"Okay. See that tree out there?" The orientation instructor's gravelly voice hissed in my earphones. I was finally getting my chance. The instructor held the H-23 Hiller trainer in a hover in the middle of a ten-acre field.
"Yes, sir," I said, squeezing the intercom switch on the cyclic stick.
"Well, I'm gonna take care of the rest of the controls, and all I want you to do is to keep this bird pointed in the direction of that tree." He jutted his chin forward. I nodded. "You got that?"
"Yes, sir." My senses were overwhelmed by the clamor and bouncing and vibrations of the H-23. The blades whirled crazily overhead; parts studied in ground school in static drawings now spun relentlessly and vibrated, powered by the roaring, growling engine behind my back. All the parts wanted to get their own way, but somehow the instructor was controlling them, averaging their various motions into a position three feet above the grass. We floated above ground, gently rising and falling on an invisible sea.

"Okay, you've got it," my instructor said. I pushed first one and then the other of the spongy pedals, trying to turn the machine while the instructor controlled the cyclic and collective. All I had to do was point the helicopter at a tree. The tree swung widly one way and then the other.
"You see the tree I'm talking about'"
"Yes, sir."
"Well try to keep us pointed that way, if you don't mind." This instructor, like all the IP's in the primary phase of instruction, was a civilian who'd been in the military. The fact that they were now civilians did not cramp their cynical teaching style.

I concentrated even harder. What could be wrong with me? I already knew how to fly airplanes. I thoroughly understood the theory of controlling helicopters. I knew what the controls did. Why couldn't I keep that goddamn tree in front of us? Swinging back and forth in narrowing arcs, learning to anticipate the mushy response in the pedals, I finally succeeded in keeping the tree in front of us most of the time, plus or minus twenty degrees anyway.
"Not bad."
"Thank you, sir."

 

"What I'm going to do is to take all the controls again" - the IP put his feet on the pedals, and the tree immediately popped to a stable position dead ahead of us - "and then let you try your luck with the collective. Just the collective. Try to keep us about this high off the ground. Okay?"
"Yes, sir."
"You got it." This phrase always preceded the transfer of control.
"I've got it." The moment I grabbed the collective stick in my left hand, the helicopter, the same helicopter that had been sitting placidly at three feet, lurched to five feet. It seemed to push itself up. I pushed dow to hard to correct. We strained up against the harness as the ship dropped. I panicked and overcontrolled again as the ground rushed up. I pulled up too hard, causing us to pop back up to six or seven feet.
"About three feet would be fine."
"Yes, sir." Sweat dripped off me as I fought to achieve a stable altitude above the ground. It wasn't a matter of just putting the collective in one position and leaving it there; constant corrections had to be made. After a few minutes of yo-yo-ing up and down I was able to keep the machine about where the IP wanted it.
"That's real good. You're a natural, kid."
"Thank you, sir."

Text from 'Chickenhawk' by Robert Mason, ISBN 0-14-303571-1
http://www.robertcmason.com

 

1) After the pedals and the collective, what comes next in learning to fly a helicopter?

2) Write a short summary how a chopper is flown.

3) How do you proceed to obtain a civilian helicopter pilot's license in Switzerland? How much will it cost you?

4) Obviously, the IP (instructor pilot) used a cynical teaching style. What better style could he use to teach flying? What do you think was the reason he behaved cynical?