Amazing Aviation Stories, Volume 2 E-Book

Gerhard Gruber

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 306

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

55 Years of Aviation - Told with Humor, Thrill, and Up-Close Detail In this second volume, Gerhard Gruber shares a wealth of entertaining and sometimes unbelievable stories from his decades in the aviation world. With a sharp sense of humor and a behind-the-scenes perspective, he recounts episodes that will fascinate not only aviation professionals but are also easily accessible for readers without any prior knowledge. From bizarre incidents and exclusive insights into daily airport life to encounters with celebrities on business jets, each story is authentic and often illustrated with historical photos. Just like the first volume, this book invites readers on a captivating journey through the glamorous world of the jet set, a world full of luxury, thrilling adventures, and surprising moments.

Leseprobe

Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1 - The Early Days

1. With Hammer and Chisel to the Glider License

2. The Crazy Journey of the Austria Meise

3. A Cable Break – What Now?

4. Mid-Air Collision

5. Across Europe in a Motor Glider

6. Model Flying in Military Prison

7. Smoke in the Cockpit

8. With limited Budget to a Private Pilot License

9. Banner Towing – The Snagged Hook

10. The Star Fighters – A Dangerous Job

11. The Unnoticed Spin

12. The Fight with the Army Psychologist

13. Parachutists Can’t Be Stopped

14. The Landing in the Grain Field

15. The Iron Curtain in the 1980s

16. Morse Code – Every Pilot’s Nightmare

17. The Tourist Trap in Barcelona

18. Sent Toward Death Without a Second Thought

19. The Pitfalls of Twin-Engine Training

20. Flight Instructors Live on the Edge

21. The Radio Operator License – A True Rarity

22. The Collapse of the High Society Reporter

23. Ammunition for Cairo

24. The Stiff Windsock

25. Dropping Supplies to the Isolated Demonstrators

Chapter 2 – Vienna Airport

26. Fatal Disaster in the Fog

27. Snow Removal Gone Wrong

28. Saving the Easter Rabbits

29. Saved from Terror by a Delay

30. The Failed Docking Premiere

31. How Security Has Changed Over Time

32. When Phone Pulses Caused Trouble

33. Time for a New Airport Fence

34. Tempting Offers

35. Speeding Tickets for the Police

36. An Airship at Vienna Airport

37. The Hollywood Moment on the Apron

38. My Memories of the Lauda Air Crash

39. Undercover Among the Protesters

40. Four Wrecks for the Sake of Progress

41. The OSCAR Runway

42. Joy and Trouble with Water Salutes

43. The Battle Against the Yellow Flag

44. Dramatic Incident During a State Visit

45. Gunfire from the President’s Jet

46. The Fateful Airship Chase

47. Falco’s Final Landing

48. Encounters with Niki Lauda

49. The Authority of the Airport Operations Manager

50. The Curious Case of the Toilet Hole

51. From Simple Gate to “Gruber Tandem Barrier”

52. When Security Goes Too Far

53. Let's cut the Runway into Pieces

54. The Report of the Drunk DC-10 Captain

Chapter 3 – The Jet Age

55. Where Is My Aircraft?

56. My First Jet Type Rating

57. The Devout Jew

58. The Medical Spare Part Delivery

59. The First Business Jet Simulator in Austria

60. Freezing from Australia to Vienna

61. Two Handbook Laughs

62. Flying as an Airline Pilot with a Fear of Flying

63. The Mysterious Disappearance of the Stewardess

64. The Dollar Smuggler

65. Survival Training for Overwater Operations

66. The “Mile High Club” Applicant

67. The Secret Check Flight

68. Women Had to Earn Their Wings the Hard Way

69. Emergency Descent Gone Wrong

70. The Dream of Flying a DC-3

71. No Chance of Boredom

72. The Eastern Bloc and Its Peculiarities

73. With Pavarotti to the Concorde in London

74. No! The Stewardess in not Included in the Price

75. With Vodka into Temporary Marital Bliss

76. The Concerned President Heinz Fischer

77. Nightlife Surprise in Tyumen

78. The Magic Pull of the Touchdown Zone

79. Austria’s First All-Female Jet Crew

80. Flight to Nowhere

81. Cabin Decompression

82. Hydraulic Failure with the President

83. Near Collision in Reverse

84. Who Is to Blame for the Collision?

85. The Unruly Passenger

86. Sweet Speech Loss

87. Alcohol and the Religious Enforcer

88. With a Pepper Spray to Dubrovnik

89. Two Flat Tires in Moscow

90. Surprises on the Beach of Mykonos

91. How a Wrong Fluid Nearly Killed Us

92. Behind the Shine of the Middle East

93. Immigration Trouble in Teterboro

94. Visiting the Troops in Chad with the Minister of Defense

95. Homebound with the Champions

96. Unexpectedly All the Way to Lima

97. One Million Views for a Loss of Consciousness

98. When the Heat Is On

99. Even a Simulator Can Be Dangerous

100. Trapped on the Covid Flight

Foreword

Even while I was writing the first volume, it was clear: that wasn’t the end of the story. Too many encounters, too many unforgettable moments from over five decades in aviation hadn’t yet found a place.

The response to Volume 1 gave me the final encouragement to continue - especially the many enthusiastic messages that deeply touched me. That the book received a five-star rating on Amazon was a true surprise for me - especially since I had never originally planned to write a book at all.

This second volume once again lives through the people behind the stories. Long conversations with old companions led from one experience to the next. Together, we unearthed memories, and with each new anecdote the project grew - maybe even beyond Volume 2.

I never intended these stories to be written only for aviation professionals. The books were always meant to be easy to understand for anyone, even without prior knowledge of flying. This way, they offer a look behind the scenes of the aviation world - with all its oddities, lucky moments, setbacks, and adventures.

Many of these stories took place within the world of jet set and the international aviation elite - and they are really true, even if they sometimes sound unbelievable. I can back them up with photos and documents.

Anyone entering aviation today can hardly imagine how rough and improvised things still were in the 1970s. When I started in 1970, the Austrian law for pilot licenses was only eleven years old.

Safety was often a relative concept, and some flights felt more like dares. It was a different time – wild, challenging, dangerous. All the more I hope that young aviators can get a sense of how it all began through this book.

Another personal reason for this book is my wish to give everyone who hasn’t seen or heard from me in a long time a glimpse into my life. Many conversations started with the sentence: “I had no idea what you’ve experienced.” Indeed, I spent months at a time abroad - and with these stories, I want to give a little something back.

Acknowledgements

My deepest thanks go to my wife Sabine. She probably experienced more of my book projects than anyone - mostly in the form of late-night keyboard noise. I often waited until she had fallen asleep, then snuck back into the office to keep writing.

A special thank you goes to my colleague from Vienna Airport, Peter Niedl. With a sharp eye for typos, he took on the battle against mistakes voluntarily. His critical eye, tireless patience, and many helpful comments had a big impact on this volume.

I also want to thank Vienna Airport, my employer for over 45 years, and the city of Fischamend for their generous support during the book presentations. The newspapers Kronen Zeitung and Kurier also helped me through access to their archives and permission to publish material.

And of course, I thank the approximately 100 conversation partners who shared their stories with me and allowed me to mention them by name.

Gerhard Gruber

Chapter 1 - The Early Days

1. With Hammer and Chisel to the Glider License

Driven by my desire to fly, I rode my bike in the summer of 1970, as a 16-year-old student, to the place where the airplanes landed. It was the airfield at Kottingbrunn, which today is called Bad Vöslau. Feeling a little unsure, I approached the group of glider pilots and asked if I could watch. It didn’t take long before I knew: this is where I wanted to belong.

It was summer break, and I went to the airfield almost every day. Soon I was introduced to the glider instructor Josef (Pepi) Fischer. He looked me up and down and dryly said, “You’re too light.”

That was the last thing I expected. Too young, too short, too weak - maybe. But too light? I actually thought the less weight, the better.

Pepi Fischer saw the big question marks in my eyes and simply said, “Let me show you something.” He walked over to the two-seater training aircraft, opened the canopy, and pointed to a sticker in the cockpit.

It read: “For two-seat flights, the front seat must carry a maximum of 100 kg and a minimum of 55 kg.” That had to be followed strictly. If ignored, the aircraft could behave dangerously during flight and in the worst case could crash.

The training aircraft was a Bergfalke with the austrian registration OE-0363. During training flights, the student sits in the front and the instructor in the rear. The rear seat is located near the aircraft’s center of gravity and therefore has no minimum weight. But for my front seat, I was 7 kg underweight at just 48 kg.

Since no one in the club weighed as little as I did, this problem had never come up before. Pepi offered a pragmatic solution: I should simply make a 7-kilo sandbag, which would be placed on the seat for me to sit on.

Making the sandbag turned out to be harder than expected. Professional sandbags are made from thick fabric and filled with sand of the right grain size. When you sit on them, they mold to your shape and form a comfortable seat. I had neither the proper fabric nor the right sand, so I had to improvise.

My sandbag was made from several plastic shopping bags, and the only sand I could find was fine gypsum sand used by my father to fix electrical sockets into walls. I was just glad to have anything at all and began filling the bags. The moment of truth came when I stepped on the scale with the bag: I was still 2 kg too light.

Since the bag was already filled to the brim with sand, I came up with the idea to add metal. I searched the whole house and found some chisels and hammers in the workshop.

I buried all the parts in the sand and sealed the bag with several meters of electrical tape. The good news was that it now had the required weight. The bad news was that it had a rather round shape. When I sat on it, the tightly packed sand didn’t adapt to my backside at all. Every training flight ended with a sore behind.

Every time I got into the glider with my awkward, rock-hard sandbag, the other club members gave me sympathetic smiles. After a few weeks, one of them took pity on me and handed me a professional sandbag.

My rear end thanked him. It took a while longer before my natural growth put enough weight on the scale so that I could fly without the sandbag.

Story #1: My Training Glider “Bergfalke II” in 1970 at Kottingbrunn

Story #2: The “Austria Meise” with an almost 3-Meter Wingspan

2. The Crazy Journey of the Austria Meise

Like many young aviation enthusiasts, I began with model flying. It was a low-cost way to gain my first insights into aviation. In the mid-1960s, kits consisted only of wooden strips and sheets. You had to cut everything out with a fretsaw. But they were affordable, and you learned a lot about aircraft construction.

Engines or remote controls were far too expensive for me at the time. So my planes were launched using a rubber bungee cord. After releasing, you hoped the aircraft would land safely and not crash into an obstacle - which, unfortunately, did happen from time to time.

I was lucky in 1970 to meet the president of the Mödling model aircraft club. He was a gifted electronics technician and built a transmitter for me at a relatively low cost.

The transmission frequency back then was still 40.68 MHz, and it was picked up by original receivers from the Graupner company. The servo motors were much heavier than they are today, which meant a larger aircraft was needed.

My largest glider was an Austria Meise with a wingspan of nearly three meters. I converted it for remote control use and mounted a combustion engine above the fuselage.

With this setup, I completed a number of successful flights. To stay mobile, I built a trailer for my moped, similar to those used by full-size gliders.

My enthusiasm didn’t stop when winter approached - I kept flying even in cold weather. I used a large field near our housing estate as my flying area. What I didn’t know was that the range of my remote control dropped drastically with falling temperatures.

Shortly after takeoff, my Austria Meise no longer responded to the controls and flew away in the direction of the housing estate. Holding up the transmitter and waving the antenna didn’t help.

I watched helplessly as the plane grew smaller and smaller and eventually the engine noise faded completely.

I was about a kilometer from the houses and lost sight of the aircraft as it flew about 50 meters above the rooftops. I stood there, holding the transmitter, accepting the fact that I would never see my Austria Meise again.

After a few minutes, I packed up and was just about to head home when I suddenly heard the familiar engine sound again. It grew louder, and finally I saw my Austria Meise returning.

Fortunately, the control surfaces hadn’t been set for straight flight, so the plane had flown in a giant circle - and came right back toward me. As it got close, it responded to my signals again.

I immediately brought it in for a landing and was deeply relieved. Besides losing it, an uncontrolled crash could have caused damage to property - or even injured someone.

I was grateful to return home with my prized possession.

3. A Cable Break – What Now?

There are several ways to get a glider into the air. The most common are aerotow behind a powered aircraft and winch launching. The latter is much cheaper and was therefore my preferred method as a glider student.

It cost 10 Austrian schillings, which is 73 euro cents today. Incidentally, that was also the price of a pack of cigarettes, which made me quit smoking after my first attempt.

A winch launch requires a large airfield. The longer the cable between the glider and the winch, the higher the release altitude. At Kottingbrunn airfield, we were fortunate to have a 1-kilometer cable, which gave us a release altitude of 400 meters, or 440 meters with favorable wind.

Communication in 1970 was still very simple. So that the winch operator, located far away, knew when to start pulling in the cable, the launch assistant waved a large orange board. Once the cable was taut, the assistant had to run a few more meters while holding the wing.

From that point on, the glider would rapidly climb. The nose pointed steeply toward the sky, and as the pilot you felt like you were in a rocket launch.

Compared to all other launch methods, winch launching puts the most stress on the aircraft. The steep climb bends the wings upward, and the 4 mm thick steel cable must withstand high tension. Because of this stress, there were about two or three cable breaks per flying season.

The greatest tension on the cable occurs in the first phase of the launch, when the glider is climbing steeply. This is also the most critical moment for the pilot, and it happened to me on a sunny day in June 1971.

My glider shot upward at a steep angle, and at around 100 meters the pulling force suddenly disappeared with a jolt. To avoid losing the vital airspeed, I immediately pushed the nose down. I shoved the control stick all the way forward and experienced a few seconds of weightlessness.

The next challenge was to decide how to continue the flight. I remembered the words of my instructor Pepi Fischer, who repeatedly warned us never to attempt a turnback in low altitude after a cable break.

Given my low altitude, a turnback was definitely out of the question. That left only one option - fly straight ahead. I immediately extended the airbrakes and aimed for a landing spot at the far end of the airfield. I was glad it was so large. For the landing, I had to make sure not to be too fast. My Bergfalke was built in the 1950s and had no brakes.

The landing went as planned, and the rollout distance was manageable. My glider came to a stop just a few meters from the winch operator. From the look on his face, I could tell he was just as relieved about the outcome as I was.

The cable was temporarily repaired with a makeshift knot and a socalled U-bolt clips. This method only took a few minutes, and we were soon able to fly again.

The more elaborate method of repair was splicing, where the strands of the cable are interwoven. This was usually done during the winter season, so that we had a good-looking cable again for the start of the new season.

Story #3: A steep ascent using the Winch Method

Story #4: The Crashed "Grunau Baby" on April 8, 1972

4. Mid-Air Collision

It was April 8, 1972, and about fifteen flight club members were enjoying the first warm days of the year with some gliding. We had three gliders in use. One of them was a two-seater used for training.

The second aircraft was a Grunau Baby II b, registration OE-0516, primarily flown by young pilots close to the airfield. It had no canopy, so the pilot’s head was exposed to the open air. It had excellent low-speed characteristics, but with a glide ratio of 17, it was far behind more modern aircraft.

The third glider was an SZD-24 C Foka, registration OE-0611. With a glide ratio of 34, it was twice as efficient as the Baby and also much faster.

While the two-seater remained near the airfield, the two single-seaters flew to the Harzberg near Vöslau. Because of the season, the thermals were still weak, and finding and staying in rising air was difficult. This was especially true for Hubert in the Foka, as its speed resulted in a wide turning radius, making it hard to stay in the thermal’s core.

Lukas in the Baby had it easier. Its lower speed allowed tight circles in the core of the thermal, where lift was strongest. What happened next was described to me by fellow club members who had observed the two gliders.

About four kilometers away, they first saw the Baby flying beneath the Foka. Both aircraft were circling in the same thermal. Thanks to the tighter turns, the Baby gained altitude more quickly and was approaching the Foka from below, apparently trying to overtake it on the inside.

The maneuver failed and led to a mid-air collision. The exact sequence of events can only be guessed. However, the damage to the wrecked aircraft suggests that the Baby struck the fuselage of the Foka with one of its wings.

Both the Baby’s wing and the Foka’s fuselage broke apart, causing loss of control and the crash of both aircraft.

I realized something had happened when several people shouted, “They’ve both crashed!” We drove to the suspected crash site and began searching in the woods. Hikers who had witnessed the crash had already called emergency services.

With only one wing remaining, Lukas’s aircraft could only descend in steep spirals. Without a parachute, he had no choice but to wait and see what would happen.

He eventually crashed into a young forest, where the trees softened the impact. Lukas was incredibly lucky - he survived with a cerebral contusion.

The Foka’s tail section was hanging by control cables only, causing it to plummet steeply. Hubert had a parachute and exited the aircraft. From the wreckage, it was clear he did not jettison the canopy, and he seemed to have struggled to get out.

Whether it was the low altitude, his inability to find the parachute handle, or perhaps unconsciousness, was never determined. In any case, he hit the forest floor with a closed parachute and died instantly.

The experience deeply affected me. The sight of the crash scene still haunts me to this day.

5. Across Europe in a Motor Glider

At the beginning of my career as a pilot, a blue touring motor glider was the center of my life. It was a Scheibe Motorfalke SF25C with 68 horsepower and the registration OE-9050. Compared to the earlier model, it even had the luxury of an electric starter and didn’t need to be started with a strenuous pull cord.

The only downside was the lack of a heater, which became painfully noticeable in cold weather.

To make winter flights more bearable, we planned to have a heater installed at the Sportavia-Pützer maintenance facility at the Dahlemer Binz airfield. Since the three motor gliders of the Milchstaffel also needed maintenance there, the four of us flew in formation toward Germany on August 4, 1973.

The radio equipment in my motor glider was very basic. Modern radios have 2,280 frequencies to choose from, but mine had only seven. That was enough to communicate with nearby airfields, but there was no way to contact most air traffic control services or listen to weather information.

One of the seven channels was reserved for aircraft-to-aircraft communication. On this channel, our flight formation leader Kurt Gaschler in his Fournier RF-5 gave me the necessary updates. Otherwise, the rule was to stay close behind Kurt and land wherever he landed.

Our first stop for refueling and customs clearance was in Linz. Then we flew on to Nuremberg and finally to Vielbrunn for an overnight stay. A local airshow was happening there, and to greet the crowd, we performed a short routine before landing.

I’ll never forget Kurt’s briefing: “Gerhard, we’ll make the first approach in tight diamond formation, and you’ll be the rear aircraft. We’ll fly very low, and you must stay exactly at my level. Only if I crash, you pull up slightly.”

As a foreign formation team, we were the highlight of the airshow and were warmly welcomed in the beer tent. The next day, the Milchstaffel flew another impressive routine before we departed for Dahlemer Binz, where we landed in the late afternoon near the Belgian border.

While work was being done on our motor gliders, we had five days to spend on outings and conversations. With four aircraft, we were a major customer, and the maintenance team took us to a new restaurant every evening.

As was common at the time, every hotel and pub had a pinball machine, and my copilot Paul Zeise and I competed against each other daily.

On August 10, 1973, the motor glider - with its new heater - stood ready in front of the hangar. After a short test flight, we headed back home. We refueled and cleared customs again in Nuremberg and Linz, and landed at 4 p.m. at Bad Vöslau airfield.

I was very proud to enter this long-distance flight into my glider logbook. Sadly, that historical document no longer exists, as it was stolen from me in a hotel in Amsterdam in 1987.

Story #5: In the Scheibe Motorfalke SF25C before Departure August 1973

Story #5: Four happy Pilots after Landing at Dahlemer Binz Airfield

6. Model Flying in Military Prison

Since I already held a pilot license at the time of my military medical exam, I was drafted into the air force for my mandatory military service. After basic training at Hörsching Air Base, I was stationed at Langenlebarn Military Airfield. From there, missions were carried out to remote landing fields, and it also served as a training base.

One such training course was the Air Force Communications Course at Graz-Thalerhof Air Base. It lasted a month, and I was proud to finish as top of the class. That made it all the more disappointing when I returned to the barracks in Langenlebarn on Friday and didn’t find my name on the weekend leave list.

It wasn’t just me who was missing - none of the 32 course participants were on the list. Clearly, we had been forgotten. After a few minutes of frustration, nearly all of us decided to leave the barracks without authorization.

Security checks were usually very lax, and it seemed unlikely that we would get caught. We waited until dark, then crawled through a known hole in the fence to freedom.

Unfortunately, there happened to be a surprise inspection that weekend. Those who could be reached by phone returned to the base on Saturday. I was among the ten or so who weren’t reached and didn’t return until Sunday.

Anyone gone for more than 24 hours without permission faced a military disciplinary procedure. During roll call on Monday, the company commander explained the consequences.

Some tried to find witnesses to confirm their return on Saturday. I thought that was risky and didn’t want to ask anyone to lie.

So I truthfully stated when I had left the base and when I returned. The captain whistled through his teeth at my honesty.

He looked at my course performance and decided on a disciplinary penalty. It still meant three days in prison, but at least I avoided being reported to the state prosecutor.

When I entered detention, I went through the standard prisoner intake procedure. They took my belt, shoelaces, and everything from my pockets. Everything was carefully documented, and I received a confirmation slip. Then I was shown to my cell.

The furnishings were spartan: a chair, a table, and a wooden bunk - nothing else. To pass the time, I folded my confirmation slip into a paper airplane. It was perfect for aerodynamic experiments. I practiced flight paths and target landings for hours.

Suddenly, I heard a loud voice in the hallway. An officer doing a check had found my cellmate completely drunk. Since nothing was found in the cell, they searched for the source of the alcohol. It didn’t take long to discover a two-liter bottle of wine hidden in the toilet tank. My cellmate had convinced one of the guards to stash it there. Every time he went to the restroom, he took a big swig of the chilled wine.

Furious, the officer continued his inspection and stormed into my cell. With a sharp “REPORT!”, he ordered me to deliver the mandatory statement. I responded, “Sir, Private Gruber in disciplinary detention for unauthorized absence from the troup.”

With a piercing look, he glanced around my cell and noticed the paper airplane on the table. His eyes widened and he shouted, “What is this? Hand it over!”

With a mix of fear and triumph, I said, “Respectfully reporting, it’s the confirmation of my confiscated items.”

After a brief pause, he turned without a word, left my cell, and slammed the door shut in anger. Grinning, I continued my flight experiments. The whole scene reminded me of stories about the good soldier Švejk.

There were five of us in detention in total. Langenlebarn didn’t have more cells. We were released on December 31, 1973 - giving us even more reason to celebrate New Year’s Eve.

The detention had its perks. We didn’t have to exercise for three days, meals were brought to us, and it was warm.

Our regular quarters barely got above 15 degrees Celsius, so the jail was the warmest place on base. The only real drawback was a six-month promotion freeze. But in my case, it was lifted soon after because I became an instructor, which required a higher rank.

Story #6: My “Model Aircraft” in Military Detention

7. Smoke in the Cockpit

A cockpit can be the scene of many unexpected problems. When talking to friends, I was often asked: What do you do if an engine fails? While that may sound dramatic, it's actually one of the least concerning scenarios for aircraft used in commercial operations.

There are well-established procedures and tables for such situations. Regulations require that in the event of an engine failure during takeoff, an aircraft must be able to either stop safely on the runway or continue climbing safely. These procedures are trained and tested in a simulator every six months.

A far greater concern is smoke or fire during flight. Such events are already highly problematic on trains, ships, or in vehicles, but at least in those cases, one can stop and evacuate. In an aircraft, it's a different story.

Evacuation requires a landing, which, depending on location and altitude, can take a long time. The worst case is when the aircraft is at cruising altitude over the ocean, far from any landing opportunity.

Statistics show a striking figure: from the first sign of fire or smoke, the average time available before evacuation is just 17 minutes.

After that, the crew is typically no longer able to control the aircraft, or the damage is so severe that the plane becomes uncontrollable and crashes.

My personal experience with smoke fortunately had a good outcome. It was in the early 1970s, with a Scheibe SF25C motor glider at Bad Vöslau airfield.

The aircraft had just come out of maintenance, and a test flight was required. The benefit of such flights was that they weren’t charged to me, which was always welcome as a student.

I was alone on board and taxied to the runway. Everything worked perfectly, and all cockpit readings were in the green.

After applying full power, the aircraft lifted off immediately due to its light weight. Suddenly, dark smoke started emerging from the front of the cockpit, accompanied by a sharp, acrid smell. Within seconds, the cockpit filled with smoke and I could barely breathe.

To get fresh air into the cockpit, I opened the side window and stuck out my hand. This helped a lot to make the situation more bearable. I declared the emergency via radio and immediately turned back toward the airfield.

After about a minute, the smoke started to dissipate, and shortly after, it disappeared completely - though the unpleasant smell lingered for some time.

The four-minute flight didn’t add much to my logbook, but I was deeply relieved that everything ended well. A check of the aircraft revealed that oil had entered the heating system during maintenance.

When the engine was running at full power during the climb, the exhaust heated the oil, causing it to vaporize and enter the cockpit.

8. With limited Budget to a Private Pilot License

After earning my glider license in 1971, the next logical goal was the private pilot license (PPL). However, I now faced my biggest challenge: I had no money. While I had been able to earn most of my glider flight hours through work exchange, this option wasn’t available for the PPL.

Making things harder, theoretical training required an expensive course - unlike glider training, which could still be done through self-study.

The required 40 flight hours were simply unaffordable for me. Fortunately, a change in regulations allowed time spent flying a motor glider to count toward the PPL.

This was a game-changer. Flying motor gliders was much cheaper, and I was already allowed to carry passengers - most of whom helped cover the cost. I promoted the joy of flying whenever

I could, and managed to convince nearly everyone in my family and circle of friends to come along. Even my mother, who was terribly afraid of flying, bravely climbed into the small aircraft with me.

While I didn’t have much money, I had plenty of time. That meant I could be at the airfield every weekend. Curious spectators often showed up, and I’d talk some of them into taking a sightseeing flight.

One of them even became a regular. He was a farmer from a nearby village and loved seeing his property from above at least once a month. The only issue was his behavior.

He only ever showed up extremely drunk and with a full bladder. Before we flew, he’d stand next to the plane to relieve himself. But due to his drunkenness, his aim wasn’t always the best.

He sometimes zipped up before he’d finished, and the result was an awful stench in the cockpit. The upside was that nobody else wanted to fly with him - so I got all his flights.

All these motor glider flights proved invaluable during my PPL training, as there was little left for me to learn. I was already familiar with engine handling, taxiing, and circuit flying. So it wasn’t a big surprise when my instructor, Karl Bohuslavizki, said after my sixth landing, “You’ve got this - I'm getting out. Go fly solo.”

I was incredibly proud. Normally, students need at least 70 landings with an instructor before they're allowed to fly alone.

After the solo flight, I had to complete a few required exercises. One of these was a high-altitude flight, which I also flew with AUA captain Bohuslavizki. It required at least 30 minutes at an altitude of 3,000 meters.

I did my mountain introduction flight in a Piper PA-18 with Peter Lambert, a multiple-time national aerobatics champion, as my instructor.

Having met all the requirements, I was assigned to examiner Karl Zimmermann for the PPL checkride on October 27, 1975.

After passing the written exam, it was time for the practical test, which included a navigation flight to the small town of Wiesmath in the Bucklige Welt region. This wasn’t easy. Every hill in the area looks the same, and there are no railroads or major rivers to use for orientation.

Even though the entire training was limited to visual flying, I had already begun to explore instrument flying. I discovered that Wiesmath lay exactly on the 180-degree radial from the Sollenau radio beacon. So before the exam, I tuned the aircraft’s navigation equipment to the right frequency and radial. During the test, I kept one eye on the instrument and followed it. At the end of the calculated time, I was right over Wiesmath and passed the practical exam. Still, I think I would have found the town without the beacon.

Story #8: As a Private Pilot in a Piper PA-18 at Kottingbrunn Airfield

Story #9: Herta and my Mother repairing the Tow Banner

9. Banner Towing – The Snagged Hook

Most people have probably seen a banner being towed across the sky. While these banners are usually used for advertising, they’re also sometimes used for personal messages, like a romantic birthday greeting.

A banner consists of ropes with letters or logos sewn onto them. The pieces are either tied together or connected with rods. The frontmost rod has a weight attached to ensure that the banner hangs vertically during flight.

You can’t take off or land with the banner attached - it would be destroyed. So the banner has to be picked up in flight and dropped before landing.

Pickup is done using a three-pronged hook, attached to a roughly 10-meter rope. This rope is connected to the tow release hook on the rear of the aircraft.

To prevent the hook from bouncing around and damaging the aircraft during takeoff, it’s kept in the cockpit and thrown out the window after takeoff (and yes, one double-checks thoroughly to make sure the rope is actually connected at the back).

At the front of the banner is a loop of rope about 15 meters long. This loop is placed on two vertical poles, each four meters tall.

The challenge is to fly low enough for the hook to catch the loop from the poles. The banner is then pulled off the ground in the opposite direction of flight as the aircraft climbs. The banner must not drag on the ground.

The pilot’s skill - or lack thereof - is very visible to spectators based on the number of failed attempts.

If you fly too low, the hook digs into the ground and bounces unpredictably behind the aircraft.

Worse, flying too low can cause the landing gear to catch the banner instead of the hook. That’s fine while in the air, but since you can’t release a banner stuck to the landing gear with the tow release, you’re eventually forced to land with it.

The banner dragging on the ground creates resistance and can cause the plane to flip. The pilot usually escapes unharmed, but the plane is badlyly damaged.

If you fly too high, you’ll simply miss the loop and the banner stays on the ground, amusing the onlookers. Speed is also crucial: flying too fast can tear the banner apart; flying too slow risks a stall and crash.

Speed also affects the height of the hook. At lower speeds, it flies lower; at higher speeds, it rises. So there are many variables a pilot must manage skillfully.

When the pickup succeeds, the banner’s drag causes an immediate drop in speed. That’s why pilots apply full throttle while pulling up. You feel the success as a tug on the rope and confirm it by checking the rearview mirror.

An assistant stands beside the poles and signals the pilot with outstretched arms to indicate the correct height (they always look a bit like they want to fly too).

My big day of towing a banner for the first time was on November 30, 1975, with a Piper PA-18, registration OE-APN, in Vöslau. For training purposes, the banner was short and had only four letters.

The poles were positioned perfectly, the banner aligned with the wind, and the loop placed on the poles. I attached the hook, placed it in the cockpit, took off, and threw it out the window.

First attempt: I flew over the poles, applied full throttle, pulled up. .. nothing. No tug, nothing in the mirror. I hadn’t trusted the assistant’s hand signals, flew too high, and was too fast.

Second attempt: slower and lower. The assistant signaled “lower,” but my fear of catching it with the landing gear was stronger. Still no tug.

By the third failed attempt, I could almost hear the audience laughing.

On the fourth try, my assistant went all in with body language. Not only did he wave his hands down wildly, he even crouched down, trying to break me out of my overcautious altitude. It worked - I approached lower.