since the last flight check. Then he looked at Carson with the anxious air of a father watching his favourite daughter go off with a boy-friend of dubious character, and finally indicated the wing walkway and the open cockpit canopy.
‘B-before you strap in, Mr Carson,’ he said, ‘You’ll f-feel much better without your jacket...’
Despite the bright sunshine the wind blowing across the wet airfield cut like a knife. Carson took off his jacket as suggested and placed it behind his seat, noting as he did so that Pebbles kept his jacket on, and wondering which of them was mentally retarded.
Carson had not come to the club with the intention of taking a flying lesson, and certainly not from Pebbles, but somehow he had worked himself into the position of not being able to avoid it.
‘At H-Hart-Ewing’s,’ began Pebbles diffidently, ‘you will have picked up a f-fair knowledge of flying theory...’
There followed a shy but persistent inquisition which proved, much to Carson’s own surprise, that he did in fact know about dihedral, incidence, angles of attack, effect of controls and the theory of flight generally; then Pebbles leaned across and strapped him in very firmly.
Carson fought the urge to hit the quick-release buckle and run.
‘B-before starting the engine,’ said Pebbles, ‘there are a number of checks to be carried out. I’ll tell you what they are as I do them. D-don’t worry if you can’t remember everything the first few times, it will come...’ As he continued talking, pointing and switching-on, Carson became firmly convinced that he would not be able to remember anything. Then Pebbles, his stammer completely gone, was saying ‘... Look around carefully to see that the area is clear and that your slipstream will not inconvenience anyone, then pull this starter and release it when the engine fires.
‘Pull the starter, Mr Carson ...’
Carson did as he was told, thinking cynically that he was being conned into feeling that he was making a contribution, however small, to what was going on. It was probably club policy designed to make the student pilot feel less like shooting himself through sheer inadequacy. The funny thing was that it worked even though he knew he was being had ...
‘Before taxi-ing there is a second series of checks which include testing the flying controls. Today you can go through them with me...’ Pebbles began, and about five minutes later ended, ‘... Have another good lookout for people, objects or other aircraft taxi-ing in the vicinity, then release the brakes and open the throttle enough to overcome the aircraft’s inertia, and move off at a fast walking pace.
‘Look around,’ Pebbles said clearly over the sound of the engine, ‘release the brake and open the throttle, Mr Carson ... ’
G-ARTZ lurched forward and rocked across the grass in the general direction of the taxiway. Carson began to sweat. The great unwieldy brute was rolling over the grass out of control, the engine noise made it hard to think and Pebbles was an out-and-out nutcase to allow Carson to risk an expensive aeroplane like this.
‘... You are moving too fast, Mr Carson,’ Pebbles was saying. ‘This exaggerates the effect of the nose-wheel steering. Throttle back. More. A fast walking pace, remember? When we come to the edge of the taxiway you will have to turn and travel along it to the end of the runway. Before you turn, throttle back and use the brake to bring us almost to a stop, otherwise you will strain the landing gear which is not stressed to take heavy side loadings.
‘Close the throttle. That’s it. Brake ... ’
They rolled on to the tarmac and came almost to a stop before Carson pressed hard against the rudder bar. G-ARTZ swung round and he straightened the nose-wheel, opened the throttle and began wobbling along the taxiway at the required fast walking pace. It was slightly easier to control the thing on a paved surface than it had been on grass--very slightly
‘B-before you strap in, Mr Carson,’ he said, ‘You’ll f-feel much better without your jacket...’
Despite the bright sunshine the wind blowing across the wet airfield cut like a knife. Carson took off his jacket as suggested and placed it behind his seat, noting as he did so that Pebbles kept his jacket on, and wondering which of them was mentally retarded.
Carson had not come to the club with the intention of taking a flying lesson, and certainly not from Pebbles, but somehow he had worked himself into the position of not being able to avoid it.
‘At H-Hart-Ewing’s,’ began Pebbles diffidently, ‘you will have picked up a f-fair knowledge of flying theory...’
There followed a shy but persistent inquisition which proved, much to Carson’s own surprise, that he did in fact know about dihedral, incidence, angles of attack, effect of controls and the theory of flight generally; then Pebbles leaned across and strapped him in very firmly.
Carson fought the urge to hit the quick-release buckle and run.
‘B-before starting the engine,’ said Pebbles, ‘there are a number of checks to be carried out. I’ll tell you what they are as I do them. D-don’t worry if you can’t remember everything the first few times, it will come...’ As he continued talking, pointing and switching-on, Carson became firmly convinced that he would not be able to remember anything. Then Pebbles, his stammer completely gone, was saying ‘... Look around carefully to see that the area is clear and that your slipstream will not inconvenience anyone, then pull this starter and release it when the engine fires.
‘Pull the starter, Mr Carson ...’
Carson did as he was told, thinking cynically that he was being conned into feeling that he was making a contribution, however small, to what was going on. It was probably club policy designed to make the student pilot feel less like shooting himself through sheer inadequacy. The funny thing was that it worked even though he knew he was being had ...
‘Before taxi-ing there is a second series of checks which include testing the flying controls. Today you can go through them with me...’ Pebbles began, and about five minutes later ended, ‘... Have another good lookout for people, objects or other aircraft taxi-ing in the vicinity, then release the brakes and open the throttle enough to overcome the aircraft’s inertia, and move off at a fast walking pace.
‘Look around,’ Pebbles said clearly over the sound of the engine, ‘release the brake and open the throttle, Mr Carson ... ’
G-ARTZ lurched forward and rocked across the grass in the general direction of the taxiway. Carson began to sweat. The great unwieldy brute was rolling over the grass out of control, the engine noise made it hard to think and Pebbles was an out-and-out nutcase to allow Carson to risk an expensive aeroplane like this.
‘... You are moving too fast, Mr Carson,’ Pebbles was saying. ‘This exaggerates the effect of the nose-wheel steering. Throttle back. More. A fast walking pace, remember? When we come to the edge of the taxiway you will have to turn and travel along it to the end of the runway. Before you turn, throttle back and use the brake to bring us almost to a stop, otherwise you will strain the landing gear which is not stressed to take heavy side loadings.
‘Close the throttle. That’s it. Brake ... ’
They rolled on to the tarmac and came almost to a stop before Carson pressed hard against the rudder bar. G-ARTZ swung round and he straightened the nose-wheel, opened the throttle and began wobbling along the taxiway at the required fast walking pace. It was slightly easier to control the thing on a paved surface than it had been on grass--very slightly
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