You Have the Controls

We flew over the Alabama countryside outside Fort Rucker, my hands resting easily on the helicopter’s controls and feet on the pedals, with my instructor pilot, Craig, watching my every move. The Virginia Army National Guard had sent me to the U.S. Army Flight Surgeon course. At the time, flight surgeon training included ten hours of flight instruction. Stick time. Most of us docs welcomed all the Army allowed. 

In aviation, when the instructor pilot says, “I have the controls,” the student pilot responds, “You have the controls,” and turns loose of everything. Hands off the controls, feet off the pedals. Pronto. 

That day Craig had asked me to fly a simple cross-country: fifty miles out, then back. As we cruised along, chatting, monitoring the instruments, we flew over an open field, plowed and ready for spring planting. 

Realize that aviators, as a cohort, run a little crazy.

Suddenly, Craig said, “I have the controls.”

I turned loose of everything. What the . . .

He banked the helicopter sharply, cut the power and pushed down the nose. We dropped like a peregrine falcon chasing its dinner. 

“See ‘em? Look.”

“See what?”

“There, look there.” Craig pointed.

I saw. Turkeys. Caught in the open in the field, an unfortunate flock of wild turkeys scurried for the treeline, trying to escape the raucous monster descending from above. 

Yes, a little crazy. Craig had decided to go turkey hunting in a helicopter or at least enjoy terrorizing the wildlife.