North Star Over My Shoulder by Bob Buck

Author:Bob Buck
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

WE FLEW TO WRIGHT FIELD, which was the center of army aviation research and development—an exciting place. It was November 13, 1943, and my diary notes, “Saw my first helicopter fly—very impressive. Captain Vavarina, who’s flown it, says it’s quite difficult to fly.”

The army insisted that we go through a high-altitude indoctrination to prepare for flying in a B-17, which could go very high. This involved our going into a chamber where the pressure would be reduced, reducing the oxygen, simulating the effect of high altitudes. We were briefed about the chamber, how we’d be sitting in it with an instructor beside us, all of us wearing oxygen masks, and then we’d remove our masks; without supplemental oxygen, you were supposed to keep writing your name until the writing became a scrawl and then, when you were on the verge of passing out, the instructor would slap the mask back on you and you’d be revived. At 35,000 feet it took fifty-six seconds for me to reach that point.

We were strongly advised to signal the instructor if we developed any pain in joints such as the knees, shoulders, and knuckles. This would indicate that a person was subject to the bends—much as a diver can suffer when coming up from water depths. Having such pain would disqualify you from flying.

They also raised the chamber atmosphere above 40,000 feet and demonstrated pressure breathing. This is when oxygen is forced, via the mask, into your mouth and nose because there isn’t enough pressure above 40,000 feet for the lungs to absorb it, so it has to be forced in. This is tricky breathing, as you have to be conscious of every breath.

During the tests I noticed Lawton grimacing, and Dowd’s eyes, which showed over the top of his mask, were telling me he wasn’t happy. The altitude was finally lowered and the tests were completed. We all passed. But later, away from any army people, Dowd let out a whistle: “Man, my finger joints were killing me, I couldn’t have taken much more of that.” Lawton joined him, saying a knee was causing him severe pain, but he’d held on. They were too eager to be a part of the program to show any pain and be disqualified.

Even with that out of the way, the army did not simply hand me a B-17, but insisted I first be checked out in the airplane. So off I went with Captain Vavarina, did the usual stalls, steep turns, cutting an engine, then another, making landings. It felt a lot like the Stratoliner, which, of course, was its first cousin. My notes remind me, “It has to be manhandled when two engines are out on one side.” After two hours Vavarina said I was okay.

Now the army and its red tape stepped in, as Vavarina’s boss said I was required to have ten hours “instruction” before being officially checked out. Vavarina argued with him, said it was silly and that I was okay to go, and he carried his argument up higher, to a colonel, who said a two-engine landing would be enough.

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