|
Getting your Trinity Audio player ready...
|
Our very worst landing was at the end of a flight that started badly and deteriorated throughout.
We landed at Komatipoort to clear customs. When we came to take off, Old Piet just rammed the throttles forward and clenched the stick with both hands. He was much given to this get-in-and-go attitude. I had yet to learn that pre-takeoff formalities in the cockpit were to be my department, in the interests of self-preservation. At that stage, however, I was far too lowly a personage to interfere with the operation of twin-engined aeroplanes.
Since we were still trailing full flap—a legacy from the landing—our acceleration was somewhat less than satisfactory. Even in those days, Komati had miles of dirt runway, so I held my peace, assuming we must eventually fly. I was, in fact, partially correct. By the time we hit 85, the tail was flying, the main wheels were off the ground, and the nosewheel was grinding itself into the dirt.
Piet seemed to think this was the right time to get the rest of the aircraft airborne, so he issued his customary command—“Come to Papa!”—as he hauled on the pole. The main wheels smashed into the ground, but apart from that, not much happened.
By now we had used up a lot of runway, so I ventured my solution to the problem. “We still have full flaps, Mr. Piet.”
He hit the flaps off and we sailed into the air. Instead of thanking me for my alertness and presence of mind, he let loose with, “Vot ze hell do you sink I employ you for?” He then went on to describe, in detail, exactly how I was expected to justify my slender pay packet. It seemed my duties were many and varied. He mentioned he was not greatly interested in the quality of the tea I made in the office, nor did the blackness of the polish I put on the aeroplane’s tyres excite him. The cleanliness of the hangar floor was only of passing interest compared to my number-one duty: keeping the boss alive by remembering what he forgets.
It’s only a short flight from Komatipoort to Stegi, in Swaziland, so there’s no need to gain much height before leveling off. Old Piet kept up his tirade of scurrility regarding myself and my ancestors throughout the careful process of adjusting the power, leaning the mixtures, and trimming. It was his pride to extract every ounce of cruise performance from an aircraft. When he had finished, we were settled down at about 35 mph less than our normal cruise speed. The reason was clear—he had been so busy giving me the works that he had forgotten to raise the gear.
Compared with some of Piet’s blunders, this was a minor error. However, although not dangerous, it’s the sort of thing that makes the perpetrator appear somewhat pea-brained. I was obliged to point out the reason for our dismal progress through the sky. This sent Piet off on another onslaught about my parentage and various other factors which, he felt, contributed to my generally defective character. “Hell’s teeth, Zim, you stupid bastard, vot have I just been telling you…?” He carried on for a while, then eventually lapsed into a sulky silence.
A familiar air of disharmony prevailed in the cockpit. I fumed inwardly and resolved to teach the old fool a lesson at the first opportunity. As it happened, my chance arrived within minutes.
The geography of our destination was such that it was necessary to beat up Mrs. Viggie’s hotel before landing on the golf course. The good lady’s name was actually Mrs. Wigman, and the hotel is still there—and still being run by her family—some 45 years later. It is situated in the bottom of a hole cut out of a forest of tall gum trees. The idea was that Mrs. Viggie would fire up her aged Ford truck and collect us on the fourteenth green.
As the old guy eased the nose down toward the trees, I knew it was time to put into practice all the advice he had just given me. “Mr. Piet, we must change tanks now,” I ventured, since the gauges for the tanks we were using showed zero.
“Who ze hell is flying zis bloody sing?” he inquired.
So we stayed on the empty tanks—with predictable results.
Now, when a fuel-injected motor starts dying of thirst, it doesn’t just peacefully expire—it has several false stops interspersed with bursts of power. As an engine gives up, the aircraft swings violently toward it. This is counteracted by a bootful of opposite rudder, which generally coincides with its recovery, causing an even more violent swing in the other direction. When both motors quit simultaneously, the bursts of power, swinging, and kicking of rudder present an unusual spectacle to the casual observer on the ground—and a frightening demonstration of chaos to the less casual spectator aboard.
We went through this procedure with hands and feet all over the cockpit while Piet yelled useful pieces of advice like, “Hell’s teeth, Zim, vot ze bloody hell have you done now?… You change tanks while I hit ze pumps… For Christ’s sake help me keep ze bloody sing straight…”
We restored sanity to the machine just a few feet above the trees. A perspiring Piet pushed his hat to the back of his head, beamed at me, and said, “Zat vos interesting, Zim.”
One might think things couldn’t get much worse on that particular flight—one would be wrong.
I’m always amazed to hear the girlie announce on the PA, “…the arrival of Crud Airlines flight 402 from Karachi and all points East…” etc. It’s not the fact that Crud Airlines has had a successful flight that amazes me—it’s the use of the word arrival. This term has been adopted by pilots throughout the world to indicate the worst possible landing.
The adjective is, however, inadequate to describe Piet’s collision with the golf course that afternoon. Even collision is the wrong word, for it indicates only one such contact. There were, in fact, a great number of impact points in a zigzag pattern down the entire length of the fairway. Golfers and caddies scattered like chickens in the path of a Harley-Davidson. Each time we struck the surface and sailed into the air, Piet bellowed like a stricken water buffalo: “Bloody hell… now vot?… look out Zim…” We eventually ran out of steam near the blue gums at the far end.
Old Piet hauled the mixtures back and let the engines shudder to a stop. In the comparative silence, as they ticked out their heat and the gyros started to wind down, Piet turned to face me, and with a huge smile asked, “Vosn’t zat a greaser?”
I soon learned that if there’s a particular danger period in the life of a pilot, it’s not, as is commonly supposed, at 100 hours, or 500 hours, or any other arbitrary figure. It’s the morning after a night at Mrs. Viggie’s hotel.
The dedicated student of survival will drink as little as possible, go to bed early, wake up early, and take a brisk walk through the cold morning air to the golf course. This will sharpen his wits for the task ahead. He will do a careful preflight inspection and some rather unorthodox cockpit preparation.
When Ze Boss arrives, it’s then a simple matter for him to strap himself in, hit the starters, cast a bleary eye round the cockpit and declare, “All ze clocks seem to be vorking—ve go,” prior to firewalling the throttles. On such days, it is prudent to be prepared for any eventuality, as the old guy is capable of all manner of aeronautical atrocities.
Jim's other passion is writing, which he studied for five years at Rhodes University, SA (BA), and Curtin University, Australia (MA). He has authored two international best-sellers: PPL, a standard text in Australia and SA, and Flight Tests, which has helped thousands pass their reviews worldwide. Jim has also written more than 1000 articles for flying magazines.
Jim loves Harleys, horses and cats.
All his flying books are available at www.jimkdavis.co.za and at https://www.pilottrain.com.au
- Zingi and the Auster - July 16, 2025
- Flight Lessons from Komati to Stegi - July 2, 2025
Dear Mr. Zimmerman,
I thoroughly enjoy your journal and always look forward to receiving it.
I first met Pete van der Woude in 1958 when I was a school with his son Tom, with whom still have regular contact and will be seeing him on Tuesday, as it just so happens to be his birthday.
I flew many, many hours with Pete so before I comment on Mr. Davis’ article I will first consult with Tom as to the wisdom of that endeavor and journalistic integrity.
Yours sincerely,
John Ferris.