I was fat, dumb and happy with three students in a Seneca II practing Vmc demos over the foothills just north of Gilroy about 16 years ago.
I would normally hold a foot against the rudder pedals to "artificially" represent a loss of rudder authority so the student could recognize Vmc and recover, safely above stall speed AND Vmc.
Usually I'd check the weather and compute where the critical altitude was where Vs = Vmc so I knew how high I could, well, should fly and have students work on Vmc maneuvers.
A little cocky, a little overconfident and a little distracted because I had just scored an interview at Skyway and was getting picked up by one of my friends for dinner. He was an IT zillionaire so it's a CFI's dream to have a free dinner and then take him and some stripper he met on a "Bay Tour".
So I tell my student to demonstrate approaching Vmc and recover. Everything is going fine, beautiful afternoon over the foothills in Santa Clara County and then he slows towards Vmc, the windspeed gets lower and lower and the light rumbles as the plane starts to roll as he loses control authority.
SNAP!
Now I've got a windscreen full of green, the aircraft rolled on it's back and starts that wonderful helical rotation about the whatever access... I grab the throttles and snap them back to the full idle position.
Ooh, let's just call it a spin. It IS a spin, crap!
"Mr. X, Mr. X, MY CONTROLS" I'm applying full forward aileron, trying to neutralize the ailerons and rudder opposite the rotation of the aircraft.
The student has his hands with the "Death Grip(tm)" so I screamed again, "Mr. X, MY CONTROLS!"...
Nothing.
I slap his wrist and shout "My Controls!" then he finally un-asses the controls and I'm working on a recovery.
Rudders are useless, ailerons are useless, pitch control is useless and all I remember is how quiet it is, nothing over the intercom and the pungent smell of garlic as we're spiraling towards the ground. Both a feeling of disbelief, acceptance of the seemingly inevitable and wondering how it's going to feel when plow into the hill somewhere near that trail that looks like a great single-track that I'd love to have ridden my bike on if I hadn't of been so stupid to not pay closer attention to.
Pens, dirt, books, headsets, manuals, rocks... how in the world do little pebbles get into an aircraft, shifting around the cabin of the Seneca.
Between pumps of the useless elevator, full but completely dead application of the rudder pedal and grumbly bursts of differential power eventually halts the rotation and now we're about 60 degrees nose low in about 120 degrees of bank about CRAP 700 feet up so I'm going to have one chance to recover, power-off unload the aircraft, pull to the sky, nose rises, bring the power back in, but the right engine is surging and unwilling to come back to power fully, still have some tunnel vision and just waiting for the aircraft to pancake itself onto the (hopefully) soft dirt. Right engine comes back to life as we start a reasonable climb and recovery.
Granted I've never been in war, or been shot at (as far as I know) but the days when you're convinced you're going to die tend to stick with you.
Lessons learned:
a. Seneca's suck in spins.
b. Vacuum the damned airplane every once in a while.
c. Don't get cocky
d. A student (or the other pilot) will only come close to killing you if you LET them.
e. Yes, you're about to die. Take it seriously, FIGHT, do something.
f. It's happening NOW. Save the disbelief for debrief.
g. Improvise when you've gotta.