Training development in England had now reached a point at which elements already recognized but not hitherto fully appreciated were proved to be invaluable. Their use was aimed primarily at the attaining of instinctive flying by the pupil. The means by which this was achieved, the consequent effect on the instructor, and the reduced fatalities during instruction are sufficiently notable to call for mention.

The product has been the active-service pilot as distinguished from the peace pilot—two vastly different individuals.

The actions and reactions of this system are in general psychological. They begin with the assumption that since fear is almost invariably of the unknown, once the latter is eliminated fear should be non-existent. The approach is, therefore, by way of wiping out ignorance concerning the air and the machine in which the pupil and instructor ascend, and illustrating, while in flight, the simplicity of those laws which are fundamental to all good pilots and machines.

This, while seemingly simple enough, involves an ultimate strain on the instructor. His pupils are, it is true, limited to six, but into each of these he is expected to pour the sum of his knowledge and skill. He is personally responsible for their crashes. At first blush apparently unjust, this resolves itself into an absolutely fair deduction from the principles of the system. A crash by a pupil—engine failure and aeroplane failure being too infrequent to alter the premise—is considered as due to an imperfection of training. At some stage in the course some indispensable point must have been slighted or overlooked. Hence the pupil’s inability to meet the emergency.

Character—that subtle union of temperament and disposition, the increasing air sense, the delicacy of control, the spontaneous response, the nameless faculty by which the pupil becomes, as it were, welded to the machine which in turn replies to the subconscious movement of hand and foot—the study of all these are found in the Armour Heights system, which itself is based on an admirable method originated at Gosport, in England. The pupil is expected to do the flying, and even in an emergency the instructor does not assume control until it is demonstrated that the pupil is literally out of his depth.

And always by telephone or tube sounds back from the front seat the guiding voice, encouraging, reproving, suggesting and probing the mental process of the pupil at the moment. Take, for instance, the spin, that plunge easy to commence and equally easy to terminate. The machine slows, stalls, dips and dives earthward. At the second spin comes steadily in the word of experience—“stick a little forward—not too much—right rudder—hold her there—that’s right—easy isn’t it?—feel all right?—let’s do it again—put her in yourself this time.” With such an “entente cordiale” as this, it is clear why the words “danger” and “nerves” are barred from the instructor’s vocabulary, and the terms “safe” and “dangerous” give place to “right” and “wrong.” The pupil has obtained the sense of relationship between himself and his machine.

It is admitted that the art, of instruction is difficult from the lecture platform, but how much more arduous when weaving circles at 5,000 feet, with an invisible tyro in control. Confidence is born quickly in these high altitudes, but since the system looks to the instructor, rather than to the pupil, the strain on the former is commensurate with the added advantages extended to the latter.

Herewith a few excerpts from an admirable syllabus issued by the Air Ministry in this connection. They are curt, valuable and saturated with experience:—

“Put the pupil in the pilot’s seat from the very beginning.

“Control your pupils in the air entirely by word of mouth through the speaking tube.

“When a pupil makes a mistake in the air let him first exhaust his own ideas of how to put things right if height permits.

“Make it a point of honour to allow pupils full control, except, of course, in cases of emergency.

“Your greatest duty is to inspire your pupils with confidence in themselves, in their machines and in you.

“If the weather is too bad for instruction, you should fly yourself for the sake of the spirit it produces.

“Every time a pupil does something in the air he has never done before he increases his confidence.

“Instructors are responsible for the crashes of their own pupils, and the saving of a crash compensates for any amount of additional dual control.

“Have all your machines rigged properly, and fly them frequently yourself to see that none get into a bad condition.

“The time available during training is ample for a pupil to be made a real pilot, provided he makes up his mind never to waste time in the air and is taught, not left, to teach himself.”

The progress of instruction is roughly indicated below, this sequence of manoeuvres having been developed in Canada to suit local conditions and the general type of pupil available:—

Demonstrate effect of the controls.
Flying straight, level and climbing.
Turns.
Misuse of controls in turns.
Difference in control with the engine off.
Glide.
Stalling.
Slow flying.
Gliding turns.
Taking-off into wind.
Landing into wind.
Approach.
Spinning, etc.

The pupil now goes solo.

Steeper turns, with and without engine.
Climbing turns.
Flatter glide.
Side-slipping.
Taking-off and landing across wind.
Landing on a mark.
Forced landings.
Higher manoeuvring.

From the moment of introduction of the Armour Heights system, a modification of the training of instructors became necessary. The psychological phase of the new method demanded recognition, and steps were taken forthwith to analyze and increase the personnel of aerial tuition at all units. The School of Special Flying resolved itself into a station of five products, as indicated by the graph given herewith. The value of each class to the Royal Air Force, Can., has been inestimable.

The crashes resulting in fatalities showed, under the new Armour Heights system, a notable decrease as evidenced by the chart on page 218. To realize the full significance of this chart, it is necessary to remember that the pilot who is an “Armour Heights graduate” has performed in the air every manoeuvre of which his machine is capable. He has solved all aerial problems. Whatever protective agencies human skill and experience could formulate were put into operation, and the record in respect of fatalities is so low as to be a tribute to the ceaseless care exercised.

And if it should be asked why those phases of the system which may be termed its humanities are of so recent development, the answer lies in the fact that what is termed “air sense” called for an investigation of personal phenomena in respect of which science had not a single landmark. Men watched the bird curving its wings to invisible gales, and hazarded numberless theories. Early machines were tricky compared to their successors. They lacked present efficiency, reliability and simplicity. The sum total of the powers of the pilot were busy meeting mechanical difficulties, and there was little opportunity for excursions into the psychology of the new art. The honour of service is equal, but the pilots sent overseas by the R.A.F., Can., in 1918, have in comparison with the pilots of 1914 a vastly superior technical and mental training. They have advanced step by step with the world’s knowledge of the air.

To reduce it to a sentence, the system of to-day turns out a pilot who is subdivided, so to speak, into two sections. One is subjective and does the flying. The other is objective, free for retreat or pursuit, defence or attack or any of the countless situations of aerial warfare which call for swift and fearless action.