T-37 trainers, Laredo, TX, 1966 or 1967
The T-37 intermediate trainer was a small, two-engine jet (see photos at left). Other pilots warned me that “things really happen fast” in the cockpit, but I found it at first very docile and easy to fly—the perfect jet trainer because it was relatively cheap and fuel efficient, yet sturdy enough that there was almost no way to hurt the airplane or yourself unless you hit something (either the ground or another airplane). It was fully aerobatic and was approved for spins, both normal and inverted—in other words, more fun than anything I’d ever done with my clothes on.
T-37 trainers flying in formation. Photo taken during pilot training in Laredo.
I was assigned to a wonderful instructor, Maj. John Schattel (see photo below). The airplane quickly became comfortable to me, and the whole T-37 program was, for me, a piece of cake. But I did find myself in a tight spot now and then. On one solo flight, for instance, an engine bearing failed at a high power setting while I was nearly vertical going into a loop. The engine seized up instantly, dropping from several thousand RPMs to zero in less than one full rotation. To say that the airplane shuddered is an understatement. In fact, I thought I’d had a mid-air collision with another aircraft. I immediately aborted the loop, leveled off, and looked for the plane I’d hit.
Maj. John Schattel, superb T-37 flight instructor, Laredo, TX, 1966 or 1967. Note the cigar in his right hand.
After determining that all the parts of the aircraft were intact and that I’d experienced an engine failure rather than a collision, I declared an emergency, as required by regulation, and returned to base, gliding in for an otherwise uneventful single-engine emergency landing. The fire department was, of course, on the scene for my arrival. A mechanic later told me that the airframe of the trainer I’d been flying was so badly twisted that it would never fly again.
On another occasion, I received an engine-fire warning in flight and shut down the engine according to procedure. I was flying solo, as I had been during the bearing seizure. Once again, I declared an emergency and returned for another cut-and-dried landing. As required by regulations, the fire department had once again come to meet me, the firefighters decked out in full regalia, with equipment and hoses at the ready. Turns out there was no engine fire—just a faulty warning switch.
On all engine starts, a mechanic stands by at the nose of the aircraft with a large, wheel-mounted fire extinguisher in order to douse any fire that flares up during engine start. One day I was preparing for a flight with my instructor, Maj. Schattel. The mechanic was leaning against the fire extinguisher, nearly dozing off. As the engines powered up, his eyes widened, his mouth gaped open, and he began backing away and gesticulating frantically. Then he turned tail and ran!
Maj. Schattel and I leaped out of the aircraft and dashed toward the fire extinguisher as fast as we could, which really isn’t that fast when you’re strapped in by a 5-point harness (seatbelt) and wearing a parachute and an oxygen mask. By the time we reached the extinguisher, the fire had spent itself. Apparently the engine had torched—an unusual but not dangerous event in which a few tablespoons of fuel collect in the tailpipe during shutdown and ignite during the next start. Just a little fuel makes an impressive flash, but it’s only momentary. In any case—you guessed it—the fire department had arrived on the scene, sirens wailing. The firemen looked a little crestfallen that all the hoopla had turned out to be just another false alarm. “Well, Lieutenant,” Maj Schattel wisecracked, “You must be on a first-name basis with all these guys by now, huh?”
