I began to fly at Penang Aerodrome while I was in Malaysia
in the 1960's at the Penang Aero Club. The club then revolved
mainly around the air force personnel from the Butterworth
RAAF base. The club also included some expatriate Brits,
some locals and a few Royal Malaysian Air Force reserve
trainees. I found it difficult to get to the aerodrome;
it was a long journey by public transport and I also had
difficulty getting leave from my day job of guarding a
valuable Malaysian swamp
(I was in the Army).
The club house was really just a tin shed which contained
a small bar and a small cafe run by a young Chinese couple.
Their main product was wafer thin rounds of chicken sandwiches.
The filling was small bits of greyish meat which tasted,
somehow, vaguely familiar; but not, I'm afraid, like chicken.
The bar sold copious amounts of Tiger beer and expensive
cheap whisky.
Penang aerodrome was a very pleasant place to fly. It
was built across a sandy isthmus joining a large headland
to the island's mountain spine. The circuit headed out
over the sea at either end of the NE-SW runway and then
wended its way around the jungle clad headland which reached
almost up to circuit height. WWII concrete gun positions
surrounded the headlands base and coconut palms sprouted
from the rainforest. The flat land around the airfield
contained a small village of concrete houses and a Chinese
girls' school. The countryside was mixed rice paddy and
pepper plantations as well as scattered coconut palms,
jungle and mangrove swamp.
I was to fly with Bill, the CFI at that time, on my introductory
flight. My trainee friends informed me that Bill would
be able to tell if I would "make it" as a pilot.
Failure at this stage would save me time and money; a
kind of fail now and beat the rush kind of thing. This
tended to increase my nervousness in anticipation of the
coming flight. I might add that at this stage I couldn't
even drive a car, so controlling any sort of machine would
come as a bit of a surprise.
Bill and a Chipmunk were trotted out and I was installed
in the front seat. I was fitted out with a grey cloth
flying helmet and an oxygen mask which contained the microphone.
This had to be held to the mouth and switched on when
you wanted to talk and switched off afterward. The engine
was started and away we went. To add to a beginner's difficulties,
the Chipmunk was, and is, a taildragger which was supposed
to be zig-zagged so that a view over the nose could be
maintained. This introduced me to the peculiar braking
system in the Chipmunk. Left or right brake is obtained
by pushing on the rudder bar in the required direction
and pulling on the pneumatic brake lever on the left side
of the cockpit. This required that your hand be away from
the throttle if you turned and, of course, as in all aeroplanes,
they will slow and stop even if you only apply the brake
to one wheel (unless you add enough power). Crikey! I
was almost exhausted even before we took off!
The take-off towards Penang harbour and our gentle climb
around the headland to the training area on the seaward
side of the island I still remember; blue sky and sea,
smooth air and dark rainforest. It was beautiful. I don't
remember when we transitioned to me doing the flying,
but I fell in love with the smooth, simple co-ordination
of the controls. We climbed steadily towards Sumatra.
I remember that there was a small cumulus cloud in our
path and, unsure of where Bill intended to go, I flew
through the centre. When Bill asked me to turn back I
turned steeply adding top rudder to stop the nose from
falling.
Now, up to this time, I had the thought that learning
to fly meant flying straight and level or perhaps doing
a few gentle turns for say, 1,000 hours or so, and then,
having thoroughly conquered this, the Tyro pilot would
be taught how to land. It became apparent that Bill had
other ideas when we turned onto long finals. Bill urged
me to fly straight. Unsure as to how to steer the aircraft
to the runway end and keep the wings level, I nervously
fishtailed the rudder.
"Keep straight!" roared Bill. I wagged the rudder
more. Bill saved our lives and I zig-zagged back to the
bar. Bill was enthusiastic about my prospects. This was
a feeling that I, quietly, didn't share. At least I hadn't
failed straight off.
It was at this time that the rest of the crew to which
I belonged decided, en masse, to take up skydiving. They
used the aero club as a base for this because they used
the club's new C172 to jump from and the club's pilots
to fly it. This was also in the days before tandem parachutes
where any beginner had to jump out of the plane by themselves:
the first few jumps with a static line to pull the chute
in case the student forgot. I call this the 'little bit'
approach to learning to skydive. Each time you get a 'little
bit' higher until one day you are very high and then you're
allowed to pull your own rip-cord. This, I believe is
a particularly Irish view of the whole affair, someone
had forgotten that it was the LAST couple of feet which
kills you, not how high that you get out.
My crew suggested that I do a parachute jump with them.
I suggested that I liked aeroplanes even if I couldn't
get them to stop bouncing, and that I had no plans of
jumping out of one in the near future. My flying was bad
but I drew the line on abandoning ship altogether. They
began an unending clamor that I join them in jumping.
I became determined that I wouldn't but I lived with them
24 hours a day so it wasn't easy. I countered that I had
to fly the aeroplane so, even I couldn't be in two places
at once if I had to train. This held them only until the
next weekend.
"You only fly for an hour at a time; that leaves
you with plenty left over to train with us", they
came back.
Thinking quickly I answered. "I'm learning to fly
and I have to study to pass my exams". They kind
of knew that pilots had to pass exams so that quietened
them temporarily. After some time they came back.
"We've been watching you. You don't study, you sit
in the bar drinking expensive cheap whiskey and eating
chicken sandwiches". I had to admit that there was
an element of truth in their argument. This was going
to be difficult.
This is when I made my most serious mistake. "You
guys had to train for weeks before you made your first
jump. I'm not spending my few days off practising doing
parachute rolls in the mud. If I can make a jump without
training, I will do it!"
A stunned silence. I had them. I couldn't jump if I
didn't train, if I didn't train, I couldn't jump.
"Brilliant!" I thought. I failed to take into
account their low cunning and generally devious nature.
Within the day they came back with Plan B.
"We will train you at work during the week and then
you can jump on the weekend."
I was stunned. I hadn't thought of that. I wasn't sure
that the parachute instructors would allow this, so I
entered into the training with reasonable enthusiasm.
I would be able to rub it in later.
Drills to a soldier come easy. Prone position. Push off.
Check 'chute. Look between your feet to check drift etc.etc.
I had to jump off the shed roof, legs slightly bent, feet
together and finish with a roll.
In the mean time, some of the jumps that the others had
done had been less than brilliant. Trevor was the most
accident prone. On his first jump he had drifted away
from the aerodrome and had landed in a field some distance
away. There were some bad jokes about him taking a cut
lunch. On his next jump he wound up in a storm drain between
the terminal and the Chinese Girls School. Hundreds of
pubescent teenagers descended on him and carried his 'chute
in triumph. I am sure that they would have carried the
embarrassed Trevor had he allowed it.
In the mean time, I turned up for my "jump"
convinced that the para-club CFI wouldn't allow it. I
was presented to this worthy who was also an NCO at Butterworth's
parachute section. My story was presented to him. I smiled
engagingly. He looked dubious. This made me happier. "Well
I suppose that's OK", he said.
I choked. "However you will have to pass a new
theory test that I have just introduced", he continued.
I was delighted. My friends were stunned. Theory! They
didn't know anything about theory!
It was here that my penchant for being in the wrong place
at the wrong time came to the fore.
He continued, "I have to go and dispatch this load.
I will get Ray to give you the test and then we will talk
about it. No pass, no jump."
The CFI was hardly out of the room before Ray was into
the CFI's pack for his theory books.
The test was extensive and very tough. It took my crew
quite some time to find the correct answers, making sure
that three were wrong so that I wouldn't get 100%. He
may have thought that I was cheating if I were to have
a perfect score. We only just had time to hide the books
before he returned. My mark was 84%. The CFI was impressed.
"I can't remember anyone doing so well. That's an
excellent score." He congratulated me and I kept
a straight face.
The aircraft that I was to jump from, when my turn came,
was our new C172. First, however, Trevor had to do his
fourth jump. We watched as the aircraft ran in. This time
Trevor was spot on and drifting towards the centre of
the aerodrome. Unfortunately his lines were badly twisted
together. The chute had opened OK but the twist spun Trevor
around and around and then wound up the other way, then
unwound and rewound again.
Strangely, I knew what he should do to fix this. I had
read the correct drill for this while we were cheating....Ahem,
researching the test answers. All he had to do was to
hold the harness straps apart. Trevor kept yelling "Mother"
at the top of his voice for comic effect (I think) as
he drifted towards the only aeroplane on the aerodrome,
a Fokker Friendship.
The humor of the situation disappeared when the Friendship
started an engine. Trevor seemed as though he was attracted
to it like a magnet. He landed just behind the wing. To
my knowledge he never jumped again.
My own jump came quickly enough. The pilot was new to
flying and dropping jumpers, the jump master was the Chief
Instructor. There was another 'first timer', also from
my unit who was to jump on a second run. He sat quietly
in the corner and said nothing. I was probably as prepared
as I needed to be. I certainly looked the part. I had
on a new flying suit, a helmet, a reserve and a magnificent
pair of 'jump boots' which were de rigueur back then.
Now days they often jump in thongs! The 'chute itself
had two panels missing from the back to give it a forward
speed of about 4 kts and so gave some element of control.
I sat in the open doorway and looked at the view as we
climbed to 2,000 ft, the jump height. The jump master
threw out a streamer to check the wind and then we turned
for the run in. I noticed that the altimeter read 2,700
ft. It was time for me to get out.
First grab the strut and a foot on the step, finishing
up standing on the wheel and still clutching the strut
with both hands, the roaring wind and noise all about
me. The wheel moved slightly making me worry that I would
fall off early. The jump master shouted something at me.
I said. "What"? "Jump"! He said again.
"Oh".
I pushed off, arching my back, my head up and my arms
spread in the approved style. I could see the little Cessna
disappearing above and away from me. It's like the highest
of highboards. I felt the sudden jerk of the chute. It's
open. Thank God for that. Now for the drills.
First, check the chute. It's open and looks good. If the
view from an aeroplane or a lookout is good, you should
see it when you're just dangling in space.
Next, look beneath my feet to check drift. I'm going backwards
at a respectable rate, away from the aerodrome and the
Landing Zone. The ninnies have dropped me downwind instead
of upwind. Bugger!
There was no-where below that I wanted to land. I was
away from any reasonable landing area. Below and behind
were mangroves and primitive rainforest, and immediately
below where pepper plantations. These contained giant
stakes, like overgrown tomato stakes, about 5 m tall,
which the pepper vines climb up. If I was to become a
shish-kebab I would not need any spices. My only choice
was to track crosswind to the end of the runway. This
was an expanse of concrete turnaround, a tall concrete
and barbed-wire fence, a wide water-filled storm drain
and about a 1 metre strip of grass that ran beside the
runway. I aimed for the latter.
I crabbed across the pepper plantations, swooped over
the barbed wire and concrete and, to quote Maxwell Smart,
"missed by that much". I plunged into the monsoon
drain and landed like a bag of it.
I lay in the shallow water that covered the basalt boulders
that were just below the surface convinced that I had
broken my leg, but happy to be alive. Some experimenting
with standing up seemed OK, but I had broken very many
of the bones in my left foot.
I relaxed at the bar with some anaesthetic and listened
to the Chief Instructor apologise for the eighteenth time.
I smiled and smiled. The second jumper from my plane had
(sensibly) refused to jump and returned with the aircraft.
The skydiving enthusiasts lost interest soon after, so
I should have just waited them out. My foot, was too sore
to push on a rudder bar so I had to wait for my return
to Oz to continue my flying and eventually become a pilot.
I still haven't gone solo in a Chipmunk!
