It took a spate of air disasters in the late 1970s, in particular the Portland crash of United Airlines Flight 173, for aviation experts to pay attention to something called Crew Resource Management. This is a set of procedures first conceived by Nasa with the aim of minimising human error in flight.
UA173 — where the pilots had spent so long fixated with a dodgy landing wheel that they failed to notice they’d run out of fuel — was one of a growing number of incidents in which disaster arose from failures in crew interaction. As with the Tenerife airport disaster and the Air Florida crash in 1982, there was no shortage of experience on the flight deck. The root cause lay not in the behaviour of the individuals but in the interplay between them.
Cockpit voice recorders revealed that, before some catastrophic decision had been made, a junior member of the crew had often voiced sensible reservations but did so diffidently in deference to his superior. It may seem strange that people would risk a gruesome death to avoid the social solecism of disrespecting their boss, but that’s the kind of hierarchical monkey we are. (Co-pilots of the day jokingly referred to their role as ‘the Captain’s Sexual Adviser’: every time a co-pilot opened his mouth, the captain would typically reply: ‘When I want your fucking advice, I’ll ask for it.’)
Since the 1970s, airlines have fostered a more collaborative cockpit culture, with marked success. Sadly, it hasn’t been adopted on the ground. Too little thought is given to finding better ways for humans to divide and share responsibilities, and to arrive at better outcomes collectively than they would individually. Take the stipulation that Brexit negotiations take place sequentially.
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