cranked up the engine. As the rotor slowly started to engage engine RPM dropped and then started to climb. Both engine and rotor RPM could be seen on the dual tachometer. The rotor needle gradually crept toward the engine needle until they joined. The IP started to roll in the throttle to bring the RPM up to running speed for the magneto check. He switched from both mags to the left mag, noting the drop in RPM. He switched back to both mags, then to the right mag, noting the drop on that side, before switching back to both. I watched closely, looking at the dual tachometer and other engine gauges within the instrument cluster, as the IP explained everything he was doing over the intercom.

The IP called the tower for clearance, while gracefully and effortlessly lifting the helicopter into a stationery hover. We hovered forward into takeoff position. I had been filled with excitement as the IP increased RPM and lifted into a hover. I had heard that flying in a helicopter was like riding in a basket hanging from a rope. Whoever told me that must never have flown in a helicopter.

The IP pulled collective pitch in to increase the angle of attack on all of the main rotor blades together, while pushing forward on the cyclic control which tilted the entire main rotor system forward. During these movements he also had to work his anti-torque pedals in addition to rotating the throttle on the end of the collective pitch lever. The cockpit lifted and tilted forward following the rotor. The aircraft picked up forward speed and then dipping slightly as it slid off the ground effect air cushion and went through and into transitional lift. At this point it fairly leaped upward. We climbed steadily to five hundred feet, turned left in the traffic pattern, and then made a forty-five degree turn away from the traffic pattern and heliport.

The arid Texas landscape lay beneath us as we continued cruising on a north westerly course. Terrain here was varied with large flat areas, arroyos which are deep washes with flat bottoms, pinnacles and wooded tracts. I was almost lost in thought when the IP told me to take the controls lightly in my hands and monitor his control movements, and their effects on the helicopter. He explained that he felt this method gave the student pilot some confidence in his ability to control the machine from the start of his training. He did this rather than intimidate his students during their orientation flight. Later in this flight, he told me, I would be attempting some hovering maneuvers.

We continued our flight over the countryside while the IP demonstrated various flight maneuvers. I kept my hands and feet lightly on the controls, intently following each control movement the instructor made. Later during the flight we descended to a large open area with some easily recognizable landmarks. There in that large field with my hands and feet still on the controls, the IP demonstrated hovering motionlessly. He hovered left, right, backwards, forwards and every combination or degree of range of movement that a person could think of. He took his time showing me the controls one at a time while explaining them in detail.

"The collective pitch, the lever on the left side of the seat, increases the pitch to all of the main rotor blades collectively. At the end of the collective stick you will notice that there are some other items. There is a twist type throttle like a motor cycle. There is also a knurled ring there to apply friction to the throttle. This friction ring helps maintain the throttle setting for short hands off periods. As pitch is increased, the throttle must be increased to maintain RPM. There is also a friction control for the collective pitch lever or stick which when applied will help to maintain the position of the collective and, therefore, maintain altitude for short periods of time while in forward flight. You never know when you might want to let loose of the collective and scratch your balls or something," said the IP, chuckling

"The cyclic control in your right hand controls the cyclic or rotational pitch of the main rotor system. The pitch is changed in a cyclic manner on each blade individually during each revolution. Moving the cyclic control in any direction causes the disk of the main rotor system to tilt in an exact corresponding manner to the direction that the cyclic control was moved. Simply put, you fly the rotor disk and the fuselage and all the rest of the aircraft follows along, slightly behind."

“The pedals, which your feet are resting on, control the anti-torque rotor at the end of the tail boom. Their purpose, as stated in their name is to compensate for the torque of the engine and main rotor system. The pedals control the pitch or angle of attack of the small tail rotor to give more or less lateral lift or thrust to the tail boom, thereby maintaining directional control of the fuselage of the rotorcraft. If this helicopter's main rotor was driven by a jet of air or hot gases at the tip of each rotor blade, there would be no need for a tail rotor. This directional control is important especially in hovering flight where torque can vary considerably due to winds and power requirements and so forth. When power is increased, more torque is present, so more tail rotor pitch is needed, more throttle is applied to maintain RPM, and more pitch to the tail rotor is also needed. Less throttle, less pitch is needed, etc. It’s all interrelated. Now I would like you to try your hand at hovering."

The term, ‘Try your hand at hovering,’ was used only for convenience. It should have been, "I would like you to try your hands and feet and body and mind at hovering."

In any event I managed to hold the helicopter within a thirty-five-foot circle, more or less, and kept the nose pointed in the general cardinal direction facing toward the tree, on which the IP had told me to line up. I had my first actual taste of flying a helicopter. I was hungry for more. My IP had actually treated me as a human being, a different experience, and he seemed impressed with the ability that I had displayed thus far.

The day finally arrived when we were assigned to our permanent civilian instructor pilot. He was permanent in the sense that we would keep the same IP during this phase of primary flight training. We boarded a bus for the flight line. We were riding high, heaven at last. When we arrived at one of the classroom buildings down at the flight line, the excitement on the bus had become, outwardly, evident. We were all apprehensive. What kind of IP's we would get stuck with. There are instructors who can make hard things easy and interesting, and there is that unwitting breed that is capable of making easy or hard things incredibly difficult.

We sat around in the classroom waiting, nervous sweat covering many foreheads. My mind raced over events of the past five weeks since arriving at Fort Wolters. I had met a number of WOCs since my arrival; I lived in a barracks full of them. Most of the WOCs were a bit older than I. There were college dropouts and college graduates. There were prior-service types, those that had qualified from the enlisted ranks. Regardless of the enlisted rank that they had held, we were in the same boat together. We were all WOCs. We were all the scum of the earth, all lower than whale shit in the eyes of the TAC's. I had not had time to develop any real friendships since my arrival, and I supposed that none of the other men had time either, unless they had known each other previously. Stan and I were in the same room in the barracks with another fellow who was from Minnesota or Wisconsin. He had been in college and apparently had not fared well, but he had qualified for flight training.

Although we were all the same rank in flight school, we the newcomers to the service, kind of looked up to the men who had been in the service for some time. We looked to them for guidance; this turned out to be a mistake in most cases. The majority of the older men were married and looked at things in a totally different light. This was a mid career change for them, and they were trying to improve their lot. We were starting our careers. There was some animosity to say the least, because a lot of the older men thought that they were better than us, the new military men.

Suddenly, the doors on the right of the classroom opened and in marched a group of civilians all decked out in the same gray flight suits that we wore; a military officer was leading the procession. The time of reckoning had arrived. I waited patiently for my name to be called from the roster along with the other three students who would be in my group. We all looked in amazement at our IP. You have heard of the old man of the sea. Well, this was the old man of the air or sky or whatever. Our instructor Hollis Elijah Moore appeared to be of an ancient race. Perhaps he was one of the original barnstormers. None of us would have been surprised if he had told us that he was at Kitty Hawk with Wilbur and Orville Wright on their historic first flight.

Our preconceptions would turn to delight when we got to know Mr. Moore. He was one of the most talented and skilled pilots that I would ever meet. He controlled the helicopter with the grace and skill that only years in the air could yield. One year in the air was eight thousand seven hundred and sixty (8,760) hours. That's a lot of time in the air, and he had plenty of years flying time. Mr. Moore was an instructor who could motivate an individual and cause them to learn in spite of themselves. He could not, however, overcome some student's psychological problems. No one could have, unless their IP was also a shrink. One of the most enjoyable forms of learning which Mr. Moore did was really illegal, I suppose. Mr. Moore let us chase deer around the Texas countryside. Following a running deer is quite a feat to say the least. Imagine following an excellent running back in a football game, but at a considerably faster pace, dodging and feinting, zigzagging at high speed, breaking back in the opposite direction and so forth. These maneuvers would hone my ability to perform low-level contour flight in time to come. 

My first concern, with Mr. Moore, was to become proficient enough to solo the aircraft. I hoped that all my background work, all of the mental maneuvers that I had done, would help me in accomplishing this task. As it turned out, within eight and one-half hours I had convinced Mr. Moore, by my flying ability, that I was competent enough to solo. I was one of the first in the class to undergo the ceremony of initiation by being thrown into a pond after my solo flight. The dunking was all part of an old military ritual. I felt very proud at that moment to say the least.

In the weeks to come, I was shown how to make landing approaches to pinnacles, confined areas, and many other difficult landing sites. We practiced auto-rotations, and emergency engine off maneuvers, at random during the daily flights. Power is cut to nothing and the Sprague clutch in the transmission lets the rotor free wheel. Collective pitch is reduced to maintain rotor RPM and the craft is flown to an appropriate emergency landing area where pitch is pulled to cushion the landing. Done properly the helicopter can be landed as softly as a feather. We were drilled about how to auto-rotate into wooded areas and open areas, into confined areas or onto pinnacles or wherever we might have to land during an emergency. This was to condition us so that these emergency maneuvers would become part of us, so that they would become automatic reactions to emergency conditions. Auto-rotation, Mr. Moore told us is the most controllable form of flight in a helicopter.

The time I spent with Hollis Elijah Moore went entirely too fast. Our class was soon to be promoted to the advanced phase of our training with military IP's. The purpose of this training was to give us cross country training during daylight and night flying conditions. In this way we hopefully would fine-tune some of the flying and navigational skills that we had learned from our civilian instructors.

We had wanted to meet some girls and had talked about making a trip to Texas Women's University but never seemed to have the time. The little time that we did have was spent locally. Stan and I had found a small restaurant on the outskirts of Mineral Wells that served a filet mignon that was out of this world. The meal was complete with baked potato and salad for the sum of two dollars and ninety-nine cents. It was unbelievably delicious and cheap. We went there often. I was happy that I had a car. 

One of the older guys with whom I had become friends was Nathan Ellis, a married fellow with three children. We spent a good deal of time together. His wife would be able to join him at Fort Wolters, unofficially, when we moved to the advanced phase of training. We would have the freedom to go off base more often, entire weekends if we wanted to. Nate would be able to spend his weekends with his family. 

Phase Change

Our class was planning to have a graduation ball between flight school phases. It would be held at a local National Guard Armory building on the outskirts of Mineral Wells. Someone had made arrangements with a dormitory at TWU to send a bus load or two, of volunteer girls, to our party. I'm sure that it was a continuing arrangement that the military post had with Texas Women's University in Denton, Texas. I had my doubts as to whether there was anyone smart enough in our class to have made all the arrangements on their own. Besides, I did not think that anyone would have had the time, energy, or connections to make all the arrangements. The arrangements must have been made by a post liaison officer. In any case we were carrying on the tradition and inviting girls to celebrate the transition from our civilian instructors to our military instructors.

Our party was to be on a Saturday night. All the plans were set with TWU. A Greyhound style buses would arrive at 1830 hours Saturday evening with the girls and their faculty chaperons.

I was one of the chosen few, kind of a volunteer, to lead decorating the Armory for the festive occasion. That particular Armory building was like others I had seen, a huge gymnasium like structure with an open metal trusses supporting the roof. After comparing that building with others that I had helped decorate for various occasions while growing up, I could see that it would have been far easier to decorate a barn.

With roll upon roll of crepe paper and thousands of balloons, we set to work. I had come up with the idea of hanging a parachute from the roof trusses and filling it with balloons. It was planned that at a prearranged, magical, hour I would pull a cord and the balloons would fall on the happy celebrants in the dimly lit auditorium. We spent hours blowing up balloons and getting decorations ready, and then installing it all in the massive room.

Since I had been the genius with the ideas, I was elected to be ingenious enough to get the parachute attached to the roof trusses. This was to be accomplished without the aid of a ladder sufficient enough in height to reach the attachment points. I managed, using the short ladder we had, to reach one truss along the wall at its lowest point. With the parachute and various items attached to my person, I moved from truss to truss fastening the parachute in place for the party's finale. The final step was to load the parachute with the balloons. Someone had enough foresight to suggest that I tie a rope around my waist before I climbed across the truss. I lowered the rope and the other men tied bags of balloons on for me to pull up and dump into the inverted parachute. With that part of the decoration completed the rest would go quickly. We finished the decorations on the walls and tables in no time at all and were ready for the big night. All these preparations and transportation accommodations were, of course, paid for by the WOCs on an equal basis.

The big night arrived and the Texas Women’s University girls pulled up to the front doors of the armory in their buses. The WOCs fought for places in line to escort the girls off of the buses.