This html article is produced from an uncorrected text file through optical character recognition. Prior to 1940 articles all text has been corrected, but from 1940 to the present most still remain uncorrected. Artifacts of the scans are misspellings, out-of-context footnotes and sidebars, and other inconsistencies. Adjacent to each text file is a PDF of the article, which accurately and fully conveys the content as it appeared in the issue. The uncorrected text files have been included to enhance the searchability of our content, on our site and in search engines, for our membership, the research community and media organizations. We are working now to provide clean text files for the entire collection.
For those aspiring to become aviators at the Naval Air Station, Pensacola, in the early 1930s, flight checks were momentous occasions. After about every 15 hours of mixed air time soloing or under instruction in the first two squadrons of primary airplanes, there was a check. If it yielded an “up,” a lad was of good cheer and the world was bright and sunny until the next check cast its shadow of doubt. But if he was awarded a “down,” he was dejected, his future as an aviator questionable; for now he had to fly two ups in succession or he was on his way back to the black-shoe Navy.
Thus, all but the phlegmatic or the excessively confident students regarded these checks with distaste and apprehension. Our alertness and concentration were at a peak, and past indiscretions which impaired us were deplored—until the check was over. We wished we had lived more righteous lives or, at least, not spent such late hours recently at the Half Way House (a local hangout) or consumed so much shinny—a local beverage of peerless freshness represented to be a mixture of corn and rye.
It was 9 April 1931 and time for my 30-hour check at Squadron One, and the information chalked on the flight schedule board indicated that Lieutenant Dan Gallery would be my check pilot.* I signed the Bevo List (certifying I had not drunk anything alcoholic during the preceding 24 hours) and slipped on my parachute harness, leaving the leg straps loose so I could hand-carry the seat pack and walk instead
•The lace Rear Admiral Daniel Vincent Gallery was famed as the captor of the German submarine U-505 while commanding officer of the escort carrier Guadalcanal (CVE-60) and as the author of numerous stories with Navy settings.
of waddle. Carrying my seat pack in one hand and Lieutenant Gallery’s chute in the other, and display' ing a nice big smile intended to convey the false ini' pression of joy for the occasion, I presented myself at the designated time. I had never seen Lieutenant : Gallery before. Now I beheld a slender man of medium height and aquiline features. He did not return my smile and responded to my greeting with a silent nod. No chance of exercising my slight charm here, I thought. He evidently was less than delighted to fly with me.
And no wonder. An exasperated instructor once exploded while I was trying to fly the two of us. “There isn’t a worse job on earth than flying with & stupid student!” In addition, instructors found tiO pleasure riding in these float biplanes, designated NYs—“N” for trainer and “Y” for the manufacturer, Consolidated Aircraft. The planes’ principal attri' butes were ruggedness and the ability to absorb punishment; they paid the price in slowness and sluggishness. The spirited and experienced airman craved speed and maneuverability, neither of which was found in this plodding but worthy aircraft.
Briefly, Lieutenant Gallery outlined what maneuvers he wanted me to perform and in what order (one element of a check was the student’s ability to plan the flight to employ time and machine most effi' ciently). We made a number of takeoffs and landing5 in quick succession, a few figure-eight turns around the pylons, some flipper turns at altitude, and, still higher, a full stall with wings level followed by 3 spin right and one left. My check pilot said almost nothing over our one-way system—which consisted of a hose from his face mask to my ears, encased in an ugly and uncomfortable Gosport helmet. He sat
Proceedings / January 1980
a
ln t^le front cockpit within easy view, and I saw with fireat satisfaction his nod of approval as I completed , ® various stages of the check. At last he spoke: ake me back to the hangar.” I had pleased him and the check was in the bag, I thought. But not so ast> we hadn’t finished yet.
The trip back was a prescribed standard route at
nstructorp Lieutenant Barrett Studley was, but since
a °ut 1,000 feet over Santa Rosa Island, which forms e southern boundary of Pensacola Bay. There was a r'sk wind of 15 knots or a little more from the ?°Uth- The gulf was covered with rather large waves, Ut the bay was fairly smooth. Suddenly Lieutenant “tilery cut the gun (retarded the throttle), simulates an engine failure. That was my cue to make an efnergency landing. Almost instinctively I turned ^nt° the wind toward the gulf. It was then that the ^ead which had been nodding in approval until now eSan signalling emphatic disapprobation, th^ ^Ue course’ we lancled in the bay and taxied to beach fronting the seawall, where a sailor in est-high boots secured the plane as the engine was CUt' We clambered out, each with his chute, and I l°'ned Lieutenant Gallery, who had made it to the ^“hl before me and was waiting to discuss the flight ar*tl give me the bad news.
fr was a good flight,” he said, “everything first fte Ur>til you made that bonehead decision to land in e gulf. We would have cracked up. Why didn’t th*4 head for the bay?” My answer was that doing . at Would have meant landing downwind, and my . tructors had hammered it into my head to land ^to the wind, into the wind. He noted the plural rrn of the word “instructors.” Who was my regular
h
lateral duties, he was frequently unable to go out with me and turned me over to other pilots. I named most of the six involved and added that I had never had any instruction in handling emergencies, and that we tended to cover certain fundamentals such as landing into the wind.
Lieutenant Gallery was obviously impressed at my less-than-ideal history of having so many instructors, so his decision about my status was not immediately forthcoming. He wanted to reward me for what had been well done considering my training, but he did not know how he could give me an up after busting the emergency, I learned as he thought aloud. I did not ask for anything; from the moment I saw the negative head-shake during the check, I was reconciled to a down. The anguish was all his. He was torn between his sense of fairness and his principles of duty and conscience. I sympathized with him and in an attempt to help him make his unpleasant decision, I said, “It’s all right, Mr. Gallery; give me a down. I can fly two ups.”
He raised his head to look me in the eye, and with a display of mock anger, declared, “I’ll be damned if any student tells me what to do! You get an up!”
With that he picked up his chute and strode off to record that result in the squadron’s flight log book.