This article was first published in the Australian Safety Digest.
he scenario. Both pilots were at Horsham to compete in the annual ‘Horsham Week’ soaring competitions. At the time of the accident the two aircraft were at approximately 5000 feet above sea level. VH-HDY was flying towards Horsham on a constant heading of approximately 330 degrees. The aircraft was in a descent and the pilot estimated he was about 1000 feet below the cloudbase. Cloud cover was reported as 6/8 of cumulus.
VH-KYO was flying in the opposite direction, also on a constant heading at the same altitude. The pilot of HDY reported that he had just completed a scan of his instruments when he looked up to see the other glider head–on. The pilot of KYO reported that he had also looked up from concentration on another task, to sight the other aircraft head–on at the last moment. Neither pilot had time to take any avoiding action.
The right wing of HDY hit the nose/cockpit area of KYO, smashing the canopy, dislodging the instrument panel and damaging the nose. HDY lost part of its right wing, became uncontrollable and the pilot took to his parachute. The pilot of KYO received injuries to his right foot and face in the collision but was able to maintain control of the aircraft and fly it back to Horsham where he made a safe landing in a paddock beside the aerodrome.
Both aircraft were operating in a VFR see and be seen environment. In this accident both aircraft were approaching head–on, both were gliders with thin wings and narrow fuselages, both were essentially white and both were against a background of whitish coloured cloud. Such circumstances would have made it very difficult for either pilot to sight the other’s aircraft.
Account of Duncan Ferguson
It was to be the first day of competition for Horsham Week. Since there had been a lot of rain overnight, the competition organizers decided to cancel the day rather than risk outlandings in boggy paddocks. I decided to take the opportunity to further familiarize myself with VH–KYO, the LS–4 I had hired. I launched to 2000 feet at about 4:45 pm local time. The surface wind was about 15 knots SW and soaring conditions looked good with 4/8 cumulus at about 6500 feet. I quickly climbed to around 6000 feet and about 20 minutes after launch decided to follow one of the cloudstreets that led south towards the Grampians. The street was working well and I was able to maintain height without turning between 5000 and 6000 feet as I headed south.
I reached a point about ten kilometres south of the aerodrome, cruising at about 90 knots when I collided head–on with the ASW– 20B. I had seen him only just before the impact. He was coming straight at me — his fuselage slightly to the right of mine, wings and pitch level. I had no time to take avoiding action.
Not surprisingly, the impact was violent but brief. My first reaction was disbelief. The canopy had gone, the upper half of the nose of my glider had been destroyed and the instrument panel had been bent towards me and across to my left. I was aware that I was injured but I felt alert.
With considerable damage to the glider and the airflow blasting my face my first decision was to jump and use the parachute. I quickly released my harness and located the ripcord handle with my right hand — being careful not to pull it at this stage. Since I had plenty of height — about 5500 feet — I took a couple of seconds to tighten the straps on my parachute. I then realized that the glider was still flying wings level but in a slight dive. Although I didn’t really believe it would be controllable, I thought it worth trying with the height in hand.
I took hold of the stick and successfully raised the nose, happy to feel the reducing airflow on my face. The aircraft felt normal so I let go of the stick in order to re–latch the waist straps of the harness. I then systematically tested all the primary controls — elevator, aileron and rudder. All functioned normally, so I flew several gentle ‘S’ turns without incident. I had no instruments but felt this of little concern. I looked at each wing and they looked fine. Since there was no canopy and I only had waist straps on, I was able to sit upright and turn my head to examine the tail. It looked normal except that the Brunswick tube on the fin was bent considerably. This was the only damage I could see outside the cockpit area.
At this stage I decided that a landing might be possible. The only other control I needed for a safe landing was the airbrakes. Not much time had passed so I considered that I still had well over 4000 feet — still plenty of height to jump should the airbrakes cause some failure in the wing. I gently cranked the brakes open and extended them about two–thirds of their limit. Everything felt normal, so I closed them again.
I was then satisfied that the glider was probably capable of being landed; I recognized that it was likely that there would be other damage to the airframe. The only other question was whether I was well enough to carry off a safe landing. I didn’t feel too bad. I knew that there was something wrong with my right leg and foot but I could work the rudder. There was a lot of blood around. My left arm and face were bleeding a lot. My left eye had obviously received a thump because it was already swollen to the point where I couldn’t open it. I could see clearly out of my right eye, taking into account the airflow in my face. I felt around my face and head to see if there were any more serious injuries but found none. I felt alert and reflected on the fact that I was thinking clearly. I committed myself to a landing.
I decided that the safest way to descend was at a low airspeed and without airbrake to put minimum stress on the airframe. Since I would be achieving a reasonable glide angle in this configuration I decided that I may as well head towards the aerodrome.
The single fact that most concerned me was my vision. My good eye (the right one) was being blocked by blood from cuts on my face. A couple of times this completely obscured my vision. I used my left hand and part of my shirt to clean out the eye regularly during the descent.
I tracked well to the east of the city of Horsham and then towards the aerodrome. I could see by judging the angle to the aerodrome that I was going to make it easily. I decided that the landing should be conducted with the main wheel retracted. This would minimize the ground run — thereby eliminating the risk of damage due to loss of control on the ground. I was also concerned that lowering the wheel might cause further strain on the structure with the attendant risk of structural failure.
I decided to land into wind in a paddock immediately adjacent to the runway. I felt that a landing on the duty strip would carry an unnecessary risk of damaging one of the many gliders tied down alongside should I loose control near the ground. I had had a good look at the paddock before takeoff. Ironically, a training glider pilot had asked me whether this particular paddock would be a suitable choice for an outlanding. It was. I felt that a landing in sight of the takeoff area was a priority since I wanted to attract the attention of the people in the area. I knew I would need medical attention and I could alert them to the fact that there was probably another pilot in trouble.
I flew to a point directly downwind of the active touchdown area, arriving at a good height for a long straight–in approach to the paddock. I had a very gentle left turn onto long final. Everything worked well. I left the wheel up and used half airbrake during the first part of the approach. The touchdown was gentle but the ground run was very short. People soon came over to my assistance and called an ambulance.
Account of Bob Irvine
I am a very keen competition glider pilot, and after placing third in the Australian Nationals, I decided to share a glider with the other members of my club in Horsham Week, which is one of the biggest non– championship competitions on the calendar, and competitors vary from beginners to champions. I enjoy both the low–key flying–for–fun atmosphere and the ideal gliding countryside around central Victoria.
On the first day no task was set, due soaking rain and high wind. By afternoon, however conditions had improved, so I launched at about 4 pm and found conditions very good with thermals of 6–800 ft/min to the 6000 foot cloudbase.
I flew south to the Grampians, a mountain range of considerable ruggedness and beauty, some 50 kilometres south of Horsham. Because of the close spacing of the cumulus clouds, I was able to stay high, frequently near the cloudbase and never below 4500 feet. This made it ideal to explore the otherwise forbidding region without the risk of an outlanding. As I approached the mountain peaks surrounding Wartook Reservoir, I deliberately climbed close to cloudbase (6500 feet over the peaks) to keep a healthy safety factor for a glide, if necessary, to the nearest paddocks, 25 kilometres away. This was not needed however; the lift was so regular that I could maintain altitude near the base simply by flying from cloud to cloud and slowing down in the best rising air (dolphining). Thus I made my way back to Mt Stapleton, 33 kilometres from Horsham.
Since I was above 5500 feet at this point, and the countryside steadily fell away to flat farming land, I was in easy gliding range of the Horsham airfield, even allowing for the strong westerly drift. I decided to return to base directly, heading considerably upwind of the now visible airfield in order to counter the drift, frequently looking at my destination as confirmation that the glide angle was satisfactory.
It is useful practise for competition gliding to carry out realistic glides to the airfield from various directions, learning to recognize important landmarks and the general look of the place, so that in actual competition no time is wasted on the “final” glide. If the pilot leaves his last climb with insufficient height and glides down too low before recognizing the need for more height, he may be unable to find more lift and thus be committed to an outlanding, or, in competition, be forced to use “weak” lift and thus waste time gaining the required height. On the other hand, if he leaves with excess height, and fails to recognize this, he will arrive at his goal without having taken advantage of the energy surplus. The correct technique is to start with an excess of height and fly at an appropriately higher airspeed, as the excess height is recognized with greater and greater accuracy, reducing the excess only when the circuit area is reached.
However, I was well over the required height, and making no attempt to fly the correct speed as I approached Horsham town. My memory tells me that I was at about 5000 feet and 70–80 knots. Then, as I lifted my eyes after an instrument scan, I saw another glider, head–on and very close, directly in front of me. I judged it to be just above so pushed the stick hard forward; in what seemed like 2–3 seconds it passed over the top of my cockpit.
I almost had time to think “Missed!” before I heard the bang. My aircraft continued to pitch down into a steep dive — attempts to pull out were quite ineffective and I was experiencing negative ‘g’. I decided there and then that I had no control in pitch and would have to bail out.
I consciously located and identified the red canopy–jettison handles on each side of the cockpit. A moment of indecision, “Should I go?”, but the aircraft was now past the vertical and I was hanging in the straps, so I had no choice. I jettisoned the canopy, which immediately tore out of my hands in an explosion of plexiglass and a roar of air. My glasses and maps vanished with the debris sucked out by the wind.
I remember staying quite calm, and thinking through my actions. Since I was hanging in the straps, I would fall out as soon as I released my seatbelt. I grasped the ripcord handle with my right hand, then pulled the seatbelt release. I immediately fell cleanly away from the aircraft. I pulled the ripcord until it was completely out of the pack and a few seconds later saw the parachute snaking out behind and above me. Because I was falling head–down, the view I had of the opening was between my legs. I had expected a large jolt as I came to the end of my tether, but it was surprisingly gentle as first I was snatched upright by the shoulder straps, then arrested by the leg harness. Several seconds later, I saw my glider above me, inverted. It passed below and continued down in a flat spin. It seemed to take ages to descend, but then impacted in a ploughed paddock below. The sound of the crash snapped me out of my calm reaction phase; I could now feel the adrenaline in my system and for the first time felt fear. I craned my neck, but couldn’t see another glider, or even a chute.
The next few minutes were a condensed lesson in parachute flying. I practised turning (by pulling the bundles of lines behind each shoulder) — yes, I could turn, but turning created large pendulum swings as well. The wind was pretty strong (20 knots), so I headed into it. Even so, the landscape under me moved backwards and it was hard to see where I was going. Eventually I realized that the ground was rapidly approaching, and I was safely over one fence and clear into the next paddock. The landing was not elegant, but I was up and ready to reef in one side of the canopy as it fell, before the wind could reinflate it. It was a bit of a struggle, but I eventually managed to collapse my friend, the parachute.
Then I could relax. I walked to a road, followed it to the highway and called Horsham from a farmhouse (it wasn’t easy, the lines were busy — I wonder why?) They told me the other glider had “crashed” on the airfield, and the pilot was injured.
When help arrived, we went back and examined the wreckage. To my surprise, the tailplane hadn’t been struck, but the starboard wingtip, including the aileron, had lost 2.5 metres. It seems that after the collision the aircraft entered an inverted spin because it was at a negative angle of attack (as I attempted to dive) when it received a large yawing moment (impact) and rolling moment (asymmetry of the wings).
So what have I learned? Well, the importance of a good lookout is obvious. I think my attention in general was outside the cockpit and in the direction it needed to be (ie. focused on the distant ground, out near the horizon ahead). But a glider approaching head–on is hard to acquire.
Bailing out? Glider pilots always wear parachutes in competition; most strap them on at all other times, except perhaps for circuit training. The majority of our sailplanes are designed with bailout in mind. The ASW–20, for example, has a plexiglass canopy 1.8 metres long and, when jettisoned, the complete canopy, frame and all, is blown away. The instrument panel then springs upward, allowing the pilot an unobstructed escape route. It was also obviously well worthwhile that I had familiarized myself with the emergency exit procedures and parachute operation. Having this knowledge kept me calm and helped me work through the procedures without panic.
This is not to say I advocate parachute training for all! The modern safety chute operates reliably for even unskilled operators in the most difficult of circumstances. I have always said that I would do my first jump when the wings come off. They did, and I did. And it saved my life.