Aircraft carrier training in World War II

From Norman Hanson’s Carrier Pilot:

After training on American aircraft, it was now necessary to make a few minor adjustments to the mechanics of flying. Instead of applying hydraulic brakes with the upper part of the rudder pedals, we now operated air brakes with a lever incorporated in the joystick. The engine power gauge was no longer calibrated in ‘inches of mercury’; on British aircraft the measurement was in ‘pounds of boost’. (Both systems, incidentally, gave an indication of the pressure of the combustible air/ petrol mixture being forced through the carburettor venturi.) The ‘turn-and-bank’ indicator was no longer ‘needle-and-ball’. Now it comprised two needles.

A deck-landing must be safe, slow and in a ‘nose-up, tail-down’ attitude, primarily to ensure a slow approach and also to facilitate the picking-up of an arrestor wire by the aircraft’s arrestor hook. Approaching to land in this attitude calls for a considerable amount of engine power, maintained until the last moment when the batting officer gives the mandatory signal—CUT!—by crossing the bats before his face. There were, of course, no arrestor wires on the runways on which we practised; but there was an area marked approximately to the length of a carrier’s flight-deck on which landings are made. Into this area the instructor aimed to bring us to touch-down. His signals were simple enough to follow: Bats held horizontally: ‘You’re doing fine—just keep it like that.’ Bats held upwards in a V pattern: ‘You’re too low—put on more throttle to gain height.’ Bats held downwards in an inverted V: ‘Now you’re too high—reduce throttle a bit.’ Both bats rotated: ‘You’re becoming too slow—put on more urge!’ One bat held out, the other concealed behind his back: ‘You’re too fast—go easy on the throttle!’ Left arm raised 45 degrees above the horizontal, right arm lowered: ‘You’re not lined up on the deck—come to port!’ Right arm raised 45 degrees above the horizontal, left arm lowered: ‘You’re too far to port—come to starboard!’ Bats crossed before the face: ‘Cut the throttle!’

The drill was quite simple. Argus had six arrestor wires strung across the after end of the deck. She had no ‘island’ in the accepted sense, only a rather comical structure somewhat reminiscent of a submarine’s conning tower at the forward port side of the deck, which could be raised or lowered at will. She had no crash barriers. Instead, standing near the island was a very brave young officer who vigorously waved a red flag if an aircraft failed to engage any of the wires with its arrestor hook. The pilot was thus energetically exhorted to open the throttle and take off again, to make another circuit and another approach to the deck. We were each to do six landings, preceded by two dummy runs with the wires in the down position and with arrestor hooks up. The batsman would bring us on as though for a normal landing and, at the last moment, would then wave us off. After the second of these dummy runs, if satisfied with his performance, the pilot would waggle his wings. Thus he signified that his next approach would be ‘for real’ with hook down, to be batted into the wires for a landing. Jimmy Robertson and Bill Laidlaw duly did their six in copybook style without any trouble. Then Johnny Adams climbed out of the ‘nets’ and walked across to the Fulmar, where a fitter was reloading the magazine with starter cartridges. Johnny was resplendent in a new suit of flying overalls—black, with Royal Navy buttons. It was very much the ‘in’ thing at the time and had been duly admired as it was the first one we had seen. He climbed into the cockpit. His two dummy runs were classic. He waggled his wings as he went over the bows for the third time and we saw him drop his hook as he came down wind on his circuit. He had less than two minutes to live. In the last 200 yards to the deck, he drifted to port ever so slightly. The batsman slanted his bats to correct him, more and more energetically as Johnny failed to react. As the aircraft came in over the side of the deck and supported only by fresh air, the batsman dropped for his life—and we, standing in the nets, dropped with him. The port wheel went into the nets, and the Fulmar, at about 65 knots, slewed to port and fell into the sea. As she went, we could see Johnny making the greatest and last mistake of his life; he was casting off his harness and climbing out of the cockpit. Then he and the Fulmar were gone. An attendant corvette came up at the rush and hove-to over the spot. Only Johnny’s helmet rose to the surface—nothing else. He had been married just three days earlier.

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