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Feel like clearing the air, but can’t find anyone to listen? Why don’t you speak to our readers? Send your written comment to us for the “Nobody asked me, but ...” column. If we publish it, we’ll pay you $60.00. If we don’t, you’ll feel better for having gotten it off your chest. At least you will know that we listened.
Why don't aviators write?
Around 1970 when E-2A Hawkeyes were becoming E-2Bs, one of the best Hawkeye flight instructors took a promising new aviator out for a familiarization flight. At approximately 15,000 feet, they got their trusty Hawkeye into an autogyration, which may actually have been a spin. They recovered the aircraft and returned it unscathed, which is more than can be said of their egos.
Later, an even more astounding event occurred—the same instructor wrote an article describing the incident and it appeared in Approach. The article was detailed, humorous, interesting, and had two effects. It exonerated the instructor (and the student, by default) of any wrongdoing because he obviously would not have gone public if they were culpable. Also, the fact that he had written an intelligent article and had it published gave the instructor a new dimension of credibility in the community: The man can write!
Naval aviators live in a world of action. Words are used sparingly and cryptically. An aviation shorthand has developed which reduces paragraphs to phrases and sentences to words to minimize possible enemy radio frequency exploitation, minimize needless friendly interruptions and directions, and preserve air time for important communications—like “Help!” It is a litany with purpose.
For example, when a landing signal officer (LSO) radios “A little power” to a plane approaching the earner for landing, the pilot never answers verbally, but he performs a half a dozen barely discernible actions in the cockpit. A command of “Power” provokes a more positive physical response. An urgent ‘ ‘Power’ ’ brings sweat to the pilot’s brow and he instantly applies at least half the available power. When the pilot hears “Power, Power, Power!”, he bends the throttle against the stop, and the naval flight officer contemplates abandoning ship unless the pilot gets it together fast. This “power” communication is also made with lights to preserve radio silence. As yet, no one in the plane has answered the LSO!
If the LSO says “Attitude” to a pilot about to land, he is not describing the pilot’s mood and suggesting that he change or improve it. The pilot rotates the nose of his aircraft up when called for attitude. The amount of rotation will vary directly with the LSO’s intonation.
People who communicate daily in this fashion are reluctant to string words into sentences and sentences into paragraphs. After a few years in the business, the habit is set, and they become somewhat in awe of those who write coherently.
Naval aviators are remarkably certain of what they can accomplish. If they can operate from ships day and night, they can damn well do just about anything they decide to try—and do it well. These people fear only two things: failure and “looking bad,’ which are not the same thing, nor are they necessarily mutually exclusive.
An aviator might fail if he sends a manuscript to an editor and the “ig- noramous” rejects it. No one knows about this except the aviator and the editor, who doesn’t count anyway. The aviator has unaccountably failed, but he doesn’t look bad. However, if the manuscript is published and his peers disapprove of the article, the aviator has succeeded as a writer, but he looks bad. It’s a complex code that makes writing risky. Most aviators’ approach is: “Of course I could write if I would, but I won’t.” That’s why aviators don’t write!
About 15 years after the aforementioned E-2A incident, the former student pilot gave me a checkride in a Hawkeye—perhaps even the same one.
He asked me to perform the same maneuver at about 15,000 feet. As I set the switch he and his instructor missed,
I remarked with no malice or forethought that I rarely performed the maneuver without thinking of him. He said he never performed it without vividly recalling that tumbling cockpit. I ;
remembered the picture painted by his instructor’s words—words that kept me from repeating the same mistake throughout my flying career. Advice on safety, tactics, and capabilities of today’s aircraft is an important reason for naval aviators to write. I
Naval aviation has been around for |
75 years and has been a dominant force (
in naval warfare since 7 December t
1941. The Falklands Conflict reaffirmed naval aviation’s role and introduced some changes. Lead-time and |
expense drive weapon system effective- < ness as surely as technology, thus the problems with naval aviation will grow increasingly complex. For the changing environment to work to our advantage, our conceptualization and planning must be the best—a compelling reason I for aviators to write about more than what they’re doing with today’s planes- I
About 50% of the commissioned I
U. S. naval officers wear wings, so i
about 50% of the provocative professional writing should come from these officers. This is not the case, and it will affect the Navy’s future. The 75th year of U. S. naval aviation requires aviators to change their attitude from “Of course I could write if I would” to “Of course I can write, and I will- .
Editor’s Note: See page 10 for another incentive to write.
130
Proceedings / January
1986 S