Nobody really understands the Link. It is the squalling infant left on the door step of aviation and as such, accepted by the lords of the air with an airy, fairy indifference.

And as a disregarded brat it has grown and grown until suddenly the aerial glamor boys find on their hands a lusty and difficult child.

Very well, then let’s have a look at it. Not a thing of beauty surely—nor even of great immediate usefulness—but not to be dispensed with, apparently.

However it has poise. Note its savoir faire as it awaits the timorous tyro creeping into the cockpit. It can be ever so gentle and oh so very patient .. . It’s lackey, the Link instructor, bangs down the hood, loosens the straps and smirks a cynical smirk.

Away goes the Link. Ah me, to think so sweet a creature could be so very deceitful. It is the heritage of a neglected childhood and misunderstood maturity. The twig is early inclined ….

Up comes one wing, down goes the nose, slowly swings the tail… Up comes the nose, twinkle, twinkle flick the ailerons, the rudder twitches frantically. Down swoops the wing and the tail sags. There is the ominous hush of the stall—then the gleeful garp of the spin—around she goes…

Then with satisfaction the link instructor takes up his phone and talks. His is the gospel of the needle, the ball and the air speed, the notorious one two three check that misguided contact pilots regard with such easy neglect. But let us not digress…

Soon order is brought from chaos and half way through the short way to Japan the student comes out of the spin. The hood is thrown open and the link snuggles happily back into the straps.

Now comes forward a pre-war pilot with thousands of windy hours in the book. He is confident and is not to be downed by a gadget. The Link swallows him contentedly. Down go the straps and the Link is brought to heel. This fellow has control. Nothing wrong with his co-ordination. So a Lorenz is arranged. He finds himself in a flock of “E’s” and stumbles into the bisignal zone. Soon he is riding the beam and passes the cone of silence. Out on the Q.D.R. he passes the beacons, snaps the stop watch, negotiates the precedure turn, catches the Q.D.M., the kicker comes into action, the air speed reduces, altitude is lost, the gliding angle determined and tachometer noted—a “Toc” becomes louder—or is it an “E”—oh yeh, what says the Kicker? Oh, oh look at the altimeter! Hold that Tiger. .. ah, there’s the ‘on course” and here’s the Inner Marker . . . good old Inner Marker, just in time too. 100 feet exactly. Well I guess we know our lorenzes. Out creeps the slightly dazzled pilot. Nothing to understanding a Link, really…

C.V.S.