First Solo

Most people recognise the fact that milestones representing
occurrences of significance mark the life of any human being. First day
at school would, I suppose, be classed as a fairly significant
incident. Ones first sexual encounter would presumably be another. In
any event, these milestones are forever etched on the brain and are
unlikely to be forgotten.

We aviators have an opportunity for another huge milestone denied to
others. That particular milestone is the first time that you fly an
airplane with nobody else on board. Ingeniously, this episode is known
as "First Solo". This flight is usually of a very short duration, about
seven or eight minutes but to the various participants who are firstly,
the new solo pilot, secondly, the flying instructor who authorised the
first solo, thirdly, the rest of the airport population, this period of
time is perceived from the viewpoint of the participant. The third
category can go to hell. They only want to be on the scene if there
should be any blood. As far as the instructor is concerned, the flight
lasts for about two hours. As far as the pilot is concerned, it lasts
only twenty seconds. All three categories breathe a sigh of relief when
it is all over and the triumphant pilot taxies back to the aircraft
park. It says much for the standard of flying instruction that I
truthfully cannot remember a serious incident happening during a first
solo. Of course there have been slight mishaps. For instance, one first
solo decided to go rather a long way round the circuit and got totally
lost. He had to be rescued by gentle messages from air traffic who were
able to overcome his rapidly increasing panic and got him to point the
airplane in the right direction. To the student's great credit, he
performed an absolutely faultless approach and landing.

I vividly remember my own first solo, although it is by now many
thousand flying hours and many years in the past. Aircraft have been a
passion with me since as far back as I can remember and I had a fairly
good understanding of the principles of flight at eleven years old,
gained from the construction of countless flying model aircraft. The
theory came to me quite readily and a subsequent exposure to gliding at
sixteen years of age gave me experience in the control of the real
thing. It was not, therefore entirely due to aptitude that my first
solo took place at a very early stage in my instruction. It happened
one afternoon when I had just undertaken a very grueling forty minutes
at the mercy of Flight Lieutenant Mann who had made me perform a
practice forced landing after take-off, a series of stalls and several
touch and go approaches (we used to call them 'circuits and bumps' in
those days). We rolled to a stop outside the line hut and Mann told me
to keep the engine running. To my amazement, he climbed out of the
aircraft and fastened the straps in the back seat.
"I have to go for a pee," he said. "Just take it round the circuit once
and then come back here and stop. Don't break anything, lad. I'll see
you here when you get back down."
The practice is not to allow the student to think for too long. I
certainly had no time to become concerned.
"Okay, sir, once around the circuit then back here." I looked around
for obstructions and seeing none, opened the throttle of the Chipmunk
and carefully taxied out to the end of the runway. I requested and
obtained permission from the Airfield Controller to line up and take
off. I realised that I was a little nervous and counselled myself that
I had already done this many times with the long suffering Mr. Mann in
the back seat. We were lined up with seemingly miles of black runway in
front of us.

My brain was telling me that I should not open the throttle. It
reasoned that it would be far better to just turn around and say the
aircraft was unserviceable than to finish up in the inevitable smoking
heap on the ground. Discretion, it told me, was the better part of
valour. My body, however, had other ideas. My left hand grasped the
throttle lever and smoothly pushed it forward. My feet on the rudder
pedals prepared themselves for the "Chipmunk lurch" as power came on.
My right hand was feeling for the flying controls to come alive as the
airplane bounded happily down the runway. My brain gave up the uneven
struggle and agreed that as we were now committed to going flying, we
might as well make the most of it.

As we soared into the air, I felt totally elated and could not resist
bursting into song. I firmly believe that every student sings loudly on
first solo. It's something to do with being totally out of reach of
every other living thing on the planet. There is a feeling of absolute
freedom and that nothing else matters. With the trauma of take-off
safely over, I sang a filthy song with some really bad words. As we
climbed, I sang it loudly over the roar of the engine, putting special
emphasis on all of the bad words, simply because nobody could hear
me.

Being totally alone for the first time in an aircraft is an experience
unlike any other. For the first time, the true magnitude of the element
in which I had been a perspiring student started to become apparent.
Struggling to come to terms with a machine seemingly determined to defy
my every effort to make it fly straight and level, I had failed to
notice the true character of the sky. During the next several decades
of my career as a pilot, I would discover that this character would
always elude complete understanding.

I started my downwind turn. I carefully checked that I was the right
distance from the airfield, that the height was correct and that
everything about the aircraft was in order. Rather professionally, I
considered, I carried out the downwind checks, which ensure the best
chance of a safe arrival. Things like making sure there is enough fuel
in the tank in use, that the brakes are off, and that the landing gear
(or undercarriage as the RAF call it) is in the best position for
landing (i.e. not retracted.) It is also considered kindly to look
after the engine by making sure that there is no carburettor ice.
Better communicate, I thought.
"Tower, four four echo downwind," I called.
"Four four echo, cleared to final approach, no other traffic."
"Four four echo, roger."

I realised with a bit of a shock that whilst I had been on the radio I
had allowed myself to gain some two hundred feet and had lost about
twenty knots of airspeed. I corrected the deficiencies and determined
to concentrate on the basics - aviate, navigate, communicate. in that
order. The big test was now looming very close. Could I get this thing
back on the ground in one piece. My mentor had told me many times that
a good landing can only be made from a good approach and that, if the
approach was sloppy, then an equally sloppy landing was inevitable. I
determined to get this approach absolutely right. Nearing the end of
the downwind leg, everything was looking reasonable. To my
astonishment, as I turned base and started to lose height, I could hear
my instructor behind me.
"A little on the fast side, laddie, ...watch your height.....still a
bit fast.. that's better..... start your turn onto finals now... nice
gentle bank... you're a bit high....runway nicely under the
nose.....keep it there.....check harnesses one more time..... that's
good positioning...keep it coming.....almost there....." Then,
suddenly, the rear cockpit was empty again and I realised that this
time I had to get it right on my own. I would not let Mr. Mann
down.
"Four four echo final approach," I told the tower.
"Four four echo is clear to land. Surface wind is zero eight zero at
ten knots"

As the runway threshold slipped under me, I closed the throttle and
started to feel for the ground. I gently pulled the stick back to raise
the nose for the flare. The Chipmunk settled on the ground on her two
main wheels, and the tail wheel only a couple of seconds later. It had
been a textbook landing. I don't think I managed that degree of
competence in a Chipmunk landing ever again. In a taildragger (an
aircraft with a tail wheel) the landing is never over until the
aircraft has come to a complete stop so I maintained a high degree of
concentration all the way back to the line. Flt/Lt Mann was waiting for
me as I taxied in. He puffed furiously on his pipe and said
"Got it back in one piece, then. Seen worse landings too. Well done
laddie."
"Thank you sir."
"Enjoy it?"
"Very much."
"Now you can start learning to fly. Don't get the idea that you're
something special just because you're the first one on the course to
solo. You all have a lot to learn."
"Yes, sir, I know that, but I'll never have another first solo. That
was special."
Mann gave me a curious look. He knew exactly how I felt.
"True, laddie, very true."