Wingman

The sun has only just risen over the horizon on a cool May morning as I push through the door of a local coffee shop.  There's a jingle of a bell as I walk into the warmth and light.  As you would expect, the air smells of fresh coffee grounds and warm pastry - an invigorating scent given I've only just risen myself.

I order my usual morning brew with two milk and one cream - repeating it twice because it's apparently an odd request - and, cradling the cup in both hands, shuffle over to a table in the corner where my two compatriots are huddled around an aviation chart.  I sit down and take that first tentative sip.  They often mistakenly add sugar but no, this cup is as advertised.
I look down at the chart unfolded before us.  I love maps - all maps really - perhaps because of the promise of adventure they represent or the artistry lovingly invested in depicting three dimensions in only two.  I suppose I'm not unique among pilots as this is a sentiment often shared, albeit in whispers and somewhat in embarrassment.
The chart before us has seen heavy use.  Its corners are curled and its creases are prominent and deep.  It has helped chart many flights as evidenced by the faint remnant pencil marks of course and drift lines, checkpoints and alternates.  I know, without looking, that it is certainly out of date and therefore its use likely runs contrary to one regulation or another.  Today's flight, as most of mine are, is a local one and we know the airspace well.  Truth be told, open cockpit flying with a chart is comically nightmarish and I only use one if the territory is unfamiliar.  As such, our veteran chart's role is to help plan out the morning's activities rather than to guide us. 
We use our coffee cups as paperweights.  Mist rises from the face of each mug as our movements - poking a town with a finger or using a fingernail to trace a course - cause ripples in the liquid.  As the level of coffee in our mugs drops, we sink deeper into briefing this morning's formation flight - rendezvous point, frequencies, speeds, join procedure, break-off contingencies, safety considerations and so on. 
Once all parties are satisfied, the final dregs are drained and we trudge together into the brightening morning - unique among our peers by promising to meet again in the sky.
An hour later, the Smith and I are clattering east across Orleans - the buckles of my leather helmet slapping against my cheeks and the wind rough against my face.  My goggles are up and my eyes are narrow - searching for my friends.  Their mount is a Cessna 172, white with green and blue cheat lines, and it should be at my ten o'clock position by about a mile.
After some searching, I pick out the shape of the Cessna.  It's surprising as I've been staring straight at it for the last several moments.
"Tally-ho!" I joyously bellow into the current of the air rushing by - head thrown back, grinning like a fool.  I've always wanted to say that on an open channel.  One day I might work up the courage.


 Taken on July 14, 2010, this might be one of my favourite pictures.  Myself and Garrett Watkiss in Grob 115C C-GKPB as number 2 with Mark Psutka in Citabria C-FTSP as number 3.  The lead ship is a Cessna 172.  Within months of this picture being taken, all three of us had moved on to other flying jobs.  (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

I key my mic and ask for my leader to slow down and begin a slight turn to the right so that I may close the distance.  A few minutes later, I slide into echelon right position - to the right and slightly behind the Cessna.  From this point onward, we will be one.
This business is life and death and our currency in the exchange is trust.  The leader trusts his wingman to not chew his tail off and the wingman trusts his leader to not lead them into the ground.  My eyes do not leave the Cessna.  My hands and feet work the stick, rudder and throttle to keep the Smith balanced in position.  Turns to the inside are relatively easier - requiring the wingman to slow down - while outside turns are much harder, as the wingman must put his boots to the flanks of his mount to keep pace.

Another shot from the same series.  Note the Grob's canopy latch is open to allow greater airflow.  I remember it as a very warm day.  (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

My early experience with formation flying was with two highly experienced pilot chums of mine - and almost always as lead, which is arguably the easier role.  In recent years, I'd acquired training on flying the wing position.

It's no secret that I've been obsessed with airplanes and aviation in general since before I could say so but viewing another airplane in flight is nothing short of surreal.  On the ground, they're simply a machine but once in the air, even a old girl of homely countenance becomes quite the belle - a carrier of dreams.  From the ground, two ships in formation appear held together by a string - rigid and unmoving relative one another.  In the air, the opposite is in fact true.  They glide along the invisible current of air, bobbing up and down and rolling right to left like two small sailboats racing across the sea.




Closing in on the lead. Judging from the farm at lower left of frame, this was taken just south of Cumberland. (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

A still frame of FAM, flown by Charlie Miller and in her original livery, forming up on a Piper Cub in southwestern Ontario, 1978.  This is a still from an old 8mm film found by Gordon Skerratt.  (Photo Courtesy: Gordon Skerratt)

And, of course, there's a thin line between fascination and terror.  My first experience seeing another airplane in such close proximity to mine, and by blood chilling accident, happened nearly 15 years ago at an airport not far from here.  As a result of a series of unhappy coincidences and oversights by the flight service specialist, the other pilot and myself, a Diamond Katana ended up flying its circuit inside mine - so that we both turned final in formation and completely unaware of the other.  When I did finally spy the interloper, he was to my right and slightly below, in a gentle right bank.  It was beautiful to behold - white with blue trim, propeller as a translucent disc, exhaust pipes belching, rivets forming neat little lines, a smudge of oil. 

It felt as though an eternity had passed before the tide of terror began to rise.  I turned left, away from the danger, and executed two full circles.  I called the tower to let them know and sounded calm enough.  Out of the second orbit, I rejoined the approach and landed without incident.  The plan had been to taxi off, shut down and allow my backseat passenger to ride up front for the return leg to Rockcliffe.  I barely made it to the bathroom before retching until my insides ached.  It took a quarter of an hour for my hands to stop shaking.


One of my favourite pictures of the Smith in flight - this is near Wendover on the Ottawa River.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

Hundreds of hours later and with now with well-coordinated purpose, flying this close to another airplane is both a wondrous and heavy business.  The concept itself is beautifully simple.  I've lined up the Cessna's nose wheel and right main and kept them in position by small adjustments in throttle and equally precise and constant movements of stick and rudder.  As long as these features remain motionless, I know that my position relative to the leader has not changed. 

Line abreast right with the Gatineau Hills in the background.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

Formation flying was born in the Great War when larger, slower and poorly armed reconnaissance planes were shepherded along by a more agile and better armed fighter.  In time, as tactics became more refined, fighter pilots came to learn that flying in coordinated groups offered them both better protection and greater offensive capability - in short, a formation cut down their losses and increased their victories.  Given these machines lacked radios, communication was carried out with pre-determined hand signals or movements of the airplane itself, such as a wag of the rudder or the rocking of wings.  Recognizing one another was not a difficult task either - the Allies tied streamers to the struts of aircraft flown by flight leaders while the Central Powers, led by Germany, allowed their pilots to paint their ships in loud, heraldic schemes.
In the Second World War, the British favoured the three-ship, v-shaped vic which looked great in parade fly-pasts but had little tactical advantages.  The Americans opted for the four-ship diamond formation, placing the least experienced pilot in the number 4 tail-end-Charlie position - which did little for their already limited life expectancy.  The German Condor Legion developed the finger-four - so called because, when viewed from above, it resembled the four fingertips of the right hand - during the Spanish Civil War and the Luftwaffe used it with continued success into the great conflict that followed.  By war's end, nearly all air forces were using the finger-four against them.

Following the war, formation flying was employed in aerobatics - perhaps the ultimate pinnacle of high-stakes precision flying.

Showing off her "clean" biplane lines.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

The Cessna and the Smith are employing the basic two-ship element of leader and wingman.  We are not ideally suited dancing partners as the bigger Cessna, while seemingly ungainly, is the faster aircraft.  Her pilot has throttled back to slow cruise so that the draggy biplane clinging to her wing can do so without straining her own engine.  As my eyes are fixed solidly upon my leader, who remains relatively steady, I'm not immediately aware that we are hurtling across the countryside at appreciable speed.  This is why any changes must be predictably and smoothly executed by the lead pilot.  If, at any time, they are lulled by the flying into thinking they are quite alone, the results could be catastrophic. 
At times, I am vaguely aware of where we are by the glimpse of a familiar island in the river or a quilt-like patchwork of fields I know to be near a certain town or another.  I am, however, largely ignorant of our position until the leader calls to spread out the formation.  I slide away to the right, perhaps doubling my distance from the lead, and am finally in a position to have a look around.  We're south-east of Orleans, west of Navan, and heading east.
We've been flying for nearly an hour and I've settled into enjoying the close quarters work.  I feel similar to how I did when I first started learning aerobatics.  The promise of this new challenge and skill building is as invigorating as this morning's cup of coffee.

Waving goodbye with Orleans in the background.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

The Cessna waggles her wings and breaks away to the south for home.  I raise my gloved had in farewell and make a slight course correction to the right for Rockcliffe.  We promise to meet later to debrief the flight, perhaps over lunch or a second cup of coffee.
I watch the Cessna fade away in the murk lying upon the horizon, silently wish them a happy return and turn my attention to my own.

Breaking off.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)