and your parachute would open. If your sitting height was above so many inches, then your head would hit the canopy first and you’d possibly break your neck. So early on, everybody’s sitting height was measured. Some guys, shorter than I standing, never made it into pilot training because their sitting height was above the upper limit.
At one point early in our training, before flying in the T-37, we were taken outside to a real ejection seat that had been placed on what looked like a vertical railroad track that ran up to about twelve or thirteen feet in the air. We’d strap in, and a sergeant, standing by, explained the importance of sitting straight up with head back. When one of us got positioned and pulled the handle between his legs, rockets in the seat shot him to the top of the track. We each took a turn. The purpose of the training was to show that there was nothing to be afraid of.
As part of this training we were taught to use a canopy-breaking tool, a device like a hunting knife with a very short blade that, when struck against the top middle of the canopy from the inside, would break the canopy open so that the pilot could climb out of a burning aircraft on the ground. The tool was always in the cockpit. A sergeant demonstrated with a canopy that had been detached from an aircraft. The canopy was propped up and held by one of us so that the sergeant could hit the canopy in the inside middle and it would shatter—he thought. He triedonce, twice, three times, and couldn’t get the canopy to break. He gave the tool to one of us, then another, then another. Nobody could break the canopy.
We were told that in some early jet aircraft, you needed to be airborne before ejecting or else your parachute would not open before you hit the ground. In others, you could eject while the aircraft was on the ground, but you needed fifty knots of forward speed. If you ejected before your ground speed was fifty knots, then your parachute would not open before you hit the ground. That was called fifty/zero capability. You needed fifty knots and zero altitude to survive ejection. The T-37 and T-38 had zero/zero capability, we were told.
Somebody raised his hand. “Did the people who designed the seat also design that canopy-breaking tool?”
T O PREPARE FOR FLYING with supplemental oxygen through the oxygen mask that we wore in the T-37, we trained in an altitude chamber, a pressurized room large enough for a group of us, in which very high altitudes could be simulated. Let’s say I’m flying at thirty thousand feet and I lose my oxygen, but I’m unaware of the loss. The TUC (time of useful consciousness) without oxygen is, as I recall, about a minute. After a minute or so I’ll become very confused and then I’ll pass out.
Each pilot needed to know his personal signs of low oxygen: tingly feet, tingly hands, numb lips—or something else. The only way to find out was to climb into the chamber and “fly” to thirty thousand feet, lose oxygen, and see what happened.
In the chamber, each of us had an oxygen mask available, but we ascended without it. At thirty thousand feet we were told to pay attention to our symptoms, and when we knew them, to put on our oxygen masks. My lips and fingers tingled. This was my coal miner’s bird in the cage.
Then, with oxygen masks on, we were asked for a volunteer—someone to demonstrate what happens when a pilot tries to perform duties without adequate oxygen. I volunteered. I was given a board with square holes and round holes, and, yes, pegs that were round and square. I was asked to remove my mask. I did, and in about thirty seconds I was asked to put the pegs where they belonged, one every second. No problem at first, but then for some reason the people sitting there with masks on were laughing at me. What could possibly be so funny? The peg I held was just dandy for the hole I was staring at, wasn’t it?
I was asked to put my mask back on, and I did.
I T WAS NOT UNUSUAL
At one point early in our training, before flying in the T-37, we were taken outside to a real ejection seat that had been placed on what looked like a vertical railroad track that ran up to about twelve or thirteen feet in the air. We’d strap in, and a sergeant, standing by, explained the importance of sitting straight up with head back. When one of us got positioned and pulled the handle between his legs, rockets in the seat shot him to the top of the track. We each took a turn. The purpose of the training was to show that there was nothing to be afraid of.
As part of this training we were taught to use a canopy-breaking tool, a device like a hunting knife with a very short blade that, when struck against the top middle of the canopy from the inside, would break the canopy open so that the pilot could climb out of a burning aircraft on the ground. The tool was always in the cockpit. A sergeant demonstrated with a canopy that had been detached from an aircraft. The canopy was propped up and held by one of us so that the sergeant could hit the canopy in the inside middle and it would shatter—he thought. He triedonce, twice, three times, and couldn’t get the canopy to break. He gave the tool to one of us, then another, then another. Nobody could break the canopy.
We were told that in some early jet aircraft, you needed to be airborne before ejecting or else your parachute would not open before you hit the ground. In others, you could eject while the aircraft was on the ground, but you needed fifty knots of forward speed. If you ejected before your ground speed was fifty knots, then your parachute would not open before you hit the ground. That was called fifty/zero capability. You needed fifty knots and zero altitude to survive ejection. The T-37 and T-38 had zero/zero capability, we were told.
Somebody raised his hand. “Did the people who designed the seat also design that canopy-breaking tool?”
T O PREPARE FOR FLYING with supplemental oxygen through the oxygen mask that we wore in the T-37, we trained in an altitude chamber, a pressurized room large enough for a group of us, in which very high altitudes could be simulated. Let’s say I’m flying at thirty thousand feet and I lose my oxygen, but I’m unaware of the loss. The TUC (time of useful consciousness) without oxygen is, as I recall, about a minute. After a minute or so I’ll become very confused and then I’ll pass out.
Each pilot needed to know his personal signs of low oxygen: tingly feet, tingly hands, numb lips—or something else. The only way to find out was to climb into the chamber and “fly” to thirty thousand feet, lose oxygen, and see what happened.
In the chamber, each of us had an oxygen mask available, but we ascended without it. At thirty thousand feet we were told to pay attention to our symptoms, and when we knew them, to put on our oxygen masks. My lips and fingers tingled. This was my coal miner’s bird in the cage.
Then, with oxygen masks on, we were asked for a volunteer—someone to demonstrate what happens when a pilot tries to perform duties without adequate oxygen. I volunteered. I was given a board with square holes and round holes, and, yes, pegs that were round and square. I was asked to remove my mask. I did, and in about thirty seconds I was asked to put the pegs where they belonged, one every second. No problem at first, but then for some reason the people sitting there with masks on were laughing at me. What could possibly be so funny? The peg I held was just dandy for the hole I was staring at, wasn’t it?
I was asked to put my mask back on, and I did.
I T WAS NOT UNUSUAL
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