Flaps Up

I watched a camel race on TV once. What impressed me was how little control the riders had over the ungainly beasts.

When Mohammed flew my airplane his control was little better than that of the camel jockeys. I could imagine him riding a reluctant dromedary.

Every time he screwed up his excuse was the same: "But I have only been in your country a short time and I do not speak your language well." He usually wore a kicked-dog expression while pleading for understanding.

The perplexing thing was he used the same excuse even when language was not an issue. For example when he let the nose get too high I would gently bump the elevator control. He seldom caught the hint in spite of my nudge and all the visual and aural clues. When things got really bad he usually awakened, but then he often over corrected. I never knew what to expect.

Unable to solo after 17 hours of dual instruction, I recommended him for a check ride, the first step toward elimination from the program.

Mohammed failed two check flights but he still wangled another try. At this point he was approaching 20 hours. The major in charge of flight operations directed me to give him another hour and a half of dual. If I couldn't report acceptable progress he would be recommended for a make-or-break check ride.

We had little conversation during Mohammed's pre-flight inspection, other than him calling out items on the checklist.

His silence while we buckled in increased the feeling of tension between us. I knew he blamed me for his failure. He had never accepted responsibility for his own actions--I demanded precision--close was good enough for him. He always came up with an excuse but words don't fly the airplane. This was his last chance to stay in the program.

His radio procedures were crisp and businesslike. During his take off roll he kept the airplane glued to the centerline of the runway and he rotated at exactly the right airspeed. I was impressed.

He found our training area without prompting. By that time I began wondering if he had suddenly awakened--if he'd accepted the fact this was not some game he could win with an ingratiating smile and half-hearted effort.

We performed the usual exercises--slow flight, departure and power-off stalls left and right. His airspeed and altitude control was marginal in slow flight and he started stall recoveries way too late. Most students get that "seat of the pants" feel for the airplane after a few hours. Mohammed never did.

Just as he rolled out of a steep-banked turn I chopped power and announced, "Simulated forced landing." I kept my hand on the throttle.

He rocked the wings, looked down and began setting up a pattern. From 1,500 feet above ground it took just a few seconds to spot a number of acceptable emergency landing sites, including a turn row between cotton fields that may have been used by crop dusters.

In spite of multiple choices Mohammed picked one of the least desirable--a deep-plowed field. Even from our altitude it appeared rough.

I expected, and trained my students to look for a landing area we could reasonably expect to walk away from should the emergency be a real one. A T-41 going down in a plowed field would likely total the aircraft.

He began the recommended triangular pattern but went too far out before turning onto base leg. I saw he'd never make it but I wasn't allowed to coach him. The decision had to be his. He ignored all the visual refences and instructions I'd given him in the past. Only when he rolled onto final did he realize he was too low to reach the field. He began pulling back on the elevator control as though he expected to hold the airplane up by sheer determination. As speed fell he began adding flaps. Our sink rate increased and he went to full flaps. Soon we were wobbling along just above a stall, falling like a frisbee near the end of its flight.

At 100 feet above ground I opened the throttle, announced "I've got it," and lowered the nose.

When the instructor takes over, the student is required to relinquish all control. To my astonishment Mohammed raised the flaps. I slapped his hand away and pushed the handle back down. All I could do was to watch helplessly as the flaps cycled all the way up before starting down again. I had to lower the nose farther, sacrificing altitude for speed to avoid stalling. We were sinking like an out-of-control parachute, until finally the flaps started down again. I managed to stop the descent about five feet above the plowed field. We did a dipsy doodle dance for several seconds on the fine line between flying and stalling.

Back at the airfield Mohammed made several half-hearted stabs at landing before we made our final stop. He had regressed to his old ways--very little airspeed control, no idea how high he should be in the pattern and complet failue to follow the correct ground track. He remained adept, however, at making excuses.

I understand his country sent him to an aircraft mechanic's school before he returned to the Middle East. Instead of a pilot in the Royal Iranian Air Force, he would be an enlisted man.

Story ID:	3728
Written by:	James Baker (bio, contact, other stories)
Organization:	Writers' Circle
Story type:	Diary/Journal Entry
Location:	Eloy Arizona USA
Year:	1969
Person:	Mohammed