Sticking Together
Retired Air Force colonel William O. Vogel lives in Hayward, Calif., with his wife, Marta, who never fiddles with the radio and wouldn’t dream of being a backseat driver.

In 1950, when the North Koreans launched a sneak attack across the 38th parallel, the United States military was poorly equipped to handle the challenge. At the time, the Air Force was predominantly composed of old World War II prop planes and desperately needed pilots. 

So, the Air Force quickly placed an order for new trainers based on the reliable at-6, which was updated and relabeled the T-6G. The trainer had twin sticks yoked so that the movements of one stick were duplicated in the second seat. The T-6G, the most widely manufactured trainer of all time, quickly earned the nickname “Pilot Maker.” 

In 1951, I answered the call to service and started basic pilot training at Spence Field in Moultrie, Ga. Typically, an aviation cadet would start out in a primary trainer, such as the pt-19, but beginning with our class (52C), the training was condensed and we went directly to the T-6G. Before too long, I was ready for my 50-hour check ride. 

Although our instructors were usually civilians with thousands of hours of flight time, the check rides were conducted by regular Air Force pilots. I prayed I wouldn’t draw one particular major for my check ride. It was widely rumored that he washed out half the cadets he tested. The ones who weren’t washed out didn’t fare much better: They were subjected to a constant tongue-lashing and withering criticism throughout the entire check flight.

Alas, my prayers went unanswered and I was assigned to the fearsome major. 

From the moment we took off, the check pilot chewed on me. Nervously, I tried to remember my training as I moved the stick and flicked what I hoped were all the right switches. After about five minutes in the air, I heard a voice snarl, “Get that stick back, hard!”

I assumed the major wanted a stall demonstration, so I yanked back on the stick of the T-6G. The stick between the legs of the major in the rear cockpit duplicated my movement.

The major let out an immediate howl and shouted, “Cadet, what in hell are you doing?” 

In a panic, I realized what had happened: I had switched accidentally from the intercom to the radio. The command to pull back on the stick had come from some other T-6G instructor—presumably, one more prepared for that particular maneuver than my major was.

After this incredible foul-up, I pretty much figured I had washed out of flight training. With that thought in the back of my mind, I flew the rest of the check ride’s stalls, spins, rolls, loops, and emergency procedures with a relaxed, don’t-give-a-damn attitude.

We landed and climbed out of the cockpit. I stood at attention and braced myself for the tirade I expected and the inevitable pronouncement that I had flunked the check ride. Instead, the major glared at me and said, “Cadet, that was a good flight—but don’t ever pull a stunt like that on another check pilot!” 

He then strode off with what seemed like a slight bend at the waist, as if favoring his groin. 

Six months later I got my pilot wings and Air Force second lieutenant’s commission.