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     Scotty and I finished ground school - passing all our tests - then spent a couple days on the cockpit mockup; drilling on the checklists and learning the location of all items. 

     Following this we embarked on our instrument flight simulator training.  I’ll never forget that first night we sleepily inserted ourselves inside the 747 simulator – a life-sized, computer-driven replica of the cockpit - at one A.M. in the morning.

     Why so late, dear reader?  On account of only TWA crews got “banker’s hours” (9 to 5) in the simulator.  All other crews from contracted airlines got the shit hours.

     As I slid into the right seat – dazzled by all the lighted instruments, knobs, dials and switches - I frankly discovered it to be fairly overwhelming.  Especially as I had only studied paper versions - and a crummy cockpit mockup - of these items that didn’t do them justice.  Our TWA instructor fully appreciated this, and wisely told us to relax and study our surroundings for a while.  Thankfully, I did just that – exploring and touching what all this important stuff actually looked and felt like in real life.

     It was all going well until I happened to look outside the cockpit.  Whenever one uses a flight simulator, one always finds it’s programed for nighttime.  The instructors deliberately do this as it’s more disorientating for the pilots – requiring them to heavily rely on their instrument flying to maintain situational awareness.

     So naturally, when I glanced outside, it was night and I observed the lit taxiway that we’d be taking to the runway. 

     At which point, dear reader, I became alarmed!  Why?  Because the taxiway was too small!  It was scarcely half the width of what I was used to seeing from the 707.  There must be something wrong with this damned simulator!  Mother Mary on a motorbike!  Why is that taxiway so miniscule?

     I was about to mention this to the instructor – which would have made a total fool of myself – when I took a deep breath, settled down, and used that grey lump that’s roughly three feet above my ass.  At which point, it gradually dawned on me that it was my rump causing the problem.  In the 707 I sat closer to the ground - in the 747 my rump was currently 30 feet off the ground – hence everything appeared half as big outside.

     Now I have a new problem, dear reader.  How the Devil am I going to find the runway on landing, with those massive 16 main wheels, at an incredible distance below me and at an even more impossible distance behind me?  In a word: teamwork.

     Thank God for the flight engineer.  As it was his job on landing approach to monitor the radar altimeter.  This instrument bounced radio signals off the ground – giving us the exact height of our main wheels above the ground in feet. 

     Enabling the flight engineer to call out the last 50 feet: “Fifty...forty...thirty...twenty...ten...”

     When I heard “ten,” I’d smoothly close all four throttles to idle, while mashing the trim switch aft on the control wheel with my thumb.  The trim switch adjusted the horizontal stabilizer (tailplane) giving a slight nose up pitch.  Negating the need to haul back on the control wheel for a flare – which could cause one to float down the runway; wasting hundreds of feet of precious runway unnecessarily.

     When I felt the rear portion of the main 16 wheels (with my rump) grease onto the runway - the spoilers would automatically activate (panels on top of the wing that rose up and “spoiled” all lift) - causing the entire aircraft’s weight to sink squarely onto the main wheels.

     At the same instant, I’d grasp the smaller, secondary throttles - mounted in front of the main throttles - and smoothly pull them up and back.  All four engines would then roar as they produced reverse thrust – creating a braking action. 

     Touching down at 146 knots (168 mph) at a max landing weight of 564,000 lbs (we always used max weights in the simulator) demanded we get this oversized puppy slowed down in a hurry – before running out of runway!

     We would then rapidly decelerate, as I gently lowered the nose wheels to the runway with the control wheel.  When the other pilot called out “80 knots,” this was my cue to come out of reverse thrust, closing the secondary throttles to idle with my left hand, while transferring my right hand from the control wheel to the nose wheels’ hydraulic steering tiller – next to my right knee.

     Oh yes, dear reader, at last co-pilots had their own steering tiller on the 747!  Giving them power over the whole enchilada – taxiing out for takeoff – or taxiing in after landing.  Finally having this ability to run the entire show – comparable to a captain – I found exhilarating!  Fueling my megalomania.

     Keeping the pair of nose wheels on the runway centerline with the tiller, I’d then gently apply the wings’ and body gear’s wheel brakes.  Sliding both feet up to the top of the rudder pedals, I’d apply smooth, even toe pressure. 

     My left toes controlling eight hydraulic wheel brakes on the 747’s left side – while my right toes controlled eight hydraulic wheel brakes on the 747’s right side.  Thus the emphasis on “even toe pressure.”

     When I was an ankle-biter, dear reader - wiggling my toes in bath water – who knew, one day, they’d control such humongous amounts of hydraulic power to brake monster-sized wheels.  This is why it’s pounded into pilots, from day one, to slide their toes down to the bottom of the rudder pedals before takeoff or landing.  I can hear my fire-breathing flight instructor now: “Stay off the goddamned brakes!”  Why?  So when you need them - they’ll always be there – and not burned up someplace behind you!

     And, while we’re on the subject of landing, let me impart an important lesson the 707 taught me regarding the landing approach.  By the time a pilot descends to the last 1,000 feet of altitude, he must always be in a stabilized approach mode: gear down and locked, full flaps down, on the localizer and glide slope, with the correct landing airspeed and rate of descent nailed.  If not.  Go around and try again.

     Landing airspeed, or “Vref,” being the most critical, the 707 taught me the following technique, which never let me down on the 747.  Instead of jockeying all four throttles (increasing or decreasing thrust on all four engines) I’d only use the two center throttles (for engines Two and Three) to fine-tune the airspeed.

     Inside the large, circular indicated airspeed instrument, there was a second, smaller, clock-like instrument that showed one-knot of speed – from one to ten.  When I obtained the correct landing airspeed, I wanted to stop that one-knot indicator from increasing or decreasing.  I did this with the center two throttles – using light pressures fore or aft – in fact, if you watched my hand, you couldn’t detect any movement at all.  The pressures I applied were that imperceptible.  Making my airspeed control rock-solid with minimal effort.

     Throughout my sojourn on the 707, and 747, I’d observe other pilots sweat and curse.  While vainly attempting to control landing airspeed with ham-fisted jockeying of all four throttles.  A whole lot of unnecessary work. 

     Sadistically, I’d chuckle to myself, dear reader, never revealing my secret.  Helicopter pilots are like that – they develop an extremely light touch (making them excellent lovers) - along with a sadistic sense of humor.  Beware of them.

     Alright, dear reader, enough of this technical bullshit (and thank you so much for your patience) let’s get on with the story!

     Thanks to our three years’ experience on the 707, Scotty and I passed the 747 flight simulator training with (pardon the pun) flying colors.  We received our final simulator check-ride, from TWA’s Check-Captain H. Vandermeer, on 15th March, 1983.

     Vandermeer possessed a thick Dutch accent, dear reader, and truly had his ducks in a row.  Making me wonder what his story was – had I perhaps encountered the real “Flying Dutchman?”  On his days off did he roam the world in a crew-less, ghostly 747?

      

     Gathering up our TWA graduating certificates and training records, we returned to Jeddah ASAP.

     After a one day ground school, at SAUDIA’s Training Center, on cockpit “differences” between TWA’s 747s and SAUDIA’s 747-168s – they subsequently let us have a crack at the actual airplane.  On 28^th March, 1983, Scotty and I were required to demonstrate three takeoffs and landings, before we could begin line training.

     At last getting my grubby, fat helicopter hands on a genuine 747, I made a startling discovery – it was far easier to fly than the computerized flight simulator.  It was so massive, heavy and powerful that when you set up the correct pitch and throttle settings – she gave you the exact airspeed you wanted – and kept it there regardless of how rough or turbulent the sea of air was.  It was similar to driving a stretched Cadillac limo with all the bells and whistles.  Plus, due to its extraordinary built in redundancy, it would be the safest aircraft I would ever fly.

     Instantaneously I fell in love, dear reader, and have been faithful ever since.

     Upon completing my three “bounces” round the pea patch – without further ado - I was assigned a Line Training Captain.

     And here’s where the honeymoon ended, dear reader.

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