MAVERICK PILOT
Volume II, 1967 to 1977
Props to Jets
LIMITED EDITION
Signed:
Title page painting by; Captain Ron Hart, 1975
© Dave R. Case, All rights reserved.
August 3, 2010
Dave R. Case
327 Laguna Vista
Alameda, CA 94501
ii
Ph: 510-522-3957
Table of Contents
Table of Contents .................................................................................................................................. iii
Illustrations ............................................................................................................................................ iv
PREFACE .............................................................................................................................................. v
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS .................................................................................................................. vi
1967; HOMEWARD BOUND ............................................................................................................... 1
BACK IN THE SADDLE ...................................................................................................................... 5
CHECKRIDE ....................................................................................................................................... 11
THE RIGHT CHOICE ......................................................................................................................... 21
INDONESIAN INTERLUDE .............................................................................................................. 29
THE KNOT AND FAREWELL .......................................................................................................... 37
ALOHA HAWAII ................................................................................................................................ 41
WELCOME TO JAMAICA ................................................................................................................. 45
ONCE MORE A STUDENT................................................................................................................ 47
FLYING THE LINE ............................................................................................................................ 53
LEARNING TO DO THE MATH ....................................................................................................... 56
GETTING SETTLED .......................................................................................................................... 59
THE DOUGLAS CUSHION ............................................................................................................... 61
UPGRADE ........................................................................................................................................... 64
ONCE MORE A CAPTAIN ................................................................................................................ 68
THE GOOD LIFE, I ............................................................................................................................. 73
HILL AFB INCIDENT ........................................................................................................................ 74
THE GOOD LIFE, II............................................................................................................................ 77
ROUTE CHECK .................................................................................................................................. 79
A DEADHEAD .................................................................................................................................... 83
THE GOOD LIFE, III .......................................................................................................................... 86
VOICE FROM THE PAST .................................................................................................................. 89
CARIBE CAPER ................................................................................................................................. 91
NORTH ISLAND SURPRISE ............................................................................................................. 95
SPLASHDOWN ................................................................................................................................. 101
AGAIN, UPGRADE .......................................................................................................................... 103
NEW KID ON THE BLOCK ............................................................................................................. 109
FRANKFURT LESSON .................................................................................................................... 113
HIGH ROLLERS ............................................................................................................................... 121
SPOILER PROBLEM ........................................................................................................................ 127
AU NATURAL .................................................................................................................................. 131
A HEALTHY PARANOIA................................................................................................................ 135
SIMILARITIES .................................................................................................................................. 139
DC-10 PROBLEMS ........................................................................................................................... 145
BACK TO COPILOT ......................................................................................................................... 146
TRAGEDY IN NIAMEY ................................................................................................................... 150
BIG BIRD........................................................................................................................................... 154
THE INTERVIEW ............................................................................................................................. 162
THE STRAW ..................................................................................................................................... 166
iii
Illustrations
Figure 1: Me in the DC-3. .................................................................................................................................... 13
Figure 2: Copilot Joe Migone. .............................................................................................................................. 15
Figure 3: Flying over Vietnam,. ........................................................................................................................... 19
Figure 4: Vickie made my day. ............................................................................ Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 5: Flying for HATS. .................................................................................. Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 6: Two loves; ............................................................................................. Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 7: It's good to be the Captain. .................................................................... Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 8: Tai Ping II; she turned out well. ............................................................ Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 9: The stretch DC-8-63;. ........................................................................... Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 10: "1776, Independence,", ....................................................................... Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 11: The Good Ship Galaxais, .................................................................... Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 12: Another fine painting. ......................................................................... Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 13: The wide-body DC-10 ........................................................................ Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 14: The DC-10 Engineer's ......................................................................... Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 15: Far more Bells & Whistles .................................................................. Error! Bookmark not defined.
Figure 16: Quark took us sailing. ......................................................................... Error! Bookmark not defined.
iv
PREFACE
It started out badly; I thought I was finished. Then again, I wasn’t one to
quit without a struggle. Luck and persistence finally paid-off until I was oncemore chasing the rainbow. Healthy once more, I’m off to Hong Kong to fly a C47, and meet Vickie, who will agree to become part of my life, forever. Then,
it’s a short interval in Honolulu before starting with Overseas National Airways
and jets. The DC-9, DC-8, and DC-10 were all planes I learned to fly with one
of the best.
v
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Pilot extraordinaire, a sailor of oceans, and author of over twenty books
was Earnest K. Gann. During World War II he delivered much-needed supplies
over the treacherous Hump, later he flew well-healed tourists to the Islands, and
once ferried a Gooney-bird 4000 over-water miles to Samoa. Gathering together
a crew of friends, Ernie sailed the schooner, Albatross, from Holland to
Sausalito for the adventure of being on the sea. His books reflected his
experiences with titles like, The High and the Mighty, Fate is the Hunter, and
Soldier of Fortune. Many movies followed. As a youth I couldn’t wait for the
next adventure in print or film to keep me spellbound. After years of enjoying
his pursuits, I wrote to him; he kindly and generously responded with a letter
and poem that I treasure. His, was all the inspiration I needed. Thank you
Mister Gann – Ernie.
The following have kept me reasonably honest and factual, for that I’m
indebted.
Miss Carry Picket, a great teacher, who patiently nurtured this old Geezer
through six-years of training in the How-to of stringing words together. How
she suffered me for so long, I’ll never know. With sincere appreciation, Carry, I
Thank You.
In a weak moment, Maggie Lloyd-Zeibak agreed to edit Volumes I and
II. (An author bears his sole to an editor.) For keeping the Vows of Silence as
my confessor Maggie, I also Thank You.
To my beautiful wife, Jennie Victoria Chan-Case; the constant has been
our love for each other. Thank you.
vi
1967; HOMEWARD BOUND
Death arrives in many forms; sudden, violent, painful, lingering. Remembering that
Saigon night in ICU; it came to call in a most pleasant, welcoming manner. All I had to do
was relax to let the cool darkness envelop and spirit me away to a place I’d never been. I
really don’t know why I stubbornly insisted on laboring for one more shallow breath. Dying
would have been so much easier.
The hospital in Saigon kept me on oxygen for three days; pumping me full of
adrenaline and bronchial-dilator pills before finally letting me shuffle out of their care.
Although I didn’t have active tuberculosis, they said my lungs were ruined. I checked out of
the ward and reluctantly gave notice to my employer, Continental Air Service. Ed Dearborn,
the chief pilot, kindly replied there would always be an opening for me if I decided to return.
I was on the next Air Vietnam flight to Hong Kong, having no idea what the future held.
Obviously, I looked ill; the first two hotels said they had no available rooms (Hong
Kong innkeepers are superstitious about guests dying in their rooms). The third was hungry;
overcharging me for less-than-first-class quarters. Turning the air-conditioner up, I washeddown some of the prescription Saigon-dilators with scotch, and slept for the next fourteen
hours. Waking-up with a ravenous hunger, I Ordered breakfast from room service and took a
steaming hot shower prior to the food to arriving. Answering the door with a towel wrapped
around my skinny frame. Trundling in a clean cart covered in white linen, the waiter ignored
me. With a flourish he set up the table with a large glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, eggs,
sausages, and buttered toast with a wonderful pot of steaming coffee. It was the best meal I’d
had in a long time. This was followed by a four hour nap; my date with death was slipping
away.
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While out on a stroll I bought a cassette player and some music tapes, before heading
back to my room for more sleep. Dinners were lots of fresh salads and Kobe beef entrées
followed by light music, a book, and more rest. Gradually, I weaned myself from the drugs as
my lungs began to improve. A week in Hong Kong reinvigorated me to where I could make
the flight to Honolulu without dying. While I was probably going to wind up in a recovery
sanatorium in the desert, I wasn’t contagious and wanted to lie out in the Hawaiian sun for a
couple of weeks spending some time with Toni, my little daughter.
BOAC, (now British Airways) up-graded me to first class when they saw I was flight
crew. My disabled-soldier-of-fortune act went over well with the stewardesses who
pampered me with food and drink all the way across the Pacific. In those days flying firstclass in a Boeing 707 on British Overseas Airways Corporation was something really special.
Nevertheless, the trip exhausted me and I was ready for bed when I checked into a Waikiki
hotel. I didn’t want the Filipino family that was taking care of my Toni to see how weak I
really was, even though my 125-pound emancipated body was a dead giveaway.
The next day I rented a car, bought some candy and flowers, and drove over to
Anita’s just as Toni was returning from school. I had known Anita for years, she was the best
friend of Nani, a Tahitian dancer I used to date; Nani danced off with someone else but Anita
and I remained friends. The flowers were for her, the candy for Toni and Anita’s two
daughters. She answered the door and looked at me for a surprised moment; “Dave, Dave
you’re home – you’re here! Oh, my God, you’re here!
“I’m here,” I smiling said, “Can I come in?
“Yes, yes of course. What are all those for? Toni and the kids will be home any
minute. Bob’s at work. You look so thin – let me help you.”
When Toni got home she threw her arms around me; hugging me so hard I thought
she was going to break my neck.
“Oh Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” tears running down her cheeks, “Daddy I missed you.”
“You’re staying for dinner,” not a question but a command from Anita.
The kids started to devour the candy before Anita snatched the box away, telling
them; “No more until after dinner; do you want to get sick?” Putting it up on a top shelf
where the children couldn’t reach, she good naturedly admonished, “You know it will rot
their teeth.”
“I know but it’s only five pounds…”
“Hand me that vase I want to get these flowers in water before they wilt. You
shouldn’t have…”
2
When Bob got home he broke out the beer and offered me a scotch. It was a grand
homecoming and I wasn’t going to spoil it by letting them know I was going to have to spend
a year or so in the desert. During dinner Bob wanted to know all about my adventures in
Vietnam. I responded by making light of my flying and the living conditions, explaining I
was little more than an airborne taxi driver who occasionally delivered packages when not
drinking beer and chasing the ladies of Tu Do Street. This seemed to satisfy him and fit in
with the image I carefully projected of a happy-go-lucky pilot. I saw no reason to go into
detail on just how dangerous the work and environment really was; in the first place he
would not have comprehended it, in the second place it would have frightened Anita and the
children.
After dinner we watched television for a while. Toni proudly showed me a drawing
that had earned her an ‘A.’ It was quite good for a second grader, my daughter had talent.
“Gee, honey that’s very nice. Where did you get the idea?” I queried.
“I got it from that plant over there. See how its leaves are getting big?” she said as she
pointed over to a potted palm Anita was tending.
“Yeah, it looks just like it – only better. I think you’re going to be a real artist when
you grow up. Come here and give me a hug.”
Toni jumped into my lap wrapping her arms around my neck. “Daddy, are you going
to stay home for awhile?”
“I’m going to try; how about you and me going to the beach tomorrow after school?”
At that Anita’s two daughters, who were a couple of years older than Toni jumped up and
shouted; “Me too – us too!”
Anita put on the stern-mother look, “You kids have homework. Besides, Uncle Dave
wants to spend time with Toni.”
“Hey, that’s okay. Toni, is it all right if we take them along? I’m thinking of Makapu
and some bodysurfing.”
“Okay; can we get some hot dogs and ice cream, too?”
“Of course; ‘Nita, I don’t mind. The kids are fun and I’ll have them back before
dinner. We’ll only stay an hour or so – I don’t want to sunburn.”
“Well, okay. But you kids better mind Uncle Dave or I’ll skin you when you get
home, do you hear?” Everybody laughed at that last remark. Anita was a good mother; there
wasn’t a mean bone in her body; her bark was far worse than her bite. I’d pick them up after
school and we’d make a beeline for the beach. With that settled, it was off to bed for the little
ones and I could have a serious talk with Bob and Anita about Toni and my immediate
future.
3
I explained how I’d tested positive for tuberculosis and that my lungs were full of
clouds on the x-rays. It put them at ease when I told them I wasn’t contagious; however it
was probably just a matter of time. I further explained what the doctors had said about me
drying out in the desert for the next year or so. They assured me it would be no problem
looking after Toni and that she was welcome in their home as one of the family. It was
fortunate indeed that I’d saved my money since the desert-cure and Toni’s care was going to
cost a small ransom. I went back to my hotel feeling exhausted but happy that things were
going to be all right.
Makapu was a wonderful small beach around the corner from Koko Head far away
from the tourists in Honolulu. The curl of the waves made it perfect for body surfing and the
kids had a ball. I even tried a few; it took me back to my growing-up surfer days in Long
Beach, California when I was about their age. The water always soothed me. Old King
Neptune greeted me and sent a couple of nice rollers my way allowing me to show off for the
kids.
“Hey, Uncle Dave, you’re not bad for a haole; where’d you learn da kine?”
“I’ve been surfing since before you were born. I learned when I was about your age.”
“Jeeez, that must have been a long time ago.”
“A very long time ago. Come on, ten more minutes and we gotta start home.”
“Aw.”
“Aw – can we get another ice cream?”
“If you don’t tell your mother…”
It was a fun afternoon; the sun and surf felt good on my body. I seemed to be getting
better and using the bronchial-inhaler less. Except, my face itched from the salt water;
somewhere I’d contracted a Barber’s Itch from shaving, and my face was all broken out like
a teenager’s. I made a mental note to visit a dermatologist the next day.
4
BACK IN THE SADDLE
Prescribing cortisone tablets, the doctor agreed it was an ugly rash. “Take these three
times a day and your face should clear up in a week; if it doesn’t give me a call and we’ll try
something else – and stay out of the sun.”
I wrote a check and thanked him.
By the third day the most amazing thing occurred; my lungs began to dramatically
clear up! At first I didn’t make the connection; nevertheless, the longer I was on the cortisone
the better I felt and the less I needed the inhaler and dilator pills. I avoided the sun by
hanging out in the bars along the beach and drinking Primo, the local beer of the islands. To
the regulars I explained that my startling recovery was due to the healing qualities of the beer
– who’d ever heard of cortisone?
As my face cleared-up the local ladies quit looking at me like a leper and things
began to get better and better. After the week was up I started putting in time at the beach,
being careful to not sunburn. I truly believe in the curative powers of warm sun and salt
water. Within a month I’d put on ten pounds and was feeling almost like my old self. More
good news arrived from my mainland doctor; I didn’t have TB after all! Apparently a spoor,
native to Vietnam, had settled in my weakened lungs creating all the problems. Within a
month I passed a flight physical and went back to work flying light planes around the islands.
Renting a small apartment near Anita’s I moved Toni into her own bedroom. She still
went to school with Anita’s kids, staying with them until I got off work. My life was getting
back to normal. I sure wasn’t going back to Saigon and risk getting sick again; that was as
close to dying as I cared to get. The only downside of the Islands was that the flying job
didn’t pay much money; I continually tapped into my savings to make ends meet.
One day a C-47 pulled up in front to the Hangar where I worked. It had just ferried in
from the mainland and was on its way to Hong Kong to provide support for a construction
company named Delong Dock, working in Vietnam. I introduced myself to the crew and
directed them to the Holiday Inn near the airport. They were friendly and seemed glad to
have met someone who knew the area. Bruce was the captain and chief pilot of the operation.
He invited me to the hotel for drinks after I got off work. Over scotch we traded stories and I
5
told him about my tour in Southeast Asia and my familiarity with the area where they were
going to be operating. We exchanged contacts and they left the next morning.
A couple of months later I received a phone call from Bruce telling me he’d had a
captain quit and would I like to come over to Hong Kong to take his place? The job involved
flying once a week to Vung Tau with a short stop at Cam Ranh Bay on the way back. It
amounted to a sixteen-hour day once a week and the pay was excellent. I couldn’t believe my
luck; I loved Hawaii but was rapidly going broke. Hong Kong was a World-Class city – one
of the best places in the world to live. Toni could attend private schools. And it was safe; no
shooting or violence in Hong Kong.
“When do you need an answer?” I asked after Bruce had finished with his offer.
“As soon as possible; the son-of-a-bitch just walked in and quit after he took a round
in the rudder on take-off out of Vung Tau. Oh, did I mention we pay extra for all the time
you spend in Vietnam? I need a guy out here right now.”
“I’m pretty sure I can make it – give me forty-eight hours – I’ve got to make some
calls.”
“Look we’ll take care of your rent and any fees you may have in moving this fast. I
need a captain out here now!”
“Okay, I still have to make some arrangements…”
“I’ll book you on Pan Am for two days from now.”
“Make it three…”
“Two.”
“Okay.”
“Keep track of your expenses; money is no problem.”
Hanging up, I wondered who in the hell was this guy Bruce. Nevertheless, there was
no question the money wasn’t going to be welcome after the big hole I’d dug in my savings.
The next day was a whirlwind of phone calls; Toni went back to Anita’s – the landlord
settled for a month’s advance rent, the utilities and phone company billed Anita. Bob said
he’d sell my car. Eric, the owner of the charter operation was disappointed but
understanding; “You know you’ve always got a job here if things don’t work out.”
“I know, thanks Eric. I’ll drop you a line as soon as I get settled.”
Two days later I was fluffing up a pillow and dozing in an over-the-wing windowseat on Pan Am II, bound for Tokyo, and Hong Kong. Part of me wondered if I was making
6
the right decision while the other part confirmed it’s what I do – it’s what I was meant to do.
I’m a whore; pay me and I’ll dance for you.
Tokyo was a short stop to offload passengers and refuel. I would have preferred
traveling on BOAC as they overnight all their passengers putting them up in four-star hotels
before continuing. However Bruce insisted I get there ASAP. After Tokyo the 707 was less
than half full so it was easy to find three seats where I could stretch out and sleep. We arrived
at Kai Tak airport in the morning after shooting the Checkerboard approach, dropping down
between the apartment structures to land on runway 1-3. The approach into Hong Kong is
one of the most exciting in the World for commercial airliners; just before landing, you are
actually looking up at the residents in the buildings on both sides of the plane. (In 1998 Kai
Tak was closed and the new Hong Kong International airport opened with safer approaches
and runways, thus closing an exciting chapter to flying in the Far East.)
It took less than thirty minutes to pick up my suitcase and clear customs. I called
Bruce from the airport to let him know I’d arrived. He said I was booked into the
Ambassador Hotel on Nathan Road, across from his apartment at the Peninsula Hotel. The
company sure provided fancy digs I thought. The Peninsula was the grand dame of all the
hotels in Hong Kong and the Ambassador was first class too. He sounded happy to hear from
me suggesting I get some rest before meeting for dinner at his place.
Grabbing a cab for the short drive to the hotel; it felt good to be back in the Orient. I
had no idea how the Brits pulled it off, keeping China at bay while making Hong Kong one
of the great trading cities of the World. Everybody hustles in Hong Kong and their energy is
contagious. It takes a lot of work to feed, clothe and house the multitude of people that have
migrated into this outpost of freedom from the great communist bear growling at the border.
Everybody struggles to provide. As the taxi fought its way through morning traffic I noticed
the women in their high-neck, split skirt, cheongsams busily scurrying to their employment.
They were all beautiful; not an ugly one in the bunch. The colony produced some of the most
beautiful women in the world. They must drown the ugly ones at birth I reflected. Damn, I
was going to like this assignment.
I was given a corner suite with a harbor view and fresh flowers on the table. This was
sure different than Continental Air Service. I phoned Dumas Dunn, an old friend, who was
delighted to hear I was back in town and assured me we’d be getting together for lunch as
soon as I got settled in.
I’d slept so long in the plane during the fifteen-hour flight I wanted to get some
exercise to work out the kinks, so I went window shopping up and down Nathan Road, the
main thorough-fare of Kowloon; the city across the channel from the island of Hong Kong.
All the shops had the latest cameras and recorders – it was a cornucopia of bargains, half
what I’d pay in Honolulu. Tailors offered shirts and suits at prices less than stateside
department stores charged for ready-mades. This was going to be a fun job. I began thinking
7
about an apartment over on Repulse Bay that could be rented for seven hundred a month.
Toni would love it here; I’d spoil her rotten with all the clothes and toys I could buy for next
to nothing. I stopped at a little place off the main avenue for some delicious borsch soup
before enjoying a nap and getting ready for my dinner with Bruce. I was definitely a Happy
Camper.
I’d learned Bruce had a wife and young boy so I bought a small bouquet of flowers
and some chocolates before going over to their apartment. Knocking on the door at the
appointed time I thought I’d made an error, arriving too early. Bruce was dressed in wrinkled
pajamas, his belly hid the top of the pants; a bottom button was missing from the shirt.
However his hair was combed and his clipped salt-and-pepper moustache that made him
resemble Clark Gable was brushed and he looked bright eyed.
“Hi, come in; you’re right on the dot – I like that. What’s this?”
“I thought your wife might like the flowers.”
“Well that’s real nice but my wife has allergies. Honey,” Bruce shouted into what I
assumed to be a bedroom, “Come in here and meet our new captain and bring Jeffery.” In
came a mousy middle-aged looking woman, perhaps a little younger than Bruce and dressed
in a plain housedress of the type worn by many older women in the Midwest. She was
leading a boy of ten or eleven years dressed in short pants and a long sleeved shirt. She
looked at me and her eyes darted back to Bruce. She appeared either scared on maybe on
some kind of medication. The boy was also shy and elusive, avoiding any eye contact.
“This is Ella, my wife. Ella, this is Captain Case.”
Holding out the flowers, I advanced towards her, “Here’s something I hope you like.”
“Oh, thank you Captain Case – they’re lovely.”
“Call me Dave, my name’s Dave.”
“Thank you David…”
Bruce interrupted her with, “I prefer we maintain a more formal relationship out here
until we get to know each other better. Ella’s on medication. The climate here doesn’t agree
with her – does it dear?”
“No Bruce,” I noticed she made no eye contact with that remark.
“Put the flowers on the table Dave; I’ll take care of them later. And this is my son
Jeffery. We’re thinking of sending him home to a private school. I’m afraid to enroll him out
here; too many foreigners. Jeffery say hello to Captain Case.” Jeffery came out from behind
his mother’s shadow and with downcast eyes he extended a limp hand and in a low voice
said, “How do you do sir?”
8
I took his hand and extended the box of chocolates. “Glad to meet you Jeffery; here’s
something for after dinner.” Jeffery looked over to Bruce without reaching for the box. I felt
silly holding the candy with no one seemingly interest in my gifts.
“Dave, why don’t you put those down with the flowers? Jeffery can’t eat chocolates;
it gives him a reaction.”
“Gee, I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”
“That’s all right; this place doesn’t agree with my family, and I don’t like it much
either. Let’s have a drink – bourbon or scotch?”
“Scotch with a touch of water, please.”
“I prefer bourbon; scotch always tastes like medicine.”
“That’s why I drink it – to kill the germs.”
Dinner was a quiet affair. Ella had fixed a bland roast served with mashed potatoes
and frozen peas. Conversation was exclusively between Bruce and me. Ella and Jeffery only
spoke to very-formally request the passing of a dish or condiment. Every effort I made to
engage them in conversation was met with the briefest of responses usually followed by an
interruption from Bruce. The boy referred to his father as, Sir and me as Captain Case. Ella
called me Captain. Bruce chatted away as though this was a perfectly normal evening, he
queried me about my past experience and people we mutually knew. I felt very
uncomfortable; this was a family under great strain – something was terribly wrong with the
way they interacted and it was obvious Bruce was a taskmaster.
“Day after tomorrow Teddy will ride with you to show you the route and introduce
you to the people you’ll be working with. Joe Migone – you met Joe in Honolulu – will be
your copilot. He’s a good boy but doesn’t have much experience.”
“When is showtime?”
“Zero four-thirty in front of the hotel. A car and driver will be waiting. Takeoff is
zero six hundred. It’s a six hour run to Vung Tau.”
“Sounds good to me; I’ll check in with Ted when I get back to the hotel.”
Dessert was a small dish of ice cream. It was obvious the evening was over and I was
expected to leave. “I’m glad we had this get-together, I like to size my pilots up before
putting them on the line,” Bruce said as he escorted me to the door. “I’m afraid Ella’s already
turned in – her medicine makes her drowsy.”
“Gee, that’s too bad, I hope she gets better. It was a nice time and a fine meal, please
relay my thanks to Ella and say goodbye to Jeffery for me.”
“I will. I want Jeffery to get plenty of rest too; this climate can hurt a person and
there’s a lot of malaria going around. Ella will get better when we leave this outpost.”
9
Outpost? Bruce had made it sound like this was some sort of hardship post on the
edge of the jungles of Laos. What the hell was he talking about? I felt for some reason he was
making this all up to either intimidate his family or maybe to impress his friends back in the
States. Hong Kong was a fascinating city loaded with excellent food, great clothes, fine
people, and just about everything a man could want. I made a mental note to stay as far away
from Bruce as I could.
I walked the few blocks in the fresh air to Ned Kelly’s Last Chance Saloon. If I was
lucky there might be a Qantas crew in town and the place would be jumping. I needed to get
my balance back.
10
CHECKRIDE
Thursday morning dawned cold and damp when I joined Ted and Joe in front of the
hotel as the driver came around the corner with a Holden station wagon. Joe was obviously a
new pilot; his youth, RayBan sunglasses, big watch, and pocket full of pencils were dead
give-aways. Ted looked used-up and well over the age sixty retirement rule for airlines. He
sported an ill-fitting toupee that made him look slightly comical. Throwing our flight bags in
the rear, we climbed in for the short ride to the airport. Both Joe and Ted were dressed in
gray Air Force flight suits with their names and a set of wings on leather patches on the
breast patch. I was in a pair of light tan khaki’s and a white shirt with epaulets and no bars or
insignia. Ted took the front seat next to the driver. Joe and I sat in the rear. “Joe will fill out
the flight plan and we’ll get the weather and file the plan. Then you and I will do the walkaround and check the load while Joe sets up the cockpit. Are you comfortable with ADF
navigation?”
“That’s all we had in Laos and much of Vietnam.”
“Well, we’ll be out over the water and it’s all we got here. You don’t want to get lost
over the South China Sea.”
I thought what the hell are the dramatics for? This is going to be a slam-dunk
compared to getting my ass shot off with Continental Air Service. “Yeah, it’s a long way
between airports after you leave Hong Kong.”
“We had one captain who couldn’t navigate with the ADF and he damn near wound
up in the Philippines dodging around a storm – hey Ted?” Joe volunteered.
“Yeah, well he also had a problem with drink. You ever drink and fly?”
What a strange question to ask, “No, I believe in the twelve-hour bottle-to-throttle
rule. I’ve only known one or two pilots who ever did that and they were fired.”
“We’ve had our share of losers out here, hey Joe?”
“Yeah, how about Jack?”
“He missed a show-time and we found him dead-drunk in his room with a Chinese
prostitute. Bruce fired him before the Old Man found out.”
11
“Who’s the Old Man?” I asked.
“That’s Colonel Delong; he’s the owner of this company. Did you ever hear of the
Texas Towers – the offshore oil derricks out in the Gulf of Mexico?”
“You mean the ones built on pilings that are triangular shaped?”
“Yeah, Delong invented and built them. He looks like Daddy Warbucks – wears
custom tailored chinos, boots, and shaves his head bald. He actually was a General in the
Army in World War Two; for some reason he likes to be called colonel,” Ted elaborated.
“He’s a wild man and when he fixes you with his eyes he’ll stare a hole right through
you. He’s scary as hell. Bruce is the only one who talks to him,” Joe added.
“That’s something too; you’re hired to fly the plane – not to kiss-ass with the colonel.
One of our captains thought he was going to take Bruce’s job by buttering up Colonel
Delong. He was on the next plane out of Hong Kong when Bruce learned that. Anything you
want you go through Bruce; stay away from the Colonel and you’ll get along fine. Oh, here
we are.”
The driver pulled up to a guarded gate where we pinned-on our identification badges
before getting out and were motioned in with a smart salute from the guard unto the airport.
Ted led us over to the customs area; a friendly uniformed agent casually looked at our flight
bags and passed us through. Around the corner was the operations office where flight plans
were filed and the weather reported. The smiling dispatcher greeted us with a manila folder
already stuffed full of maps and station reports.
Ted and Joe were brief, formal, and somewhat cold toward the guy who, after all, was
a part of the team required to get us safely along. I always liked a cordial greeting to those
who work so hard to make my life easier and safer, “Josan. Niegh ho maa?”
The clerk’s face lit up, “Josan Captain, ho – ho.”
“What did you just say to him,” Ted wanted to know.
“I said; good morning, how are you? And he responded with; good morning captain,
I’m good.”
“Where’d you learn to speak that gook shit?”
“I don’t know, probably in Cho Lon, the Chinese section of Saigon.”
“I like American.”
Whazoo, this guy’s got problems I thought as I pulled out the weather map for our
route. “Looks like it will be a good day, huh? Maybe a few afternoon build-ups on the way
back, but I think we can manage.”
12
The C-47 appeared in excellent shape. It was clean and not at all like the tired birds
I’d been flying. It was configured so that cargo could be strapped down in the cabin over the
wing, with passenger seats in the rear, behind the cargo. The cargo space and passenger seats
were all flexible so it was easy to reconfigure the tie-downs if there was a lot of cargo and
few passengers or vice-versa. A small toilet and baggage space was bulk-headed all the way
back behind the main door. Cold catering was provided with lots of water and soft drinks. A
large electric coffee mug completed the galley. Bruce had installed dual ADFs, VORs, VHF,
and HF radios making for comfortable backups. There was no radar or autopilot – I didn’t
expect any.
“You take the left seat and I’ll fly copilot. Joe you can ride the jump seat and keep the
coffee comin’,” Ted said as he struggled into the right seat.
“Okay, we got the gust locks and gear pins onboard? Where’s the checklist?”
“I like that. One of our captains tried to takeoff with the gear pins still in place. If
he’d lost an engine he’d have bought the farm.”
“I was on the plane. It was scary making a short pattern down the channel between
Kowloon and Hong Kong. We got our ass royally chewed by the tower when we landed,” Joe
elaborated.
“A buddy of mine was killed when he forgot to remove the gust locks before taking
off, but that’s another story; let’s go with the checklist,” I added.
The engines fired up and there was nothing out of the ordinary during the run-up. Ted
read back our Vung Tau clearance; we lifted off at 0556, four minutes ahead of schedule. The
plane was loaded with five thousand pounds of machinery and was a slow climber to our
cruising altitude of eight thousand feet. I pulled
out a blank howgozit sheet from my flight bag
and began writing down our course, ground
speed and computing the wind. I also filled in
blanks for the engine settings, temperatures, and
pressures.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ted
asked as I put the clipboard with the flight log
and data on the glare shield.
Figure 1: Me in the DC-3 a long time ago.
“Just getting setup; I like to keep a log of
everything we do; so if something comes up maybe we’ll spot the trend before it becomes
serious.”
Looking at the sheet of paper with all the lines Ted exclaimed, “Jesus, are you going
to fill that thing out?”
13
“Just over our Reporting Points; it will give me something to do and keep us from
getting bored – how about some of that coffee, Joe?”
“Sure thing Dave. I normally read a book – it’s a long day otherwise.”
“Whatever. Do you know how to figure the wind on your Whiz-wheel?” (Whiz-wheel
was a slang expression for Jeppesen’s CR-3 circular computer that every professional pilot
carried as part of his required equipment.) I said to Joe.
“I learned it when I was taking my Instrument Rating, but I haven’t done any since.”
“When you come back I’ll show you how to do it and how to figure rate-of-exchange
so you’ll know what something costs in dollars on Nathan Road.”
“You guys are nuts,” Ted grumped. “I’m going back to get some shuteye. Call me
when you sight the coast.” He squeezed past Joe and headed back to the cabin with a book. I
was somewhat thrown off balance; after all this was supposed to be a check ride. Either he
knew more about me than I thought he did, or he was a damn fool.
Joe brought up the two hot cups of coffee and slid into the vacant seat. “Teddy
doesn’t like to fly that much. He usually corks off as soon as we reach altitude.”
“Do you fly it all the way down?”
“Down and back; I just hold the heading he tells me to and it all works out. But he
doesn’t fly much. Whoever is the new captain does all the flying. Teddy’s getting old and he
sleeps a lot.
“What’s the connection between Ted and Bruce?” I asked.
“I think they worked together at another airline. Maybe they were buddies during the
war. Teddy’s the only captain that’s lasted with us.”
“How many captains have you had?”
Joe thought for a moment before answering, “With you I think we’ve gone through
five. One guy just quit after a couple of trips. Bruce said another was stealing from the
captain’s fund. There was the drunk and I can’t remember who else.”
I’d never heard of that big a turnover in so small an outfit. Something definitely
wasn’t kosher – I made a mental note to watch my backside. “Does Bruce fly the line?”
“Bruce stays home and takes care of the paperwork. He seldom gets in the cockpit.”
“When I get on the line I believe in splitting and alternating legs; you take one, I take
one – weather permitting. Come on I’ll show you how to figure the wind and log the position
report on this howgozit form.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that, where did you get it?”
14
“I think from an outfit I worked for in the Congo. However I’ve added some stuff to
tailor it for the ‘3.”
It was easy flying; the plane handled well and the weather cooperated, although I
thought we might get our butts kicked on the way home due to afternoon thunderstorms. Ted
stayed out of the cockpit; Joe seemed pleased with my ‘howgozit’, particularly when he had
to make the required position reports. “The other pilots wanted me to do it from memory and
it’s easy to screw-up and forget some things.”
“Yeah, this way you just read what you’ve written down and it’s in the proper order
so the guy on the ground doesn’t have to jump all around with his pencil to fill in his
squares.”
“Yeah sure; you sure are different than the other captains I’ve been flying with.”
“Really? How so?”
‘Well they don’t do any of this stuff; they just sit there and smoke and drink coffee.”
“This makes the day go faster. Besides we haven’t got anything better to do – unless
you want to play Twenty Questions for drinks back at the hotel?”
“No way! I kinda think you know this old bird backwards and forwards. You know
you’re different in the air than on the ground.”
“What do you mean?” I knew full well what he meant.
“When we first met I thought you were some kind
of playboy. You laughed; told jokes and drank and didn’t
seem to give a damn about anything. But in the air you’re
all business, you don’t mess around – if you know what I
mean.”
“Yeah I know what you mean. My philosophy is;
this is what I get paid to do and I’ll do the absolute best I
can when I’m earning my money. But on the ground,
that’s my time, I can raise hell or do anything I like with
all the money people pay me to fly. Some guys have it
backwards; they spend all their time on the ground trying
to look like a pilot and can’t find their ass with two hands
in the air.”
Figure 2: Copilot Joe Migone
confused by the ADF.
“I guess; but you sure are different.”
“How about some more coffee and I’ll make the position report?”
“Yeah, sure,” Joe responded and slid his seat back.
15
“Joe, how do you figure your descent profile?”
“Huh? I just sorta start down when the controller clears me.”
“How about this: We’re at eight thousand feet, if we’re cleared with a left turn-in like
we probably will be, and we descend five hundred feet per minute it will take us fifteen
minutes to get to final approach altitude. If we allow the ground speed to increase to where
we’re doing one-eighty; that’s three miles a minute. Three times fifteen is forty-five; so if we
start down forty-five miles out we should arrive with an easy and efficient descent.”
“You sure know your shit.”
“Wake up Ted, and tell him we’re approaching Phan Thiet.”
“Roger that.”
Ted appeared behind Joe and after a moment wanted to know how we were doing. I
explained we were sixty-five miles out and would be starting our descent in twenty miles.
“Okay, but don’t go out and play cowboy in a war zone.”
“I won’t.” Ted was a worrywart pilot and at his age probably couldn’t get another
flying position anywhere else. I wanted this job and would do my damnedest to humor him.
We were cleared to land from a left base. I glanced down at the beach where a few bikinied
sunbathers were enjoying the fine weather. It was hard to believe the enemy was only a few
miles away and the guy selling sandwiches from his cart was probably a spy.
Ted and Joe had swapped seats and he was once more flying copilot to me. “Be
careful this is a short runway. Keep your speed down.”
“It’s a thousand feet longer than the first time I landed here – then it was only twentynine hundred foot of PCP. We had to make three point landings and sometimes unlock the
tail wheel in order to ground loop the bird to keep it on the runway. That was short. Flaps,
full – Checklist complete?”
“Flaps full, checklist complete; you are cleared to land.”
“Thank you.” The old bird settled in easy and the landing was gentle. The tower
operator cleared us to the cargo ramp where a truck was standing by to offload their supplies.
As soon as I parked and set the brakes Joe opened the cargo doors and Ted was out of his
seat to greet the waiting supervisor. “After you finish the checklist come on down and I’ll
introduce you to Leonard our station chief,” he said as he left the cockpit. Under normal
circumstances the captain and copilot finish the checklist together making sure everything is
taken care of before leaving the cockpit. I didn’t see any reason for the rush but, hell, it’s his
plane I thought as I finished securing everything and noted the times-in on the ‘howgozit’.
“Lenny, I want you to meet Captain Case. This is his first trip with us and I’m seeing
if he can find his way around.”
16
Lenny was a typical construction stiff; late-forties, big belly, hard hat and engineer
boots. He wore a friendly grin as he extended his hand, “Pleased to meet you captain,
welcome to Vung Tau.”
I took his hand and replied, “Thanks. The name’s Dave and I’ve been in here before
with Continental.”
“You were with Continental? Those guys do some crazy flying. Why’d you leave?”
“I got a bug in my lungs in Saigon and it liked-to killed me.”
Lenny turned to Ted saying, “I don’t think the other guy lasted a month.”
“Three weeks; some of your VC friends shot a few holes in his tail and it shook him
up.”
“That shouldn’t bother you Dave after Continental, huh?”
“Not as long as they’re in the tail,” I replied.
“Ted, how many captains is this?”
“Six I think; we can’t seem to get any good ones.” Turning to me Ted continued,
“Captain, are you going to order fuel?”
“How about a couple of hundred it’s only another hour and ten to Cam Ranh Bay,
with Nha Trang the alternate we’ll have plenty of petrol. I thought we’d top-off while we offload, re-filed, and grab a bite of lunch at Cam Ranh.”
Turning to Lenny, Ted responded, “Do what you want – just don’t run us out of fuel.”
“Yes sir.”
Ted sure wasn’t friendly. I wondered if he felt threatened because of his age or was
he just following Bruce’s orders. Either way, it was strange – pilots are usually a cordial
bunch. Joe seemed okay but I noticed he tilted towards Ted whenever he was around; making
me seem more an outsider than a welcome new member of the organization. Ah well, it was
still a good job – great flying and money in Hong Kong – dream city.
While fueling we off-loaded some priority pumps and supplies for the dock Delong
was building down by the piers. Joe took care of the operation while Ted and I filed a flight
plan to Cam Ranh Bay. Managing the turn-around in just under an hour we were airborne at
1308 for the one hour twelve-minute flight. Afternoon rain clouds were building-up along
our route but it was no problem skirting the bigger ones. “You seem at ease flying over
enemy terrain,” Ted commented.
“I flew Vietnam for the past year, and Laos before that. At our altitude we’re above
the range of small arms fire and I doubt any VC are going to waste their ammunition on an
old cargo plane when they could use it against the Skyraiders.”
17
“Leaving Vung Tau was where the last captain took some rounds.”
“It was just some lucky shots by a stray VC; they didn’t get anything critical.” I
replied
“Still, they could have shot him down if they’d hit an engine or fuel tank.”
“Yeah and he could have been run over by a taxi on Nathan Road if he’d looked the
wrong way stepping off the curb.” These guys watch too much television news I thought.
Our descent to a straight-in approach at Cam Ranh was without incident except for afternoon
showers that made the runway and taxiways slippery.
Joe was all excited about this stop because the ramp could fuel the plane and we’d be
eating American food prepared by an American chef in an American dining room. “Wait
until you see where we’re gonna chow-down, Dave. These construction guys eat like kings
and the cook always saves some pie and ice cream for us.”
“We can dine pretty well in Hong Kong…”
“Aw that gook food doesn’t compare to this. Besides, you never know when you’re
going to get some bug that will make you shit for a week.” Joe interrupted. Ted and Bruce
had brainwashed him.
Deplaning after completing the checklist, the construction foreman gave us a short
ride in his pickup to where lunch was being served. He pulled up in front of a somewhat
decrepit looking small ship tied up to a dock under construction. Addressing me, Joe
exclaimed as he swept his arms to show-off the boat, “Recognize it?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s the San Pablo. Colonel Delong bought it in Hong Kong and had it towed down
here. It’s our crew boat – all the construction workers live and eat on it.”
“I’m sorry, I still don’t know; what’s the San Pablo?”
“Didn’t you see the movie the Sand Pebbles with Steve McQueen? This is the USS
San Pablo from the movie; it’s a real antique.”
“Wow,” I was impressed. “Does she run?”
“Naw, but all the machinery is there. If we have time John Paul will take you on a
tour.”
“Who’s John Paul?”
“He’s the headman in charge – he runs this operation in Cam Ranh…”
“He’s also married to the colonel’s only daughter,” Ted interrupted. “Let’s get going;
we won’t have time today to do any touring. We’ll be lucky to get back by nine this evening
– and that’s a long day.”
18
“I agree; we’re going to be three tired puppies by the time we roll into the hotel,” I
added.
“I’m going to order steak, a baked potato, salad, some string beans, and hot apple pie
with lots of ice cream.” Joe said as we proceeded up the gangway.
“Where are you going to put it?” I joked.
“Joe’s got a bottomless stomach. I never saw a guy that could eat as much as he can.”
Ted acknowledged.
“That’s because I don’t eat at the hotel – I don’t want to get sick.”
Joe led the way to a small dining room on the main deck with a cafeteria-style
counter. The cook knew Joe and Ted and smiled a greeting while shaking my hand. Ted also
went for a steak. I ordered a meat loaf sandwich and coffee.
“Captain you oughta try my steak,” the cook
said.
“Maybe next time; someone’s going to have to
stay awake on the run home. All this food makes for
heavy eyelids.” I countered.
“Suit yourself; we got it and you’re welcome to
it.”
“Thanks,” I said as I filled a mug from the
coffee urn. No question about it; construction crews ate
well.
“Bruce wants you to dress in flight suits the
same as ours; what’s your size and I’ll order a set for
you from the base ops officer?” Ted said over coffee.
“If it’s all the same to you I’d rather fly in
civilian clothes.”
Figure 3: Flying over Vietnam, I
preferred to look like a civilian.
“Why don’t you want to be part of the team – they’re free.”
“If for any reason we go down over enemy territory, and we survive the landing I
want to look like a civilian – maybe even pass for a Canadian or Frenchman. That way, the
VC or village chief will figure they’ll be able to collect a ransom if I’m delivered alive. On
the other hand, if I’m dressed like a military pilot I have no value; they’ll shoot first, and not
bother with questions.” I could see Joe hadn’t even considered this scenario; he was too busy
looking like a hotshot pilot.
19
“Suit yourself, but Bruce won’t like it; he wants us to be standardized.”
“Then we should wear civilian uniforms with identification saying the company will
pay five thousand in gold for our safe return – that’s the way other civilian outfits do it.”
“Delong doesn’t think we’re worth five thousand,” Joe kidded.
The flight back to Hong Kong took a little under five hours. Joe and Ted traded seats,
sleeping or dozing most of the way. We dodged a few big build-ups, getting bounced around
and wet in a couple of downpours; however it was nothing to be overly concerned about. The
approach into the airport was the standard ILS down to the checkerboard and minimums;
then visually following the tiny amber lead-in lights, sprinkled among the brighter lights of
Kowloon, as they curved to runway 1-3.
I was beat by the time we walked into the lobby seventeen and a half hours later. No
Ned Kelly’s tonight; a scotch and two aspirins would be my nightcap. I planned to have
lunch with Dumas Dunn the next day and catch up on all the happenings.
20
THE RIGHT CHOICE
It’s amazing what eight hours sleep, a couple of cups of rich coffee, a warm croissant
covered in butter and jam, and a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, can do for a
person; I started the day feeling great.
Nathan Road was crowded with pedestrians and vendors transporting products using
a stick and two baskets. Around the corner was the grand entrance to the dowager Peninsula
Hotel with the immaculately uniformed bellhops holding open the Rolls Royce Silver Cloud
Limo doors for gentlemen and ladies of means – definitely very-very snooty and posh. One
block further was the dour Chinese Trade-Mission store. A gray building with pictures of
Chairman Mao and big red stars plastered in the display windows. The only items that
warranted a second look were the silks and carved ivory. All the displays featured products
manufactured in communist China that looked of such poor quality I wondered who in their
right mind would buy such junk.
At the end of the block and across the street was the Star Ferry terminal where big,
old, red double-decked London buses awaited another load before starting their routes around
Kowloon and on to the New Territories. Mercedes taxis jostled with rickshaws for fares.
Street vendors sold postcards, and octopus or squid boiled in a crock pot. A newspaper stand
had the latest issues of the South China Post and the Wall Street Journal. I loved the
atmosphere. A ferry left every ten minutes for the island; ten cents below deck in economy,
or twenty for first-class topside for the twelve minute ride – I splurged for first class.
The ride across the channel was invigorating; fresh salt-air filled my lungs, while my
eyes absorbed the visual sights; Hong Kong the island, Kowloon, the tip of the New
Territories, and part of the mainland. The ferry captain with a minimum of movement
expertly dodged the big cargo-carrying junks and ocean bound ships to arrive at the Central
District terminal. It was such a nice day I preferred to walk the few blocks to the Hilton Hotel
where Alitalia Airlines had their corporate offices. Dumas was an executive with the airline,
rating his own office and secretary. I knew this because I’d talked to her on the phone several
times when I called. I hurried up the stairs to the third floor and turned into his office where I
came face-to-face with the most beautiful girl in the World.
She looked up from her desk as I opened the door, “Yes, may I help you?”
21
I hesitated, catching my breath from the brisk walk and blinking at this perfect China
Doll in a floral cheongsam. “Uh, I’m Captain Case, I have an appointment to see Mr. Dunn.
She smiled at me before answering, “Oh yes, Dumas has told me about you – just a
moment.” She rose and lightly knocked on Dumas’ door before entering to announce my
arrival. Her high neck dress also had the long split up the side that characterized the garment.
The classic Chinese cheongsam could make a coat Hangar look sexy. My first thought was to
get to know her – my second thought was to forget it; a gentleman doesn’t hit on a buddy’s
secretary.
Dumas accompanied her to the outer office, “David, it’s so good to see you. I’ve
made reservations for lunch at my club and you’re right on time.”
“Dumas, you are looking better than ever; I walked over from the ferry and was afraid
I’d be late so I hustled the last few blocks and ran up the stairs.”
“Never mind.” Turning to his secretary he continued, “Miss Chan, this is the famous
Captain Case I was telling you about. He checked out Eddie Ip and Roger Chen as captains
with Continental.”
“How do you do Captain?” Miss Chan extended her hand giving me a dazzling smile,
“I’ve heard so much about you.”
“It’s all lies – Dumas says things just so I’ll buy lunch.”
“Not this time. Your money is no good at my club and Beacon Yeh will be there too.
Come on, let’s go. Oh, Miss Chan I should return about one thirty.”
“Nice meeting you Miss Chan,” I said over my shoulder as Dumas hustled me out the
door.
“Your secretary is a beauty, where did you get her?”
“I’ve known her family for ages. I was an aide to her father during the war. She’s a
lovely child.”
We walked the few short blocks to a building where a uniformed doorman nodded to
Dumas as he held a door marked “Private Club” open for us. We walked up a short flight of
stairs to a room with lots of teak, lush draperies and powerhouse looking men smoking big
cigars. Dumas was greeted warmly by several members, I was introduced as his guest.
“Come Dave, let’s have a drink first,” Dumas suggested as we made our way towards two
empty stools next to an older gentleman at the bar.
“Damn, there’s Beacon now,” Dumas acknowledged.
The gray-haired distinguished looking man turned around and his face lit up, “I heard
my name – Captain Case – captain how are you?” he said as he came off his stool and took
my hand in greeting.
22
“Beacon, you rascal — how are you? How’s Eddie?” We exchanged warm greetings.
Beacon was the father of Eddie Ip, my friend from Continental Air Service. He was also an
ex-vice president of the Shanghai-Hong Kong Bank before the Communists took over in ’49.
“Eddie’s fine. He enjoys flying captain – he likes the extra money – although Diane
can spend it as fast as he makes it. He wants to know when are you returning to
Continental?”
“I don’t think I’ll be going back; Saigon doesn’t agree with me. There’s a spoor or
something in the air that affects my lungs. Besides, I like it here in Hong Kong.”
Drinks were ordered and the three of us couldn’t talk fast enough – we were all so
glad to once-more be together. I don’t recall what we had to eat, but I remember Dumas
didn’t get back to the office before two o’clock and I took a long afternoon nap after
returning to the Ambassador. Dumas sure had a beautiful secretary. It felt so good to be back
among comrades.
Bruce was annoyed I didn’t want to dress in military flight suits and no amount of
explanation made him see my side. It became a pissing contest where I was put on the spot to
wear the damn things or I wouldn’t be considered part of the team and, therefore,
expendable. I held my ground; I wasn’t going to risk getting killed needlessly for some fat,
middle-aged man’s idea of what a pilot should look like. He eventually let me slide but said I
wasn’t following the rules.
I took the next trip South without Ted. Don Lynch was the other copilot; I hadn’t met
him because he lived with his wife in an apartment away from the downtown area. Don had
airline experience and was a good pilot – he also had a lot of common sense. We met in front
of the hotel with the driver who’d picked him up at his flat. “Hey Dave, I hear you’re already
in trouble over not wearing the flight coveralls?” he smiling said as we shook hands.
“Yeah and when you’re flying with me you don’t have to wear them either,” I
responded.
“Sounds good to me; I don’t like playing soldier over enemy territory.”
On the ride to the airport we got to know each other. While we hadn’t previously
worked together we both had mutual friends in the business. I felt comfortable with Don and
was glad to have him, rather than Joe for a copilot. Don mentioned how it was Joe who had
forgotten the gear pins, making it impossible to retract the landing gear on takeoff, and how
Bruce put a hundred-percent of the blame on the captain, letting Joe walk. He further
confirmed what I observed; Joe, Ted, and Bruce were a very tight clique, everybody else was
considered an outsider, and subject to suspicion. I’d never worked for a company like that;
what the hell did they have to be cliquish about? It was nothing more than a simple, relatively
23
safe, supply mission to service two bases in Vietnam. It should be a fun job with a happy
crew.
On the way south Don took the time to brief me on the underside of the operation:
Originally, there’d been two planes but one had failed to pass licensing at its last inspection
due to inner-granular corrosion and age. Don suspected Bruce was skimming on everything
he could get his hands on, and that was why he kept replacing captains because as soon as
they got wise he was afraid they’d rat him out. I volunteered I didn’t give a damn what he
was doing; I liked Hong Kong and the flying, he could embezzle DeLong Dock silly as long
as he just left me alone to live and fly without any hassles.
Asking how he managed to get away from the hotel with his wife; he offered the
following. “I explained to Bruce we could live cheaper in an apartment than the hotel. When
he figured-out how he could continue to bill the company three-thousand dollars per month
for the hotel, and pay me less than half for the apartment, he said June and I could move out.
You’ve got to come over for dinner; June fixes a roast to die for. And you won’t have to
worry that Joe or Ted will report that you’re drinking too much or starting trouble in the bar.”
“Is that what happened to the other guys?”
“Some of them. Oh, another thing – when Bruce hands you the Captain’s Fund – it’s
five thousand dollars in a sealed envelope, right?”
“Yeah, and then I return it after the flight.”
“Well my suggestion is you open the envelope and count the money out in front of
Bruce so that both of you agree on the amount in the envelope. That’s how he got one captain
fired. Bruce said there was five hundred dollars missing from the fund.”
“Jeezus, I’ve never heard of someone pulling that one.”
“Just be careful; the guy probably won’t try anything for a while until he figures you
know, or have seen too much – or when he begins thinking you’re becoming a threat to him –
then, watch out!”
I’d never heard of anything so outrageous; was Don exaggerating? It would seem to
me that someone in the company would put a stop to this sort of thing. How could Bruce hide
so much fraud?
“Why does the company put up with this sort of thing?”
“Delong Dock’s got a huge contract with RMK-BRJ, (Raymond, Morris-Knudsen,
Brown, Roote and Jones, later to morph into Haliburton), the parent company doing all the
work in Vietnam. Flying this plane is chump change. I think the Colonel would like to maybe
replace Bruce but he hasn’t the time or knowledge of where to get anybody better. In his
book, he lives with the devils he knows, rather than go out and perhaps wind up with
something worse. After all; Bruce makes the planes run on time.”
24
“That’s the same thing they said about Mussolini except it was trains. How do you
survive?”
“Copilots don’t count – we’re not a threat to him. Only a captain can replace him;
that’s why you’ve got to stay well clear, and be super-careful of the bastard.”
“Thanks.” Wow, what the hell have I gotten myself into?
With Don I could set-up a two-on-and-two-off schedule, and not worry he’d get us
lost over the South China Sea or wander into North Vietnam while dodging a thunder storm.
Vung Tau showed up right on schedule.
Don flew it to Cam Ranh, I took it home. It was a pleasant day; Don was a good pilot;
we got along well swapping stories about the various people and places we’d experienced. I
learned this was Don’s first overseas posting, and his wife June loved being among those
from different cultures. He was going to be one of the good ones, I thought.
Everything settled in: I’d fly one trip with Don, Ted would take the next with Joe.
The plane ran well and the weather mostly cooperated. Wednesday was lunch with Dumas
and a chance to chat briefly with Miss Chan. I bought a suit and one of the new cassette
recorders to replace the reel-to-reel tape deck that took up so much space in my room. Ned
Kelly’s and the Bayside Lounge filled my evenings. Life was good.
Then, Ted had a problem that necessitated his temporary return to the States: For
some reason he felt the need to wear a poorly fitting hairpiece; the adhesive he used to keep it
in place caused an infection that was eating the skin off the top of his head. Bruce gave him
leave to let his scalp heal away from the humidity of Hong Kong. Personally, I couldn’t
understand why the guy wanted to cover up his bald head with something that obviously
made him looked older and a little ridiculous – but then, I wasn’t over sixty. I didn’t mind
taking up his runs except I was assigned Joe for every-other trip and he was a pain, with his
ignorance and general lack of ability. I often wondered why some people pursued careers for
which they had no talent. You see it in doctors, lawyers, and airline pilots. Fortunately, the
demands of the job eventually weed out most of the misfits. I was convinced Joe was going
to wind up a dispatcher or scheduler for some mid-sized airline where he could impress those
under him with his days of glory while secretly being jealous of the pilots whom he sent off
into the blue.
One Wednesday I stopped by Dumas’ for lunch and Miss Chan informed me, “Mister
Dunn apologizes he is in a meeting and unavailable for lunch.”
At last my chance had arrived: “In that case you’ll have to have lunch with me,” I
cockily replied.
25
She hesitated, stumbling a bit, “I can’t – it’s not done.”
“Miss Chan I’m merely asking you to have lunch with me because I have a very
sensitive stomach. Unless I dine with someone, I tend to get the hiccups. Certainly you won’t
deny me the chance for a good meal without any discomfort.” (It wasn’t much, but it was all
I could think of on the spur of the moment.)
“Well, I guess one lunch won’t hurt; do you like dim sum?”
“I love dim sum.”
That innocent lunch led to dinner, to lunch, to the theatre, to touring the island, to
lunch, and to more dinners. I was totally in love with Miss Chan who informed me over that
first repast her friends called her, Vickie. Not only was she beautiful and intelligent, but she
had a great sense of humor, was a good dancer, a fair singer and could speak five languages.
She took me to Victoria Peak for a breathtaking view of Hong Kong and Kowloon. We
watched the moon rise out of the South China Sea at the famous Repulse Bay Hotel’s open
dining room. I met her family – her sister Maria, was married to a guy who liked to race
sports cars, so we went to the races. I was bursting with joy; my life could not have been
fuller.
It was then Bruce called me over to his apartment one evening to inform me; “The old
man want us to meet him in Jakarta with the plane and scout out some timber on the
adjoining islands. We’ll be gone a couple of weeks. You and I will fly the plane.”
“Okay, when do we leave?”
“Right after you get back from the next run to ‘Nam. You don’t mind flying copilot to
me do you?”
“No, I’ve got no problem with that.” Why should I? Don had informed me Bruce was
afraid of flying in Southeast Asia. He didn’t like over-water on two engines, he couldn’t
understand the controllers, he was terrified of being shot down and captured; none of which,
particularly bothered me.
“Well don’t worry; we’ll split every other leg. I just want someone who won’t screwup and knows how to get around this end of the world.”
My main concern was leaving Vickie for two weeks; I was ass-over-teakettle-in-love.
So I did what to me made sense; I bought as large an engagement ring as I could afford and
invited her to once-more have dinner with me at the Repulse Bay Hotel.
The balmy evening was perfect. We had the best table on the open veranda with a
huge yellow China Moon rising out of the bay casting its beam directly towards us. I’d
ordered oysters in the half shell, lobster and Kobe beef with a chilled bottle of Pouilly Fuisse.
26
Vickie was elegant in a beautiful evening gown. I felt admiring eyes glancing towards us as
the uniformed waiters went out of their way to provide us with an evening to remember.
All of a sudden a voice from across the room called out; “Hey Case, where’d you get
the doll?” I couldn’t believe it; who in Hell would know me around here? Looking over, I
spotted Steve Parker, Shirley MacLaine’s husband. He was an impresario of Asian talent in
the Far East. We’d met in Honolulu when he’d visited with a show from Japan. Excusing
himself from his table, he walked over to join us and meet Vickie. Steve was a fun guy but
not someone I wanted to spend time with this evening.
I quickly explained to Vickie who he was, before replying to him as he came
alongside our table. “Hi Steve, this is Miss Chan my fiancée.” Oops, the cat was out of the
bag.
“Really? You are a lucky guy to have found such a treasure. How do you do Miss
Chan?”
“Vickie – my friends call me Vickie,” she responded as she held out her hand.
Pleasantries were exchanged. Steve said he had a show opening at the Mandarin and
we should drop by to catch it. I told him I was headed for Jakarta but would keep in touch. “I
can see you two don’t need any more company; would you excuse me? Nice meeting you
Miss – uh Vickie.”
“And you Steve – nice meeting you,” Vickie replied
With that Steve returned to his table and sent over a bottle of champagne.
“What did you mean fiancée?” Vickie asked after he’d gone.
“Well I – uh this isn’t how I meant it to be – I uh.” Fumbling in my jacket pocket I
pulled out the case with the ring in it. “Vickie honey, will you accept this engagement ring
until I get back from Indonesia? We can set the date when I return,” I blurted out; I’d lost my
entire cool. This wasn’t how I’d planned it.
Vickie looked at me then at the ring, “It’s beautiful – is this a proposal?”
“Well yes.”
“I think you’d better ask my mother for permission.”
“Do you think that will be a problem?”
“I don’t think so – she likes you. But you still must ask her first.”
“What about you?”
“We’ll set the date after you come back,” that dazzling million-dollar smile crossed
her face as we exchanged a brief kiss.
27
“Nice going mate,” came the confirmation from the Aussie at the table next to ours as
he and his wife raised a toast to both of us.
By the time the taxi got us back to the Star Ferry terminal it had shut-down for the
rest of the night. In the interest of preventing Vickie from catching a cold I suggested we
register into the Hilton, but it didn’t work. She said her mother was expecting her home and
we could take a Walla-walla to Kowloon. From the upper deck of the Star Ferry I’d often
looked down on the tiny open-decked, round-bottom, sea-going delivery trucks that were
piled-high with vegetables and freight from Kowloon to the Island as they splashed and
bobbed around bigger ocean traffic. Frankly, I never expected to be actually riding in one,
particularly in evening clothes. The name, Walla-walla, was derived from the sound the
boat’s engine makes; walla-walla-walla-walla, as it pushes the cockle shell along. Vickie
flagged down the straw-hatted old woman-operator who’d just dropped off her load at the
dock.
There was some Chinese spoken; the argument over price quickly settled and she
nimbly jumped onboard. “Come on, do you want me to give you a hand?” she said as she
reached up to help me board.
“I think I can manage. Aren’t you worried about ruining your dress?”
“We can sit forward near the cuddy; it will be almost dry up there – come on.”
I followed her and was amazed at her sea legs; this was one-gutsy lady I’d chosen.
We dodged and walla-walla’ed around junks and ships, taking a couple of splashes
over the bow with our woman-captain shouting and giggling at these two Swells ducking to
avoid getting any wetter.
“It’s fun, isn’t it?” Vickie said with a laugh, her hair sparkling from the spray.
“Yeah, but I’d rather be doing it when properly dressed.”
“The cleaners will take care of your clothes – this is a lot more fun than the ferry.”
The trip across the strait took about twenty-minutes and I was more-than-convinced
I’d made the best choice.
28
INDONESIAN INTERLUDE
Bruce and I set off the next day making the regular run to Cam Ranh Bay, then
proceeding directly to Singapore. After fueling in Singapore, Bruce decided to spend the
night rather than pushing on to Jakarta. He ordered some food through the ground personnel
servicing us and announced we could spend the night in the plane to save money and get an
early start the next day. Bruce looked ridiculous in his military flight suit – sort of a frayed
over-age Clark Gable with moths. The ground crew kept asking me who the old man was and
why were we going to Jakarta. I think they thought we were some kind of adventurers out to
start some mischief. Between the humidity and the mosquitoes I sweated and scratched all
night long; I was sure this was just another trick of his to pocket the cost of hotel rooms.
Damn, this was going to be a long two weeks.
The next day was an easy four hours to Jakarta and a hot shower. The hotel was the
best in town and my room was first class. Bruce said we were to meet the Colonel for dinner
and I was to keep my mouth shut. I walked around town after taking a relaxing shower. It
was a crowded city with lots of traffic and exhaust smoke. There weren’t any signs of the
recent revolution that had thrown Sukarno out and installed Suharto, another dictator. The
people were friendly, smiling at me to buy their fruit or baskets, or whatever else was being
offered. They obviously were poor but not starving. I felt good getting the feel of the town
and people although the humidity was a killer. A couple of hours of walking and I was ready
for another shower and a nap before being introduced to Colonel Delong.
At five minutes before seven I met Bruce in the lobby. I was in freshly pressed shirt
and slacks, Bruce looked like he’d slept in his clothes – the contrast was obvious. “Where’d
you get your clothes pressed?” Bruce asked.
“The room boy took care of them,” I answered.
“Don’t put it on the bill.”
“It’s part of the service.” Oh boy, this is going to be a long two weeks.
Colonel Delong showed up right on time with Jim, his aide and confidante. The
Colonel appeared to be in his mid-sixties, sporting a polished bald head. He was tall, his nononsense military bearing exuded command. He was dressed in sharply pressed custom
29
khakis, and polished black engineer’s boots. He came across as a combination of John
Wayne and Daddy Warbucks. Jim was about the same age as the colonel, but much more
casual in an open shirt, slacks, and a mop of gray hair. Bruce made the introductions; I felt
immediately comfortable with the colonel’s eye contact and firm grip. Here was a man who
was in charge and enjoyed people; I instantly liked him. Jim must have either been an old
school chum or they’d worked together for a long time; he referred to the Colonel as Bill, his
first name.
Dinner was more or less formal; the colonel dominated the conversation, with Jim
adding bits and pieces. He outlined what he expected to accomplish and where he wanted to
go. He further stated he’d made arrangements for two Indonesian naval officers to
accompany us to cut through any red tape or problems we might encounter. Bruce was not
comfortable around Colonel Delong and it showed. I remained silent unless addressed and
referred to my employer as either Colonel or Sir.
Turning to me Colonel Delong said, “Tell me Dave, where were you working before
you came on board here?”
“I was working in Honolulu, however I’ve just returned from two years in Laos and
Vietnam.”
“You weren’t one of those Air America pilots were you?” he said with a smile.
“No sir, I was with Continental Air Service.”
“I never heard of them.” He responded with interest.
“We were like Air America only without the publicity.” I wanted to change the
subject.
“Real James Bond, heh?” he said with a wink.
“No sir, we just flew supplies…”
“I’ve heard some of those supplies were five hundred pound bombs,” he laughingly
responded.
“Bill, I think Continental was Bird & Son before Bob Six bought them out. They got
a lot of Spook contracts through Pierre Salinger,” Jim interjected. This guy was no dummy,
he’d done his homework.
Lowering his voice the Colonel leaned towards me conspiratorially, “Did you fly a lot
of CIA stuff?”
“I don’t know sir I just drove the plane.”
He fixed me with a stare for a moment, which I returned with my best, who-me look.
“I like a man that can keep his mouth shut. Bruce, I think you’ve got a good one here.”
30
Bruce responded with, “Yes sir, I think Dave’s gonna work out just fine.”
Later that night when we were heading up to our rooms, Bruce stopped me in the hall,
“Listen, I told you to keep your mouth shut and stay away from the Colonel. If you want to
keep your job you’ll do what I say.”
“Bruce, I just answered his questions.”
“Yeah well, don’t be so cute next time.”
“Yes sir, what time is show-time tomorrow?”
“Let’s make it six-thirty in the dining room. I want to get out to the plane early to
make sure everything’s in order.”
“Rog, I’ll be there – good night.”
“Goodnight and don’t forget what I said.”
After breakfast Bruce filled the coffee thermos at the hotel and we headed out to the
airport in advance of Jim and the Colonel. They showed about nine-thirty with the two
uniformed naval officers who were going to be our guides. We were bound for Makasar,
almost six hours down the line. It was a beautiful day to fly and I enjoyed the scenery from
the left seat. Bruce spent most of his time in the back, brown-nosing the Colonel. Jim asked
permission before sliding into the copilot’s seat.
“Ever been down here before?” he asked.
“No, but I like it; there most be hundreds of islands down there.”
“At least that many; Indonesia is over three thousand miles from east to west. That’s
wider than the United States. There are places down there that have never seen a white man.”
“Wow; what are you guys looking for?”
“Bill has a plan to log hardwood from some of these islands – you know, teak,
apitong – that sort of thing. He’s got an idea to rig-up barrage balloons on cables so that the
logged trees can be airlifted from where they were felled, down to the water and onto waiting
barges. That way you don’t have to go to the expense of building roads and importing
logging trucks.”
“Sounds like a creative way to get the job done. The Colonel’s got a good idea.”
“You ever hear of the Texas Towers in the Gulf of Mexico?”
“You mean those triangular shaped oil rigs that are built on pilings?”
“Yup; Bill and I designed those. I guess you could say we invented them. That’s how
he made his first fortune – it was his idea.”
31
“If he came up with the oil rig idea; he sure shouldn’t have any trouble designing a
way to get logs out of these forests.”
“Yeah, but the problem’s going to be to get the Indonesian government to let him log
the area without stealing him blind.”
“What do you mean?”
“Indonesians are noted for double dealing – when they die they’re not buried like you
‘n me – they’re screwed into the ground. Anyway, if Bill can cut a deal where they won’t
steal too much, we may give it a go down here. That’s why we brought along the two Navy
guys; their families are supposedly well connected with Suharto and that will help us
negotiate when the time comes. Did you bring anything to eat?”
“I’ve got a couple of candy bars – you want one?”
“How come Bruce didn’t cater the plane?”
“I don’t know, maybe he was worried about getting food poisoning from the heat –
we don’t have any refrigeration.”
“Along about now I’d risk food poisoning against starving. Lemme have one of those
candy bars, huh?”
“Sure – Hershey or Snickers?”
We droned along at fifty-five hundred feet dodging the occasional thundercloud, but
mostly just sightseeing down the island chain on our way to Makasar located on the
southwest tip of Celebes Island. The random trading dhow with its big lateen sail passed
under our nose. They were probably looking up at us wondering where we were going just I
stared down on them with the same thoughts. This was Lord Jim country and I was hooked.
We landed, cleared customs, and were in the old colonial hotel by five-thirty; just in
time for a shower, a scotch, and dinner. The Colonel gave the order; whiskey at six-thirty,
dinner at seven. It felt good to get out of my flying clothes and into fresh attire after a
lukewarm shower.
We rendezvoused in the bar; the two naval officers had changed into fresh white
uniforms looking ready for inspection. Colonel Delong had on fresh khaki’s. Jim and I
looked presentable, but Bruce wore his old wrinkled clothes from Jakarta. I felt sorry for him
because he looked so out of place with the rest of us – either he didn’t know how to fold his
clothes or hadn’t brought along enough. I ordered whiskey with ice. Bruce warned me the ice
would make me sick and complained because the bar didn’t have any bourbon.
“Bruce, you’ve got to learn to drink scotch overseas; nobody carries bourbon that you
can afford beyond Honolulu,” the Colonel admonished him.
32
“Well they should; damn scotch tastes like medicine – I’ll take a beer.”
The officers drank beer while Jim and the Colonel drank their whiskey neat.
“Bruce isn’t that flight suit uncomfortable?” the Colonel said as he put down his
glass.
“It gets a little hot but all the pockets hold the stuff I need to fly.”
“Hell, you spent most of the time in the back with us; how do you take a dump in that
thing?”
“You take a dump before you get in it,” Bruce countered.
“Still, I think your co-captain has the right idea for flying in the tropics – keep it light
and don’t sweat so much.”
Bruce glanced over at me with a look of anger before answering, “It’s all I brought
along and it keeps the mosquitoes away.”
I was toasted for providing a smooth flight and Jim suggested to Bruce it might be a
good idea to order catering from the hotel before we left on our next run. Bruce brought up
his concern for food spoilage and Jim countered with; “Tell the hotel to pack the food in
plastic bags of ice – and don’t forget to order more water.”
I ordered my dinner from the local menu; it was spicy and the rice fresh and tasty.
Bruce complained his steak was tough. Jim pointed out steak was not their strong suit,
commenting his pasta was okay. The Colonel complimented me on my choice adding, “I
wish I could eat highly spiced food like that, but my stomach just won’t handle it anymore.”
After dinner the Colonel suggested the four of us retire to the lobby where we could
enjoy brandy and cigars before retiring. The two Indonesians excused themselves. However,
for the rest of us his suggestion was our command.
The three lit-up rich Cuban cigars the Colonel offered. I declined since I was not a
smoker but did enjoy the brandy. The bomber-cigars filled the room with sweet pungent
smoke as the Colonel stretched out on the couch. Taking a big drag he said, “Tell me
gentlemen; how many hands do you think a dollar spent here will travel through before it’s
finally salted away in a bank account somewhere?”
Jim said he didn’t have a clue; nevertheless he thought maybe it would pass five or
six times. Bruce thought three or four exchanges. Turning to me he said, “What about you
Dave – what do you think?”
I more or less agreed with Jim and Bruce. However based on my conversation last
night with Bruce I wanted to appear ignorant, “I don’t know, perhaps twenty times.”
33
He fixed me with that look, “Where did you get that figure Dave?”
I thought I’ve really done it this time; he thinks I’m an idiot, “It’s just a gut feeling – I
can’t give you an answer.”
“Well according to an article I read in Forbes the number is nineteen exchanges
before the dollar is finally salted away or returned. Bruce, I think you’ve really got yourself
someone that’s going to work out.”
“Yes sir, Dave’s spent a lot of time over here,” Bruce snuck me one of his there-yougo-again looks. I wondered what the hell I could do to stay out of his way.
Later as we went to our rooms Bruce once more cornered me, “Look, I know what
you’re up to, and tomorrow I want you gone after dinner. I don’t want any more of the
bullshit with you and the Colonel. You are really pissing me off!”
“Okay, sorry I wasn’t…”
“Bullshit!”
“Do you want me to pick up the catering tomorrow?”
“Oh crap; I forgot to order any – the kitchen’s closed now.”
“How about I go down to the front desk and see what I can do?”
“Yeah do that; the catering is your responsibility tomorrow.”
What an asshole I thought as I went back down to the front desk, hoping I could make
the night clerks understand.
The next day dawned bright and sunny. I’d managed to get six lunches, some snacks,
and a case of chilled Cokes from the kitchen all carefully loaded in chilled cardboard boxes.
Colonel Delong saw the cooks loading the boxes into the trunk of our taxi and commented to
Bruce, “Good job Bruce – I thought we were going to starve yesterday.”
“It took a little doing but I managed to get them to understand what we wanted.”
As the head cook handed me the bill for my signature Jim with his voice lowered
said, “You’re responsible for this stuff, aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I responded as I scribbled my name to the bill.
The flight around the island of Celebes was perfect. It was a huge forest, covered with
hardwood trees, and thick impenetrable jungle. I could see how the Colonel’s idea of using
balloons to haul out the logs would make logging a feasible proposition. Scattered around the
shoreline were small isolated villages with a few dugout sailboats the villagers must have
used for fishing and communication. As we flew by at twenty-five hundred feet, the natives
looked up, shielding their eyes from the sun to stared at us. I felt like Lindbergh or some
34
other explorer from the thirties. This was a land that didn’t appear to have seen civilization –
certainly not modern civilization.
We logged over six hours with the Colonel and Jim peering out the side windows,
using their binoculars; occasionally consulting with the two officers who appeared bored.
Once in awhile Jim would come up to ask me to circle around something of interest to them.
Bruce for the most-part was either in the back or slouched in the co-pilot’s seat, dozing. I
didn’t mind, as I liked being alone to enjoy the experience. The plane behaved like the old
lady she was with the low, easy rumbling of the two Pratt& Whitney’s comfortably telling
me they were doing just fine, thank you.
Returning to the hotel I showered before joining the rest for cocktails and dinner. I
made it a point to remain out of the conversation as much as possible. After dinner when the
Colonel said, “Gentlemen, shall we adjourn to the smoking room?” I spoke up to say I’d like
to be excused. The Colonel was taken aback, “Son, are you alright?”
“Yes sir, I’d just like to stretch my legs a little with a walk around the town. Sitting
all day kinda cramped me up.”
The Colonel looked at me for a moment before responding, “You know, I’ve seen
how lovely the girls are in this town.” Winking at me he continued, “If I were twenty years
younger I’d like to join you – have a good evening.”
Bruce glared at me as I passed on my way to the door and the night manager called
out, “Captain, did you enjoy your meals?”
Dammit! It seemed I couldn’t do anything to keep Bruce from being upset with me. I
was happy to be out and away from all the pressure of having to avoid making a wrong
comment to the Colonel.
The next day we flew over to a small town called Ambon, where I think we were the
only white people in the village. The ancient hotel reflected the Dutch colonial influence of
the turn of the century. Even the two Indonesians officers were intrigued by the age of the
settlement. I kept thinking what it must have been like to cover this area in a sailing vessel a
hundred years ago.
Over dinner Bruce commented to the Colonel that he was fairly sure the Indonesian
Navy officers were skimming money on every transaction they handled – which was
everything we did. “Colonel, they’re stealing you blind.”
“Bruce, there’s an old saying where I come from: “You’ve got to slop the hogs before
you slaughter them. I know they’re taking a little for themselves – hell nobody can live on
35
what the government pays a military man. When the time comes they’ll be on our side and
that’s where I want them.”
Remembering Don’s comment about Bruce’s supposed embezzling I wondered how
much the Colonel knew or suspected. After dinner I again was granted a pardon to go out
among the locals.
It was a lovely tropical night with just a light breeze. The natives stared and smiled
back at me as I wandered down towards the waterfront. I saw a man with a pushcart selling
peanuts for the equivalent of two cents a bag. I got in line for a bag and when my turn came
he wanted five cents. I argued it was two cents to everyone else. The locals watched him and
me to see how this contest was going to come out. He said two cents was the Indonesian
price; five cents was for the white devils. I looked at the bag weighing it in my hand and
reached in my pocket telling him I couldn’t pay more than two cents as I had a sick mother to
take care of. We went back and forth for three or four minutes before finally settling on three
cents as the price. All the locals gave me a thumbs-up for my hard bargaining while the
peanut seller and I smiled at each other for arriving at a fair price that didn’t cost anyone any
face. Turning around with the bag in my hand there was the Colonel, Jim, and Bruce – they’d
been watching me all the time. “Like I said Bruce; this time I think you’ve got a good one.”
“Well done Dave,” Jim smilingly agreed.
Bruce was boiling.
The trip lasted ten days. I enjoyed every minute of the flying and the contact with the
Indonesians. If it hadn’t been for Bruce I think the time spent with Jim and Colonel Delong
would have been most enjoyable. However, by the time we said goodbye to Jim and the
Colonel at Jakarta Airport, Bruce and I were barely civil to each other. The run back to Hong
Kong was accomplished mostly in silence.
36
THE KNOT AND FAREWELL
Hong Kong had changed dramatically during the minuscule time we’d been gone;
Chairman Mao had decided to show the world who really controlled the colony; he cut-off
the water supply allowing it to flow only twice a week for six hours a day. People filled their
bathtubs and every available container; the hotel asked the patrons to please refrain from
taking baths – I bathed in the sink using a washcloth and hand towel. The phrase, “If it’s
yellow, it’s mellow – brown is down,” was the guide to using the toilet.
Then the riots began; organized crowds waving little red books containing the
thoughts of Chairman Mao began shouting slogans, terrorizing the peace-loving majority.
The police worked overtime trying to maintain a semblance of order. The mini-riots were
followed by marchers who paraded up and down the main boulevards carrying banners
proclaiming Hong Kong belonged to China.
The Chinese I knew were worried; they understood Britain could not defend Hong
Kong if Mao really wanted to take the colony back. Real Estate prices plummeted –
everybody that had the means wanted out. The American dollar bought fantastic buys as the
merchants tired to convert their inventories into hard cash.
Dumas told me Vickie’s father was a general in the Chinese Nationalist army before
he was killed, and her family history could make her a target for the Communists. We
decided to marry as soon as possible; if something major happened, I did not want to leave
her, or her mother and two sisters behind. It was indeed tense times.
Bruce ordered the plane fueled and ready at all times in case we had to evacuate on
short notice. There was enough space on the aircraft we could take all of the Delong Dock
employees and their families. (Naturally, I’d make sure Vickie and her family would be
included in any emergency.) Dumas told me Alitalia Airlines would provide escape-transport
for him and his family; that was a load off my mind.
Deciding on June 26th as the date for our marriage, Vickie invited about twenty-five
close friends. I sent invitations to the pilots; nobody except the Lynches responded. The civil
ceremony took place at the City Hall as required by British law. A reception followed at the
37
top floor restaurant of the new Mandarin Hotel on the island side. Vickie was the most
beautiful bride in the world and I, a very nervous groom, as toasts were lifted in our honor.
(Later, I learned many of Vickie’s friends questioned her marriage to a pilot; confiding we’d
be divorced in a year. Several of my friends echoed a similar sentiment. Chinese? What do
you know about her – you’ll be divorced in a year. Interestingly, most of our friends have
been married and divorced. We will be celebrating our forty-third anniversary in June, 2010.)
A week later, Vickie’s mother arranged a huge reception using the grand ballroom of
the Mira Mar Hotel on the Kowloon side. She invited 350 people; I was overwhelmed. I’d
managed to locate six pilots and their wives to show I wasn’t completely friendless. It was a
tuxedo-formal affair with many-many toasts. I sent Bruce an invitation but he didn’t respond
except to schedule me for a trip south the following morning at six o’clock.
“What are you going to do,” Vickie asked.
“I’m going to show for the trip,” I replied.
“But the reception…”
“Of course we’ll attend. And we’ll dine, and dance, and toast – except I’ll only put
the glass to my lips or drink water where I can. Bruce is doing this to force me to miss a
flight so he can fire me, and I’m not going to give him the chance.” Poor Vickie was being
broken into being a pilot’s wife the hard way. And, that’s what we did; greeting the guests,
shaking their hands, thanking them for coming and for the good-luck Lycee envelopes they
piled on the table at the entrance. I went to each of the thirty-six tables; toasting to long life,
many babies, happy times, good luck, and good wishes from a delightful, jovial crowd who
had no idea that I was going to have to get up at four AM to go to work.
Showing at the appointed hour there was Bruce in his flight suit looking surprised.
“Oh, hi Dave, what are you doing here?”
“You scheduled me for this trip – don’t you remember? What are you doing here?”
“Yeah, well someone said you had a party to go to and I didn’t think you’d make it.
Have you been drinking?”
“No. Do you want me to take the trip?”
“Well yeah, if you feel all right – I mean you’re scheduled for the run and I’ve got
some paperwork to do.” With that he turned and went back to his apartment.
My copilot was Joe Migone who commented after we got in the car, “You know you
really pissed him off – he wanted to fire you for not showing up.”
“Yeah, Bruce has a real hard-on for me.”
“He’s gonna fire you because old man Delong likes you and he’s afraid you’ll take
his job – you know that?”
38
“Yeah.” There was no question I had to get another job. However, I wanted to leave
on my terms – not his.
Vickie and I set-up house in the Ambassador, as there was no-sense renting an
apartment. I saw a couple of condos listed for sale for the bargain price of fifteen-thousand
cash-dollars. Vickie advised against the idea because it looked like the Communists were
going to take over Hong Kong and we’d lose our investment. There was no question the
Commies were creating quite a stir. It was obvious the Brits would fold in the event of a
showdown.
I received a phone call from Bill Foster that he’d not only landed a job with World
Airways but was made a captain on their newly acquired Boeing 727 jet. We’d shared a villa
in Saigon and were close buddies. When I left Vietnam for health reasons, he’d decided to
quit and take Janet, his new bride, back to America. It was unheard of for an airline new-hire
to be promoted to captain with no prior experience in jets.
“How’d you do it?” I asked.
“It was just luck. I got into their first jet class and the chief pilot selected the captains
based on performance instead of seniority.”
“That must have pissed-off a bunch of senior captains.”
“It did, but I don’t care – I did the work, and got the job.”
“Do they need any more pilots?”
“I think we’re running another class. The chief pilot’s name is Ed Healey; why don’t
you give him a call?”
“Can I use your name?”
“Why not?”
Allowing for the time zone changes I called Captain Healey the next morning at ninefifteen, his time. After fighting my way through a couple of secretaries I finally got a chance
to speak with the man. “Captain Healey, I understand you are looking for pilots for your jet
program, I’m available.”
“Have you sent in an application?”
“No sir, I just heard about World’s expansion yesterday and I understand you are
starting a class shortly.”
“That’s right, the class starts Monday. Have you got any jet experience?”
“No, but Bill Foster and I flew together in Vietnam. We were both check airmen for
Continental Air Service…”
“This is a lousy connection. Where are you calling from?”
39
“Hong Kong, but I can be in your office in twenty-four hours…”
“Hong Kong? What are you doing there?”
“I’m flying a C-47 twice a week to Vietnam. I can book PanAm on the next flight to
San Francisco…”
“Hong Kong? That’s too far to come. I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to
come this far for an interview. Why don’t you send me a résumé and I’ll put it in the file for
any future work we may have?”
I sensed he wasn’t interested in me for whatever reason and I was wasting my money
to keep the connection open. “Yes sir, thank you. I’ll have a résumé in the mail in the
morning.” I think the distance I was calling from threw him; he wanted someone he could
interview straight away with no complications. The flying game is funny in that there are
normally more pilots than jobs.
Nevertheless, the call made up my mind to get into jets. That was where the future
lay; propeller aircraft were going the way of the dinosaur. If I didn’t get into jets my career in
aviation would be coming to a screeching halt. Checking out Cathay Pacific Airlines I was
informed they only hired Australians. Mike Harris, a pilot-friend from the Congo and Laos,
was flying for Japan Airlines on a contract through IASCO, a sort of pilot Kelly-Girl service
out of San Francisco. I needed to get back to the States where I could be available for a quick
interview rather than halfway around the world.
I owned a small condo in Honolulu that I’d been renting out. When it suddenly
became vacant things began to fall into place; we could head back to Honolulu where a light
plane job waited, and I could send in applications to all the airlines until one of them hired
me. I explained to Vickie I’d probably have to fly at least five years as a copilot, which
meant a big pay-cut, but it would all work out in the long run when I became a jet captain,
and she agreed with my plan. I gave Bruce two-weeks notice; he countered by firing me on
the spot as he already had another captain in the pipeline.
40
ALOHA HAWAII
It took almost a month before we got all the paperwork in order to have Vickie
cleared to travel with me; our State Department was convinced every Asian was a
Communist and spy. Fortunately, Dumas had strong connections and was able to assist us in
our task. We arrived in Honolulu Saturday, August 5, 1967 on Philippines Airlines Flight
301 after a stop in Manila. The flight was crowded with passenger carry-on baggage stuffed
under every seat, crying babies, over-flowing toilets, it was terrible – much like what we put
up with today. However, it was cheap. Honolulu was beautiful; Vickie loved it at first sight.
Toni met her new Mom with some trepidation, she wasn’t sure this was a good idea.
Vickie was undaunted; she turned on the charm and before you knew it the two were
buddies. The three of us moved into the condo and I went to work for HATS, (Hawaiian Air
Tour Service) flying little DeHaviland Doves on guided tours around the islands. It was fun
flying; we’d take off flying a loose formation around all the islands, buzzing down canyons,
showing off the seldom visited dramatic north shores, viewing spectacular water-falls, I
enjoyed everything about the job except the pay, which was a pittance to what I was used to.
I had plenty of time to send in résumés and go bodysurfing with Toni and Vickie as the
flying only took two days a week.
I shied away from the scheduled airlines as their advancement looked to be about ten
years compared to the five years the Supplementals, or Non-Skeds (non-scheduled airlines)
estimated. The Non-Skeds offered excitement because they traveled the world where as the
Skeds were borr-rrring. I mean who in their right mind would actually want to fly from San
Francisco to Los Angeles or New York for the rest of their lives? Granted the Non-Skeds
didn’t pay as well and offered no retirement benefits and had layoffs, but to me adventure far
outweighed security.
After little or no replies to my mailings it became obvious something more was
required. I was thinking of flying over to the mainland and making personal calls on the
several airlines operating out of Oakland and Burbank when a drinking buddy suggested I
give ONA (Overseas National Airways) a try. He worked in the dispatch office at the airport
and said they flew into the islands all the time and he knew Bob Love, the chief pilot. ONA
41
was a New York based airline that had just upgraded to DC-8 jets and they did a lot of
passenger charters, both domestic and overseas. It sounded like my kind of company; we set
it up so that he’d call me the next time Captain Love was scheduled to arrive so I could
present my résumé in person.
That turned out to be about three in the morning when I met a very tired and
somewhat cranky captain who had just come in from the East Coast after a mechanical delay
and extra fuel stop due to strong headwinds on the crossing. I showed up in a coat and tie
instead of my normal Aloha shirt – I felt I’d have one chance and I might as well give it all
I’ve got. Captain Love with a military brush haircut and piercing eyes was a stern,
intimidating looking individual. I noticed the copilot deferred to him and addressed him as
either Captain or Sir. However, the engineer called him Bob and they were friendly with each
other.
The dispatcher introduced us; “Captain, this is Dave Case, the pilot I was telling you
about.”
Captain Love fixed me with those piercing eyes before replying, “Have you got any
jet time?”
“No sir,” I immediately lost points on that one.
“Where did you learn to fly? Were you in the military?”
“At Compton airport in California. Yes, but not as a pilot.” It wasn’t going well at all;
the engineer was ignoring me.
“What are you doing out here?
“I’m flying Dehavilland Doves for HATS.”
“Do you know Pete Crane?”
“He’s my chief pilot.” He appeared to dismiss that. This wasn’t going as planned and
I could see he wanted to end the interview. “I’ve also flown C-46s and C-47s for Continental
Air Service in Laos and Vietnam – Bill Tetter knows me.” Captain Tetter and I were in Laos
together before he quit to join ONA as a DC-7 captain.
“Tetter? That asshole; we fired him. Where have you worked besides Laos and
Vietnam?”
Whazoo, I decided to fire my best remaining shots, “I’ve flown DC-4s for InterOcean
in the Congo and I’ve worked out of Hong Kong flying down to Indonesia and Vietnam on
C-47s. Most of my time is as captain. I’m comfortable with ICAO procedures.” (ICAO are
the international rules a pilot operates under when flying outside America.).
“Have you got a résumé?”
42
“Yes sir.” I reached in my breast pocket and handed him the envelope with my work
history.
Stuffing it in his jacket pocket he dismissed me with, “I’ll see what I can do when we
get back to New York.”
“Yes sir. Thank you for the time…”
“Forget it. I’ll call you if I have anything; now I’ve gotta get this crew to bed.”
With that they picked up their flight bags and overcoats and left for the hotel. I was
left standing with the dispatcher. “You did okay – don’t worry about his gruff exterior.
Captain Love is an Old China Hand – he likes soldier-of-fortune types.”
“I don’t know, I felt like a klutz with no military or jet time and when I mentioned
Bill Tetter to learn he got fired – jeezus.”
“Don’t worry about it – either he hires you or he doesn’t.”
“Yeah; hey thanks for everything, I’d never have met him without your help. Drinks
on me next time, okay?”
“Okay Dave, glad to help.”
A week later the phone rang in my apartment; it was Captain Love. “Yeah Dave, Bob
Love here – how soon can you get out to New York for a DC-9 class?”
“I’d like to give two-weeks notice; Pete Crane’s been good to me.”
“That’ll work. What about your apartment?
“I own it; I can just close it up.”
“Good. I’ll make arrangements for you on one of our ‘8s that’ll save you some
money.”
“What about my wife and kid – can I get them on the flight too?”
“Jesus – well yeah I guess so. Look, I want you to understand something; I’m
offering you a copilot’s job. You won’t be checked out as captain for six months to a year –
can you live with that?”
Six months to a year? Wow, when I thought it would take at least five years, “Yes
sir!”
“Good, I’ll see you in New York and we’ll go over all the paperwork. I gotta run,
goodbye.”
“Bye.” Wow! Six months to a year – I was on Cloud Nine. Now all I had to do was
give notice, close up the condo, and buy some winter clothes. Vickie was excited; she’d
never been to New York or seen snow. Toni wasn’t too sure about leaving all her friends, but
43
she liked the idea she was going to be with Dad and her new Mom. Things had suddenly
taken a distinct turn for the better.
Pete Crane was very understanding and wished me luck. My friend Anita sold real
estate and said she’d take care of selling our condo. Arranging for Toni to transfer schools
was no problem. Where we ran into a wall was locating a store that sold warm-winter
clothing in Hawaii. Even the sweaters and jackets were light weight.
44
WELCOME TO JAMAICA
The flight was non-stop from Honolulu to New York where the temperature was
down in the lower twenties. The three of us presented an odd sight in Aloha clothes huddled
together at the Kennedy Airport baggage carousel with snow falling outside. The flight
attendants directed us to the Holiday Inn where ONA had arranged lodging. The hotel was
loaded with ONA flight crew members and several greeted us in the lobby: “Welcome to
Jamaica. Didn’t someone tell you it was Jamaica, New York, not Jamaica, Caribbean?”
“Yeah, we couldn’t buy any winter clothes in Honolulu. We’ll get some tomorrow.”
“Honolulu? You’ll freeze your ass off here. I’m Tom – Tom Gordon; what class are
you in?”
“Hi, I’m Dave Case; this is my wife, Vickie, and daughter, Toni. What class? I think
I’m in the DC-9 class, why?”
“There’re two classes; one’s for copilots on the ‘9, the other is for captains on the
Electras. I’m in the ‘9 class, too; see you Monday for sign-in and company indoc.”
“Right.” The Electra’s were four engine turbo-props, the’9 was a two engine pure jet.
Flying captain on the Electra would be fun – maybe I could switch classes. However, the jet
was a more advanced plane. Discovering we were ahead of the Electra people on the
seniority list clinched the deal; best to stay where I was and not make any waves.
I had the weekend to get us some warm clothes, a car, and a place to stay. Even with
the company discount, I couldn’t afford the Holiday Inn for the six weeks of Ground School.
Lady luck was with us; the first car I looked at was owned by an older couple who had kept it
in excellent shape. It was a Mercury four-door compact; they were asking seven hundred and
fifty dollars, but let it go for seven hundred because we were a nice couple. A discount store
had all the stuff we needed. One of the flight attendants gave us directions to Long Beach,
Long Island, where the nicest landlady in the world, Marie O’Brian, agreed to rent us a minione bedroom apartment that was attached to her house. “My word, you folks have to have a
place to live and I usually rent this only during the summer season, so you’re welcome to
stay as long as you’re here.”
45
“Thank you. I don’t know where I’ll be assigned after Ground School – it could be
here or somewhere else.”
“That’s all right, I welcome the company. Toni’s so cute – she has your hair and eyes.
And Missus Case, I love your long hair, it shines in the light.”
“Vickie’s her new mother…”
“Oh, I thought she belonged to both of you.”
“She does now.” Marie was a terrific person; we continued our friendship for years
after we moved.
46
ONCE MORE A STUDENT
There were about twenty of us in the class ranging in age from the early twenties to
the late forties. I was glad to realize we were a mixture of military and civilian, with broad
backgrounds of experience. Nobody had any jet time; so we were all starting out even.
Phil Geraldi, our instructor, was also a line flight engineer. For some reason he
addressed those in the class as, “Humps,” still it was obvious he envied us and our position.
“Alright now listen up you Humps: I won’t tolerate anyone sleeping in class or any
horseplay. This program is geared to move along quickly; anyone who can’t stay with it will
be dropped out and sent home. We aren’t in business to coddle a bunch of Prima-Donna
pilots. Passing grade on the tests is seventy percent – nobody scores one hundred. Now let’s
get started.”
The first week we were indoctrinated into the company history and goals. Uniforms
were measured and forms signed. We had to join the Airline Pilots Association, (ALPA); this
was the Bigtime; only a few non-sked airlines tolerated union representation. Steedman
Hinckley, the owner was an ex-airline pilot himself and wanted his company to be the best to
work for and fly with.
The second week we began learning the aircraft’s systems and everybody began
hitting the night oil. I was comfortable with round reciprocating engines in unpressurized
airplanes. Things like pneumatics, 2nd stage and 8th stage bleed air, hydraulically operated
controls, oxygen systems, an electrical system that looked like it had been designed by a mad
scientist – lines and relays going every which-way — and what was a Constant Speed Drive?
After class we all headed to our room or home to study this complicated Douglas machine.
There was very little time spent in the bar at the Holiday Inn.
I’m blessed with the ability to retain almost anything I read for a short period of time,
as a result I did well on all the written exams. However, that didn’t mean I necessarily
understood how it all worked. Phil kept saying it would all come-together down-stream as we
delved more-and-more into the total package. All the studying did was confuse me more and
I did not think I was alone; most of the class was scared and baffled. Fortunately, we shared
47
our ignorance and frustration with nightly group bullshit sessions: “Did you get that part
about the bleed air driving the turbines?”
“Yeah, I think so. Bleed air drives the compressor turbines providing outside air to
pressurize the cabin. See, the bleed air drives one side of the turbine – the other side takes in
the fresh ram air. Got it?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Now, have you figured out how the fuel-filter clogging light works?”
“It has two functions…”
And so it went. Sometimes I’d stay over later at the hotel to be with the rest of the
guys to pool our knowledge. The class was moving along so fast we were all boggled.
“You know I can go back to DC-6’s – they make sense. Besides I don’t like the smell
of a jet. Round engines smell better.”
“And sound better.”
“Hey we’re here, let’s give it our best shot. Look at those old farts flying the ‘8s –
they made it, we can too.”
“I don’t know…”
None of us wanted to wash-out, nevertheless two or three didn’t make it through the
ground school and the Systems Simulator. We were a happy bunch when the final exams
were handed back to us and it was explained we’d be dividing up into small groups to go to
San Diego for flight training. “You Humps got lucky, but the hard part is yet to come.
Captains DeWitt and Walent are going to bust your balls out there. They’re not easy like
me.” Phil had been anything but easy; he’d intimidated and kept us on edge us during the
entire time. I got the impression the training department had taken their philosophies from
the Air Force. It was all geared to make you feel like you were close to failure. I wasn’t sure
this was the best way to teach, but it was the way they taught so I learned to live with it.
In San Diego we were divided into small teams and assigned instructors. Ed
Kutchara, Ed Gutt and I formed a class with Big Ed Walent as our instructor, Balsey Dewitt
oversaw Big Ed as he taught us. It seemed a little ungainly but there was certainly nothing we
three could do about it. Our aircraft was N934, a brand-new DC-9 straight from the factory;
we were the first to fly it. It smelled new, the rudder pedals still had fresh paint on them;
everything looked like it had never been touched. Gathering in the cabin before the first flight
Balsey turned to Kutchara and asked, “Let’s see, you’re Kutchara – we’ll use last names
since there are too may Eds on board – are you ex-Air Force?”
“No sir, Navy.”
48
“Well, we’ll try to get you through even though the Navy trained you.” Everyone
chuckled at the humor.
Turning to Gutt he said with a smile, “And you are…”
“Ed Gutt sir, ex-Air Force.”
“You’re not going to have any trouble here,” turning to me with a smile he continued,
“And you must be Case. Ex-Air Force?”
“No sir.”
“Navy?” with a grin.
“No sir.”
“Oh my God, don’t tell me you’re a Marine?”
“No sir; I’m a civilian.”
Balsey’s whole expression changed and he got very serious, “Son, you’re not going to
make it here.” This was followed by some nervous laughter from Gutt and Kutchara and a
stern look from Big Ed. Jesus, I thought what a way to start out.
It was decided that Ed Gutt would take the first session and I would bring up the rear.
The DC-9 was a real hotrod; empty it screamed down the runway and leaped into the air.
Kutchara and I were pressed against our seats in the passenger section as Gutt fought to stay
ahead of this rocketship.
“This thing’s sure got a lot of power. I don’t think I’ve ridden in anything that
accelerated as fast,” Kutchara commented.
Me neither; Pan Am’s 707s don’t jump around like this. This thing’s gonna eat my
lunch.”
“You’ll get it; don’t let Balsey’s comment bother you. We’re all starting out in the
same boat; none of us have ever flown a jet. When the time comes you’ll do all right.”
“I hope so. This thing feels like we’re in a fighter. Do you mind if I look over your
shoulder when you’re up?”
“No, if you can push past Balsey – I think he’s more interested in teaching Big Ed
how to teach than he is in showing us how to fly this thing.”
Kutchara was right; I couldn’t even wedge in behind Balsey to watch how Kutchara
performed. So when it was my turn I might as well have gone first; I hadn’t picked up a thing
from the first two.
I sat down and strapped myself in, the engines were running, the seat and controls
were wet with sweat from the earlier two students. “I’ll line us up and handle the radios; you
just fly the plane,” Big Ed said as I tried to assimilate all the gauges, switches and levers that
49
were real and not just the mock-up photos I’d been studying. “Okay are you ready? We’re
cleared for takeoff – let’s go.”
I slowly advanced the power levers like I’d done with a C-47. “No Godammit – shove
those throttles forward like this!” Big Ed roughly shoved the levers all the way to their stops
and jerked them back about and inch and a half. The lightly loaded plane leaped ahead
pinning me against the seat. “Vee One! Rotate!” I started to apply back pressure the way I
did in the ’47. “Vee two! Lift the fucking nose into the air. Jesus Christ!” And with that Big
Ed pulled back on the controls to a fifteen degree body angle and the rate-of-climb indicator
swept up to 4000 feet-per-minute. “Like that Godammit! Now level off! You’re going to bust
your altitude.”
Fifteen hundred feet was the assigned pattern altitude and the ‘9 reached it in seconds.
I shoved forward on the control wheel to grab the altitude. I could feel me floating off the
seat. “Watch your airspeed, Godammit!” The airspeed needle had gone crazy, it was racing
towards 250 knots, the maximum allowed in the control area. As I eased back on the throttles
Big Ed put his hand over mine and yanked the power levers back to almost idle. The plane
settled down to 240 knots and I managed to hold altitude. “Head her out over the water and
take her up to ten thousand and we’ll do some air work.”
In my peripheral vision I saw Balsey shake his head at Big Ed and mutter, “Jesus
Christ.” There was no question this plane was leaving me behind in the dust – I felt like a
fool. At altitude we did some steep turns and a couple of approach-to-stalls. Everything was
very mechanical unlike the piston planes I was used to flying. This jet had no feel; I hated it.
I asked Big Ed to give me some key power settings so I could configure the plane easier.
“Key power setting? That’s piston flying; this is a jet – there are no key power
settings. You just have to learn to fly and stay ahead of it,” was his answer.
The hour I spent in the right seat completely exhausted me. Every maneuver I
performed was accomplished in a rigid mechanical manner. My flying stunk; I don’t think
I’d ever been so humiliated. I was relieved to get her back on the ground. It was a silent
cockpit when we taxied back to the Hangar.
Both Eds said they’d had a difficult time and it didn’t feel too badly in the back where
they were sitting. I thought they were just being kind and I felt terrible. That night I called
Vickie and told her I might not be making the program and if I washed out, we’d go back to
Asia where I knew the equipment and the devils. After all, the probationary pay was sevenfifty a month and probation was one-year during which time the company could fire the pilot
if they didn’t like the way he parted his hair. The saying, ‘Jets Suck’ obviously had more
than one meaning.
50
Somehow I managed to get through the next four sessions. During each one I became
a little more relaxed; though I still couldn’t get any sense of feel to the bird. It was like
operating a mechanical ride at a fair. The final training flight was to Blythe where the three
of us would be given our check ride. Gutt drew the ILS Flight Director approach, Kutchara
got the VOR. “Looks like that leaves the ADF for you Case,” Balsey said with a wolfish grin.
ADF approaches were something seldom practiced anymore. They required a lot of skills no
longer needed with either the ILS or VOR. Most pilots hated an ADF approach. I thanked
God; it was what I did the most-of in Vietnam and Laos. I was right at home with the low
frequency automatic direction approach. On the other hand the Flight Director/ILS procedure
was so complicated; it would have destroyed me as would the DME/VOR.
Both Eds did well and received hearty congratulations from Balsey and Walent. The
instructors’ mood turned somber when I got into the right seat. I sensed both had already
made up their minds to give me a down. The air work went well and I was cleared for the
ADF approach. This was my element – this I could do. A black cardboard was wedged in
front of the windshield to keep me from cheating as I lined up on instruments with the
runway. Through a little crack on the side I could see I had lined it up dead center. “Okay
there’s a truck on the runway, take it around,” Big Ed said. Neither of the other two got a
missed approach; it wasn’t part of the copilot syllabus.
I shoved the throttles forward, rotated the aircraft and called, “Max Power – flaps,
fifteen – positive rate – Gear Up!” while keeping the plane flying straight ahead to follow the
missed-approach procedure. Going past the airport at fifteen hundred feet I turned to Big Ed
and asked him, “Do you mind if I do a ninety/two-seventy to save some time since it’s
getting late?”
The look on his face told me he had no idea what I was talking about, “I don’t care
what you do kid – just get this plane lined up back with the runway.” He then glanced up to
shake his head at Balsey. Performing the maneuver I was familiar with I brought the plane
back to the centerline of the runway and called for landing gear extension, the checklist, and
Flaps-twenty-five. The crack in the cardboard told me I’d done it right.
At five hundred feet Big Ed pulled the cardboard away saying, “Okay kid you got
lucky twice; take it back to San Diego.”
After five hours and forty minutes and twenty-eight takeoffs and landings I’d passed.
Whew.
All of us were a relieved bunch of new copilots as we entered the final phaze of
training; ten hours of on-the-line observation while learning the practical nuts-&-bolts of our
new job. Ground school had taught us the mechanics of what makes the airplane tick,,
company policies, and FAA rules. Flight training had been getting familiar with the cockpit
51
and making endless takeoffs and landings. However, so far there had been no instruction as
to how we were supposed to do what we were going to get paid to do.
The company divided the DC-9 fleet into two operations – passengers, and freight in
the form of a U.S. Air Force contract called Logair. Ed Gutt, Ed Kutchara and I were
assigned to the Logair runs that blanketed the United States from California to North
Carolina and Minnesota to Georgia. Vickie, Toni and I sadly said goodbye to Marie, our
sweet landlady, and drove over to the home of the Logair operation, Wright-Patterson Air
Force Base,, Fairborn, Ohio.
We were lucky to find a nice apartment in Kettering, near most of the other ONA
families. Vickie was pleased the schools had a good reputation and Toni fitted right in with
the other kids in the neighborhood.
52
FLYING THE LINE
An easy going Captain George Flavell, together with First Officer Hobie Ball,
introduced me to the line. Hobie patiently went over each and every item involved with, what
to me was, a most-confusing maze of paperwork: “Dave, George will tell you what route and
altitude he wants to take based on the company flight plan and the weather. George is a good
guy, so you can ask him to explain something and he won’t get pissed off. He’ll also tell you
how much fuel he wants.”
“Thanks; where does he get the fuel requirement?”
“That’s based on the amount of cargo and the length of the flight and of course the
weather – it sounds complicated, but it’s not.”
“Show me again how you work that weight & balance template.”
“You start here and then you add each compartment…”
It seemed like something thought up by the designer of the Ouji Board. I was mostly
lost; but I kept telling myself, if others have done it so can I.
“Hey you’re lucky, we use flip cards for the Vee speeds. All you have to do is
confirm the weight is correct and Douglas gives you the numbers in big letters on this nice
card – see?”
We were assigned 9-34, the same plane I’d received my training in, so I wasn’t
prepared for George’s comments on takeoff: “Hey Dave, this thing drives like a truck,”
George announced. “How’d you manage to fly this sled? The controls are stiff as a board.”
“Isn’t that the way all the jets fly?” I asked.
“Hell no, this is worse than a simulator. Here Hobie, you try it.”
Hobie took over the flight controls, “Jeez, it sure is different than 9-31. It feels like
they tightened everything down too tight.”
“Yeah, I got it,” George said as he took back the controls. “You must be a good pilot
to have survived Walent, Balsey, and this truck.”
53
“I think more lucky than good; but I’m glad to hear this isn’t the way jets are
supposed to fly.”
Most of the line captains and copilots were like George and Hobie; generous in
sharing their knowledge with us neophytes. The first officers took the time to patiently
explain how to fill out the various forms such as flight plans, weight & balance, trim settings,
and Vee speeds. They were careful to make sure we got it right; always stressing the
importance of meticulous accuracy, as a mistake could lead to a catastrophe. The captains
performed the exterior pre-flight walk-around and made the major decisions after consulting
with meteorologists, customer load supervisors, and our mechanics.
The cockpit atmosphere was relaxed compared to the training environment. At
altitude and in cruise there was easy banter between the captain and the copilot. It turned
serious when the job required it, such as on takeoffs, approach and landings. Practically
everybody liked the company and was positive about its future. I felt very lucky to be a part
of the organization.
My first flight as a fully qualified first-officer, (co-pilot), was with Captain Bob
Francis, a retired Air Force Colonel. He phoned me at home to say he’d drive-by to pick me
up since we only lived a few blocks from each other. My initial nervousness vanished on the
ride over to the airport. Bob was easy-going, with a great sense of humor that immediately
put me at ease.
“I don’t want to load you up with too much to do right away so I’ll take the first leg to
Tinker, okay?”
“Sure, I’m already overloaded. Keep an eye on me; I don’t want to make any
mistakes.”
“Don’t worry; this is all fairly easy once you get the hang of it. We’ve got 9-31, a
good flying bird – it should be a smooth trip.”
Bob performed all of his duties and effortlessly coached me on what I needed to
accomplish without the slightest ruffling of feathers. I kept wondering why training couldn’t
have been more like this; working and learning with Bob was a pleasure.
After our one-hour stop at Tinker we were fueled and reloaded and filed for Hill Air
Force Base in Utah. “You seem to have figured out most of the paperwork and you don’t
have any problems with communicating on the radio. I’ll line you up on the runway and you
can give it a go.” He said as I called ground control for taxi clearance.
I was nervous and began to sweat; the fully loaded ‘9 wasn’t the hotrod it was when
empty. Still, it was a mighty quick bird and my mind was geared to flying the stiff-controlled
plane from San Diego. “Okay, just keep an eye on me – I don’t want to do anything stupid.”
54
“Don’t sweat it; you’ll do fine and I’m right here if we lose an engine or anything.”
We received our clearance to Hill Air Base and were cleared for takeoff. Bob
carefully lined the plane up on the center line of the twelve-thousand foot runway and I
advanced the throttles for maximum power. The powerful jet immediately accelerated down
the runway as the control column came alive in my hand
“Vee One – Rotate,” Bob called out.
I took my left hand off the throttles and pulled back on the control column with both
hands as I had in training. This time the plane leaped into the air and effortlessly rotated to
fifteen degrees nose up. I over-controlled the plane; we almost rotated beyond the fifteendegree target. This bird was completely different on the controls than the training ship.
“Vee Two – Positive Rate,” Bob said.
“Gear Up!” I responded.
He reached over and raised the landing gear lever. “Take it easy Dave, feel the plane;
let it talk to you.”
“Yes sir.” I said as I more gently lowered the nose to ten degrees, “Flaps – Ten. Set
climb power.”
“That’s it – that’s it – take it gentle,” his voice was calm with no sign of stress.
Climbing to altitude I continued hand-flying the bird, getting more of the feel of her.
This was the first time I thought I might learn to like flying a jet. This plane flew completely
different than Nine Thirty-four; she was a joy on the controls.
“We’ve got an autopilot, you know,” Bob kidded me as we passed eighteen-thousand
on our way to our cruising altitude of thirty-one thousand.
“I know; I’d like to hand fly it up to twenty-four before I flip on the autopilot. I want
to really get the feel of this plane, she handles so much different than Nine Thirty Four.”
“Really? You do what you want, just don’t put us on our back, okay?”
“Okay.”
Later, Bob said I could fly every leg if I wanted. Generous with his knowledge, he
filled me with valuable pointers and tips. In my opinion Captain Francis was a far better
teacher than either Walent or Balsey. Between the flying and later the social aspect, (Vickie
and I, Bob and his wife Helen, became dinner partners.) it was a most enjoyable month. I
couldn’t have asked for a better way to be introduced to line flying than with Bob.
55
LEARNING TO DO THE MATH
Sharing a breakfast table with the outbound crew; Captain Presley ‘Press’ Cooper
wanted to make sure the outbound crew was aware of everything that might later be of
importance to them. Basically, the plane was in excellent shape except for a few minor items
that would cause them no worry. The crew finally departed leaving us to finish our coffees
before turning in for a few hours sleep. Press slept during the time it was my turn to fly – and
he dozed during his leg to fly, forcing me to do my job and his. It had been a long night – I
was exhausted.
Press was part American-Indian, an ex-hotshot-fighter pilot, TWA first Officer, and at
last an all-around non-sked pilot. Age had turned his body into a heavy-set doughboy sort of
individual. His uniform always gave-off the impression he’d slept in it. Nevertheless, he had
an easy grace and droll sense of humor that made me comfortable.
Other copilots had warned me about Press; “The sonovabitch can sleep between Veeone and Vee-two.” “He’s got narcolepsy – I’ve never known anybody that can sleep so
much” “On your leg he slides his seat back and sleeps; on his leg he leans forward and
sleeps. You notice how he always has a cigarette in his hand? That’s his timer – when he
smells flesh burning or feels it getting hot, it wakes him up to remind him to do something.” I
didn’t believe all I’d heard about the guy, but they were right; he slept through the entire trip
except to wake up for the takeoffs and landings.
Now, I was falling asleep at the table and Press came alive he wanted to talk; “Dave,
what kind of a profile do you use on your descents?”
“The same as everybody else; three times the altitude, plus ten – why?”
“I noticed you were a little sloppy getting down to approach altitude at Kelly. Do you
mind if I show you a more efficient way to execute the descent?”
Christ, I thought, he slept the whole trip, now he wants to critique my flying. “No I
don’t mind. I think the controller started my descent early and that’s why I got screwed up.”
“The controller cleared you from our cruise altitude to two-four-zero at pilot’s
discretion – you didn’t have to start down that early. Hand me that napkin, let me show you
how to do it better.”
56
I gave him the unused paper napkin and wondered when I could gracefully excuse
myself to go to sleep.
Press pulled out his pen and began drawing a descent profile. “Okay, let’s assume
we’re going to land straight-in and the airport’s at sea-level. We can throw in adjustments
later for different conditions, I just want you to get the general idea of how to do something
that is a lot more efficient than what you’ve been doing. Now, it’s a given that thirty miles
out at two hundred and fifty knots and idle thrust the plane is on profile for a normal landing
– agree?”
“Yes.” I’m tired.
“And it takes ten miles to slow from the barber-pole of three-fifty, to two-fifty. So we
can say that you must be at barber-pole forty miles out. The problem is how do we get there
when we’re cruising at thirty-one thousand feet at four hundred-eighty knots at mach seveneight?”
“Agree.” This is going to be a complicated discussion and I’m not sure I can stay
awake much longer – much less understand what he’s talking about.
“It’s really not that difficult; if we subtract ten from thirty-one it gives us twenty-one.
If we descend at three thousand feet per minute and idle thrust we’ll hold our mach number
to the barber-pole and then maintain barber-pole the rest of the way down. Three divided by
twenty-one gives us seven. It will take seven minutes to get from thirty-one thousand feet to
ten thousand feet at maximum airspeed and idle thrust.”
I was sort of following his dissertation. That big old teddy-bear of a man was a lot
sharper than he let on. Maybe he wasn’t sleeping all the time; maybe he was just bored.
“All that remains is to get a groundspeed check at altitude and divide that by six so
you have the number miles traveled in a minute. Multiply by seven and you’ll have the miles
it will take to get to forty miles out. Four hundred eighty divided by sixty is eight miles a
minute. Eight times seven is fifty-six. Add to that the forty miles given and the answer is
ninety-six. If you start down ninety-six miles out at idle thrust and follow this profile you
won’t have to add power until you call for flaps and the Approach Checklist.”
Press had given me a lot to think about and I was beat. “I think I’ve got it. I’ll have to
think about it before trying it out. Press, excuse me, I’m going to crash.”
“No worry. We’ll practice tomorrow on our way to Warner Robbins. Once you do it a
few times, you’ll get the hang of it. Give me a call when you wake up and I’ll show you the
plane I’m building.”
“Okay, I’m dead. It’s gonna be about seven or eight hours.”
“Get plenty of sleep; we’ve got a long night ahead of us. I’ll see you when you get
up.”
57
No wonder Press sleeps in the plane, he builds models in his hotel room. Dragging
myself and two bags up to the room the thought crossed my mind; We don’t have a long
night – I have a long night ahead.
Nevertheless Press was a prince; no shouting or yelling, just a lot of common sense
and easy patience. I felt like a sponge absorbing all his wise and well thought-out counsel.
“Now let the bird slow to flap speed and call for flaps fifteen and approach checklist and set
one-point-two on the EPR gauges and the plane will take care of herself. (There were key
power settings; the one-point-two was a key.) I no longer felt like a complete idiot after a
month with Press.
It was later that I learned he did indeed have a problem sleeping; he couldn’t lie down
without choking up, so he slept in a chair. (Back then ‘Sleep Apnea’ hadn’t been defined.) I
guess I’d be tired too if I couldn’t get a good night’s sleep once in awhile
Another thing I learned from Press was to pace myself so I could last all night on
those long, long, dark Logair nights. That, and a multitude of other things he taught, indebted
me to Press on the way to making me a one-day-world-wide-non-skedder.
58
GETTING SETTLED
The plane, the paperwork and routes were no longer confusing barriers, just enjoyable
challenges that made me feel intensely alive. For the most part the captains were bighearted
with their knowledge; sharing tricks and tips they‘d learned. None of them had much jet time
so we all looked after each other. The line was a mixture of military and civilian and we all
got along as family; again, I felt privileged to be a part of this fine group.
Much of our flying was at night; at three in the morning we’d be the only plane in our
sector. ATC personnel were very cooperative: “Overseas National would you like a radar
vector direct to Tinker?”
“Yes sir, thank you.”
“Roger, Overseas National 9-3-2 you are cleared direct to Tinker Air Force Base’s
outer compass locator, fly heading zero-nine-six, maintain flight level three-three-zero.”
“Rog, 9-3-2 cleared direct to Tinker outer marker, heading zero-niner-six, maintain
three-three-zero”
“Sorry I can’t clear you for the approach. I couldn’t wake-up the guys in the tower,”
of course ATC was joking.
“That’s okay, we’ll fly a low pass down the runway at warp seven; that’ll wake ‘em
up.”
“You guys have a good night. Contact Denver Center on frequency one-three-threepoint-six.”
“Rog, Denver one-three-three-point-six – goodnight.”
While the hours were long, the flying was relaxed and most enjoyable. Sometimes I’d
carry along a thermos of hot coffee, which tasted much better at altitude. I loved looking out
the windows to observe stars, planets, and constellations against the ink-black sky in a
brilliance I’d never experienced before.
59
“You see those three stars in a row? That’s Orion’s belt, now if you look to the left
about four times the width of those stars you see that bright one? That’s Sirius, the brightest
star in the universe; anything brighter than that is a planet.”
“Thanks Alex, where’d you learn that?”
“Pan American made us all navigators before they’d let us climb in the right seat.”
“Wow.” The jet quietly whooshed along at four hundred and eighty knots suspended
between heaven and earth – it was truly a magical time.
60
THE DOUGLAS CUSHION
A bunch of us were sucking down suds in the bar of the Warner-Robins Holiday Inn
when the subject of passing gas in the cockpit reared its odorous-head. “You ever flown with
Skala? His SBDs (Silent But Deadly) will make your eyes water and he’ll look you right in
the face and accuse you of it,” commented Dickie Stevenson as he poured himself another
cool one from the pitcher.
“What about Moose Adams – his boomers sound like rolling thunder. I thought he
was going to blow out the pressure bulkhead,” Jim Hamilton contributed.
“At least they don’t stink,” added Ed Kutchara.
“I’ve got news for you men; it isn’t just the captains that suffer flatulence. Flash
Gordon liked to drove me to wearing the oxygen mask on our last leg,” this from Captain
Andy Andrechyn.
“I wouldn’t want to put that disease-laden thing on my face,” Jim said.
“You would if you flew with Flash; his discharges have been known to peal the paint
off the instrument panel.”
“What about Boyd?”
“You mean Captain Fartmore? The worst.”
“Terrible, beyond belief.”
Flash capped the comments with; “Don’t light-up around him, he’s a fucking fire
hazard.”
“Gentlemen. Gentlemen.” Captain Andrechyn cleared his throat; it was apparent he
was preparing to lecture us neophytes with one of his pearls of wisdom; “I can see it’s time to
educate you in the fine art of quietly venting gauz without odor in the cockpit.” Reaching for
more popcorn, he continued, “One day soon you will all be captains and it will be up to you
to train your copilots in the proper technique of passing gas for the safety of the flight and the
well-being of future crews.”
61
We all listened up; Andy was becoming a legend for his gems. “Pray tell us oh Wise
One – how exactly does one fart like a butterfly,” I foolishly asked as I started to peel a
hardboiled egg from the dish.
“Well the first thing you must understand is Douglas Aircraft is aware of the problem;
crews have been letting go vaporous discharges of odeur de gauz in the cockpit since Orville
launched his kite at Kitty Hawk. They have taken positive measures to provide crews with
fart-proof seats. Have you ever closely inspected a Douglas seat?” Andy fixed us all with his
best command stare.
We copilots acknowledged it was not something covered by our checklists and
therefore not something we’d given particular notice.
Andy’s voice took on the timbre of a lecturing college professor; “The fabric is
stronger and of a weave that will allow for the blowing of gas into the foam cushion below. If
you were to unzip the outer cloth you’d discover the top inch is of a fireproof open-cell
composition that will filter the densest of feces laden clouds. The Engineering Department
refers to it technically as the Douglas Fart-Filter. Of course below that is the more solid
closed-cell composition that provides the support for your mostly dead-asses.”
“You mean the Douglas designed cushion will take away the smell and silence the
roar?” Jim asked in mock seriousness.
Expanding on his subject Captain Andrechyn continued; “It is not just a matter of
releasing built-up pressure into the cushion; the person under strain must assume an upright
posture and adjust his posterior so that his cheeks are spread a bit and his bunghole is
actually pressing into the fart-filter…”
Dickie Stevenson interrupted Andy’s instruction with; “That sounds dangerous; what
if you misjudged and soiled your pants?”
“That is precisely why you carry spare underwear in your overnight bag,” Andy
admonished.
“Still, that’s putting a lot of faith in the Douglas Fart-Filter.”
“Trust me and trust Douglas; it will work if you give it a chance and once more
harmony will rein in the cockpit.”
“By the way, do any of you know the similarity between a cocktail lounge and an
elephant breaking wind?” Dickie asked the group.
“Oh come on,” Ray Roy responded, “Everyone knows one is a barroom, while the
other is a BAH-ROOOM!”
“Just thought I’d ask,” Dickie replied as we all shook our heads at his dated joke.
62
We finished off two more pitchers of beer, five bowls of popcorn and the dozen free
hardboiled eggs the bartender had set-up. I wondered if Andy’s idea would work but decided
with Dickie; it was just too risky – a fart loaded with a surprise could spoil your whole day.
And besides, what if the other guy hadn’t heard Andy’s lecture – I needed ammunition for
self-defense.
Emptying our glasses for the last time someone seriously wondered why there was so
much foul air in the cockpit. “I think it has something to do with the altitude and
pressurization,” belched Jim Hamilton as we all shuffled off for our afternoon siestas.
63
UPGRADE
Fortunately, Anita had no difficulty turning-over the condo in Hawaii. I’d bought it
for eleven thousand, selling it a year later for sixteen; I was indeed a lucky man. (Of course if
I’d hung on to it I could have sold it in 2005 for over a half a million; maybe I wasn’t that
lucky.) After deducting taxes, commission, and escrow expenditures, the remainder barely
covered our direct costs. Moving, clothing and auto expenses had set us back a bundle. We
were hemorrhaging money, but we’d secured a nice apartment in a good neighborhood, Toni
enjoyed her new school and bonded well with her new Mom. Vickie liked the neighbors and
I was having the time of my life – what the hell, it was all worth it.
The months flew by working eighteen days on, and twelve off. Most of the flying was
at night; I’m a day person so that took some getting used to. For the most-part the captains
were a joy to fly with and I was learning a whole new skill. High altitude, mach numbers,
fuel burns in the thousands of pounds per hour and a multitude of other things were
expanding my professional envelope. The DC-9 remained a hotrod, outperforming anything
else on the Logair circuit. We basked in the awareness that we were the envied few who flew
pure-jet equipment.
The company added more DC-8s & ‘9s, and expanded their Electra fleet. My
seniority number of seventy-two was a good fifty from the bottom. Gutt, Kutchara, and I
each received orders we were scheduled for upgrade at the end of the month. We were given
left-seat authorization, which meant captains could let us fly in the left seat when it was our
leg. This was done to allow a smoother transition for us in training. After ground school and
a modified simulator review we were assigned to Captain Lawrence ‘Moose’ Adams for final
flight training prior to our rating ride.
Moose was a giant of a man; a freshly-retired navy transport pilot. The first time we
all met was in Warner Robins, Georgia, where he suggested we get-together over a pizza. I
remember he stepped up to the cashier and ordered a pitcher of beer and a large combination.
When Moose pulled out his wallet to pay, Ed Kutchara suggested we all chip in and split the
bill evenly.
64
“What the hell are you talking about?” Moose queried.
“You just ordered the pizza and beer so I thought we ought to split it.”
“I ordered a pizza and beer for me – you guys get what you want.”
“You gonna eat all the pizza and beer yourself?” Ed was astonished.
“What’s wrong with that? I gotta keep my strength up for training you guys.”
“Nothin’ I guess.” Ed replied.
The same order fed the three of us.
Training under Moose was fun – the complete opposite of my experience a year ago.
All the flying was at night around the local area; we had the sky to ourselves. The three of us
were absorbing Moose’s training in a friendly relaxed manner. There was no question we
were going to pass as Moose explained it; he was just there to show us a few maneuvers and
keep us from getting into trouble.
After the last session before the FAA examiner gave us our rating-ride Moose
observed a mechanic working on the APU (auxiliary power unit) of a parked DC-9.
“Hey you guys come on over here and let me point out some things that might be of
help in the real world,” he said as he motioned us over to the tail of the parked plane where
the doors were open exposing the running APU.
The piercing noise from the little jet turbine was ear-splitting. The three of us bent
under to view the items Moose was concerned about. It was interesting but all I could think
about was the deafening high-pitched sound of the screaming jet turbine.
Later that evening, before going to bed, I took a shower and damn-near fell on my
butt when I closed my eyes to wash my hair. I got so dizzy I had to lean against the shower
wall to keep from falling down. With my eyes open I was all right, but when I closed my
eyes the room started to spin. This was not good; I was scheduled for my rating tomorrow at
three in the morning and I wasn’t sure I could fly the plane. Common sense told me I should
let Moose know of my problem and reschedule for a later date. Another voice said to ignore
the dizziness and try to get through because there might not be another chance. We’d already
lost three men from our original class and the company had demonstrated they would fire
anyone who remotely didn’t look suitable. I lay down to get some sleep while the bed slowly
spun ‘round and ‘round. Tomorrow’s another day I reasoned and it may be just a temporary
condition.
The check ride went well; I had no problem with any of the maneuvers and
procedures as long as I focused on the instrument panel. The final approach was using the
65
ADF (automatic direction finder) to the airport cumulating in a circle-to-land on the
reciprocal runway. As I mentioned earlier, I was completely at ease with the thing that
usually gave pilots the most problem; the dated, dreaded, ADF approach. However, when we
got down to one-thousand feet and Moose removed the blinder saying, “Okay take her
around to the other runway and keep her in close; you’ve only got a mile visibility,” my
flying went to hell. Looking at the runway lights surrounded by blackness from the cockpit I
began to get vertigo; the lighted runway was undulating like it was floating on an ocean. On
base leg my head was spinning so badly I thought I was going to lose it; I worried I was
going to puke. Fortunately, the plane was configured to land except for the final flaps.
Turning Final I called for full flaps.
“Flaps, full – checklist complete; you are cleared to land,” Moose confirmed.
I went back on the gauges; the artificial horizon, gyro compass and ADF needle
remained steady and I was able to line the plane up with the runway relying on the cockpit
instruments and the ground mounted lighted visual approach slope indicator, (VASI), until I
was one hundred fifty feet and ready to flare. I eased off the power checking our descent and
the plane flared right on target.
“Nice job; that circle-to-land is the one that gets most pilots, you executed it
perfectly. Congratulations captain.” I appreciated the compliment and didn’t miss the new
title the FAA examiner gave me.
Later over breakfast Moose asked me what the hell happened during the approach. “I
saw you go back on the instruments when you were supposed to be visual and I almost said
something. But you were doing a good job and the Fuzz didn’t pick up on it, so I just sat
there.”
I confessed to Moose what happened and how I thought the noise of the APU had
damaged my ears.
“You gonna be all right to fly?”
“Sure, I just need a few days to get my balance back.”
“Your route check doesn’t start ‘til Monday; you’ve the weekend to rest up. Captain
DeWitt’s gonna be your first check airman; aren’t you the lucky one?”
“He’s a jerk.”
“He’s not that bad – just humor him and go along with his nonsense and you’ll be
fine. By the way – that was a good job last night.”
“Thanks Moose.”
“You’re welcome. Oh and Rick Skala is going to give you the second half of your
ride. The company wants two opinions before they turn a captain loose.”
66
“He’s another jerk.”
“Everybody’s gotta jump through the hoops – they’re not that bad.”
“Yes they are.”
67
ONCE MORE A CAPTAIN
The whirly beds stopped. However, I still had to brace myself against the shower-wall
when washing my hair. I couldn’t look out the cockpit window without the earth undulating.
The dizziness was replaced by a loud ringing in my ears that I hoped would gradually fade.
Norm Smith was assigned as my copilot; he was a first-class new-hire from another
airline. Norm was rated in the ‘9 and had flown captain for the previous carrier. We hit it off
immediately.
Our scheduled trip was from Warner Robins, to San Antonio, to Fort Worth, to
Oklahoma City, to Las Vegas, and finally Ogden, Utah where we would crew-rest for
twenty-four hours. From the other pilots I’d learned a lot about what Balsey expected; I felt
confident the check ride was going to go along smoothly.
Privately I said to Norm, “On this ride I’m going to do some things you may take
issue with; trust me, I know Balsey, and I know he has certain idiosyncrasies so grin-andbear-it.”
“No problem Dave; your wish is my command – all you gotta do is ask and I’ll
deliver.” I knew I had a first officer I could count on.
Balsey showed up late, I’d already checked the weather, reviewed the load manifest,
ordered the fuel, filed the flight plan, and was getting ready to head out to the plane to
perform the walk-around. “Sorry to be late. There were some scheduling problems at
Kennedy I had to take care of; one our pilots had to be replaced because his car spun out on
the parkway.” Balsey been made system chief pilot over the entire DC-9 operation; he was a
clever politician.
“No problem sir; I’ve gone ahead and filed, we should be off the blocks on time,” I
hadn’t spoken with Captain Balsey DeWitt since my initial training and I wanted to keep it as
formal as possible.
Turning to Norm, who was finishing the Weight & Balance form, Balsey said, “I
almost washed this guy out when I first met him and now a year later he’s up for command.”
Addressing me he continued, “Well let’s see if you’ve learned anything since we last met.
What altitude and mach did you file for captain?”
68
“Two-eight- zero and mach eight-oh,” I replied. Norm gave me a sly grin before
returning to his paperwork.
“That’s excellent. Too many new captains get themselves in trouble by flying too
high. Coffin corner’s a mighty dangerous place for an in experienced crew. Eight-oh is good
too; that’ll get us there fast and save fuel. The secret is to go low and fast in a jet; it saves
kerosene and doesn’t waste time. Dave, somebody’s been teaching you the right way.”
I learned this trick from Dickie Stevenson after Captain DeWitt had chewed him out
for filing the same route at thirty-one thousand feet. (In fact thirty-one thousand and mach
seven-eight was the most economical parameter to start out on, then as the plane lightened
from fuel burn, it was climbed up to thirty-five thousand. Coffin Corner, the critical altitude
where the plane was squeezed between mach-buffet and stall speeds was up past forty
thousand feet – a height where we never operated.)
The trip seemed to be going along smoothly; Norm and I worked well together. I’d
get the weather for the next leg, giving Norm the fuel load after reviewing the load manifest.
Norm would do the weight & balance calculations presenting the form for my signature.
We’d actually gotten a few minutes ahead of schedule.
It was a long day; five legs and over eight hours of flying time. We were a couple of
tired pilots when we landed at Hill Air Force Base, taking a cab to the hotel. “Captain I’d like
you to drop by my room before you retire; there are some items I want to review with you,”
Balsey’s voice reflected he was giving me an order.
“Yes sir, I’ll be there as soon as I drop my bags off.” I thought I’d done fairly well
but he obviously had some issues he wanted to discuss.
His door was ajar; nevertheless, I knocked out of courtesy.
“Come in, come in. Here grab that chair there are some things I want to talk over with
you.”
“Yes sir,” I replied as I took the only chair while he remained standing.
“Case, there’s no question you can fly the plane; you’ve improved a thousand percent
since I last observed you in San Diego. But there’s more to commanding a flight than just
being a good stick – many copilots are good sticks but will never see a command.”
“Where’s the problem?”
“The problem is how you handle your crew – or I should say how your crew handles
you. I didn’t see any command from you – I want to see you giving orders. You two acted
like you were out on a Sunday drive. You’ve got to take control of your first officer or quite
frankly I don’t think you’ll make the program.”
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Norm and I had put in over fourteen duty hours, flying in excess of eight hours with
five stops. We did this in a relaxed cooperative manner that ensured a maximum of safety
and efficiency and a minimum of useless stress. “Okay, I’ll tighten things up tomorrow.
Thanks for the comments.” I stood up to go.
“I can’t continue with you; I’m turning you over to Captain Skala who will be
looking forward to you being more forceful and showing some balls and acting like a captain
should.”
“Thanks, I’ll do my best.” We shook hands and I went back to my room where I
called Norm on the phone. “Norm this is Dave, I’ve got some bad news.” I let him in on what
Balsey had said and said that tomorrow I’d be doing a John Wayne. I also promised to buy
the drinks after acting like something from The High & the Mighty Movie.
“Don’t worry about it; it’s a game you’ve got to play. We’ll get through it okay.
Thanks for clueing me in – if you’d blind-sided me tomorrow, it would have blown my
mind.”
I couldn’t have asked for a better copilot, I was lucky.
Captain Skala met us in the lobby and accompanied us out to the plane. He asked to
see my license, medical, and radiophone license even though that license was no longer
required. “I’ve spoken with Captain DeWitt and he tells me you can fly the plane but there
are some issues I need to carefully check,” he said in his best check airman’s voice.
“Captain DeWitt went over his concerns with me last night.”
“Well let’s see how you do on this portion of your examination.”
“I’ll give it my best.”
There really wasn’t much I could do; I made it a point to lower my voice, speaking
with authority. Norm and I continued to work as a team; I couldn’t find any fault to exercise
a command issue. I felt like a fool play-acting like a grade B film actor. The paperwork was
completed and we boarded the plane. I called for the checklist which was completed with a
more-than-normal formality.
“After Start Checklist complete,” Norm finally said. Both engines were running and
the ground marshaller was waiting for us to give him the signal we were ready to taxi.
“Call Ground Control and tell them we are ready to taxi,” I said in a clear, clipped
voice.
“Roger. Hill Ground; Logair 9-3-4 ready to taxi, IFR to McChord Air Force Base.”
“Logair 9-3-4 you are cleared to taxi to runway one-four; standby for clearance to
McChord.”
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“Roger,” Norm said as he confirmed with me, “We’re cleared to go.” Turning his
head to look out the right side-window he announced, “Clear Right” and started to move the
Flap/Slat handle to the takeoff position as I advance the power levers to begin taxiing. This is
something routine and done oftentimes with a closely working crew – it was not out of the
ordinary.
We hadn’t rolled a yard when I slammed the throttles closed and stood on the brakes,
rocking the plane on its nose strut. “Retract those flaps and slats mister,” I said in my most
fierce command voice. Norm looked like I’d hit him in the face with a wet towel.
“Sure Dave,” he said as he returned the Flap/Slat lever to its stowed position.
“Now listen up Mister Smith; when I want clear right – I will command, Clear Right.
When I want Flaps fifteen – I will command Flaps, one-five. You do not move, or initiate
anything until I specifically give you an order; do you understand that?”
“Sure Dave.” He looked awful.
“Further, in this cockpit, and on-duty, you may address me as, ‘Captain, or Sir.’
Henceforth we will save the familiarity for the layovers; do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good; now – Clear Right?”
Norm looked once more out the side window before answering “Clear Right.”
“Extend the slats; flaps One-fife.”
“Slats extended, flaps one-five – indicating one-five.”
“Logair 9-3-4 are you experiencing any problems?” came over the radio.
“Tell him no problem, we are continuing to taxi.”
“Hill, 9-3-4, no problem we are continuing to taxi.”
“Are you ready to copy clearance?” the controller continued.
“Yes sir – go ahead,” Norm acknowledged.
I glanced back at Rick in the jump seat; he was beaming. I felt like a complete ass.
The trip was finished in silence except for conversation necessary to the flight.
In the hotel Rick was all smiles as he shook my hand, “Well captain, you certainly
showed command. I’ll tell Balsey that you have what it takes. You know, you have to keep
these first-officers in check, or they’ll take over the cockpit; I’ve had problems with several
of them. I don’t believe Smith will be addressing you as Dave while on duty anymore. I think
it’s good that copilots show respect to their captains. Did you know Pan American Airways
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used to have the crews stand at attention for the captain to review them before a flight?
That’s the way it should be here. Respect is something we could do with more of.”
“Yes sir; thanks for the ride.”
“No problem; glad to be of help. Keep a tight reign on your first officers.”
“Yes sir,” leaving the room I felt like a prize jerk. The date was February 21, 1968,
thirteen months from the day I first strapped on the jet; my logbook reflected eight hundred
and forty-seven hours in the right seat. Bob Love was true to his word.
I walked down to Norm’s room and knocked on his door. Profuse apologies were
followed with pizza and a couple of pitchers of beer.
“Jeez, you scared the shit out of me back at Hill.”
“Sorry, I had to do it; Balsey had primed Rick to bust me if I couldn’t play Captain
Bligh. What a bunch of bullshit.”
“You did that all right.”
We remained friends until he moved on to another carrier.
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THE GOOD LIFE, I
Life suddenly got a lot better; going from seven hundred dollars a month to over three
thousand. Our bank balance did a pleasant about-face, increasing instead of decreasing; it’s
good to be the captain.
I felt comfortable in the aircraft, once-more enjoying the authority, and responsibility
of command. The way the seniority system worked, the most-junior captains were paired
with the most-junior first officers. I was the bottom captain so I flew with all the new-hires. It
was good in a way; by teaching them, I learned and became more confident in my abilities.
The routes and the plane were a perfect place to really hone my skills on the jet.
The only downside was the company was growing faster than they could find, and
train pilots. Therefore, I was spending more and more time away from home. The eighteenday work month became twenty, then twenty-two. One month I only got home for four days
before having to go back on the line. On the other hand, senior captains bid their days off in a
manner where they could back-to-back their days off month to month so they’d be able to
enjoy twenty-four days in a row at home – such are the perks of seniority.
73
HILL AFB INCIDENT
The single runway at Hill Air Force Base is eleven thousand five hundred feet long
by one hundred fifty feet wide. Favoring the prevailing wind, the main approach has a full
ILS (Instrument Landing System) and VASI. Qualified pilots may execute approaches down
to two hundred foot ceilings and one quarter mile visibility.
It was two in the morning when a very tired Ed Gutt and his new-hire first officer
were cleared for the approach with the admonishment by the controller; “Braking action
reported fair to poor by a Lockheed Electra,” which meant the braking action was probably
poor. The Electra pilot knew if he’d said “poor,” it would close the airport to other inbound
traffic. A call of fair-to-poor was a warning to other pilots to attempt a landing at your own
risk – be very, very careful.
A combination of light snow and landing lights made a brilliant reflection passing the
windshield as the copilot reported, “Outer Marker Inbound.”
“Roger, Logair 9-3-4, R-V-R (Runway Visual Range) is one-six hundred, cleared to
land runway one-four”
Ed had just been approved to fly at lower minimums; this was his first real-world low
approach. He concentrated on the Flight Director instrument guiding him to the runway; the
dazzling snow threatened to upset his equilibrium. “Checklist complete?” he nervously
repeated.
“Complete, Ed.”
“Standard callouts.”
“Roger – this looks hairy.”
Concentrating on the instruments he guided the plane through the snow-filled black
night to what he knew would be a difficult landing; Ed began to whistle a random tune.
“One thousand feet, on course, a little high on the glide slope, plus ten knots on the
speed,” the copilot said as part of the required procedure.
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“Roger.”
The copilot’s louder voice began reflecting the stress he felt, “Five hundred feet, on
course, on glide path, speed, plus ten – approaching minimums.”
Ed continued whistling as he mentally debated whether to ease off on the throttles or
take the risk of landing too hot.
“Minimums – I have the approach lights! I HAVE THE RUNWAY – COME LEFT!”
the copilot’s raised voice indicated his apprehension.
Ed banked the bird to the left attempting to line up with the center line. Too much and
he’d slide off to the other side or get a wing tip. Bringing the throttles to idle he applied
rudder. The landing lights reflecting on the snow was making everything look surreal. The
plane landed hard on one main gear and bounced over to the other. Runway lights were
whizzing by as Ed slammed down the nose gear and pulled hard on the reverser levers while
simultaneously pushing harder on both brakes.
The right engine came into reverse ahead of the left, causing the plane to swerve to
the right. The anti-skid cycled with a chattering, making the brakes useless. Ed saw the
runway swing around through his side window as the nose wheel plowed through the runway
lights and off onto the side before collapsing, throwing him and the copilot against their
shoulder harnesses.
“9-3-4, are you all right?”
“Negative. Our nose wheel collapsed – we’re off the runway.” Ed answered.
“Roger; equipment is on the way.”
They completed the checklist before exiting the aircraft. One of the items on the list
was to pull the circuit breaker on the Cockpit Voice Recorder. The machine operated on a
closed loop, recording the last thirty minutes of cockpit conversation. Shutting off the power
to the recorder saved what was said prior to the accident.
The plane suffered a million-five in damage; it was a toss-up whether to scrap it or
not. Reports were made – hearings held – Ed and his copilot were fired.
A couple of months later several of us were told to report back to the head-shed for
some training on new equipment being installed in the aircraft. A secretary delivered a
message to the classroom that I was to report to the President’s office immediately following
lunch. Since the Hill AFB incident, the President had been calling in all the captains one-byone; my turn was next.
“Come in Dave, come in – oh, and close the door behind you.”
“Yes sir.”
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“I just want to have a little chat with all of you about that awful thing with Captain
Gutt. You were classmates weren’t you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, was there anything you saw about him that would make you think he was
anything less than he should be?”
“No sir; I thought he was an excellent pilot. He flew in the Air Force…”
“That may be true, but the man didn’t understand the gravity of the situation that
night. Do you know he was whistling on approach? Whistling, when he should have been
concentrating on the task at hand; I found that to be inexcusable!”
“Maybe he was whistling to relieve stress; some people do odd things when faced
with difficult problems.”
“Yes I know, but we played the tape back. Both he and the copilot were clowning
around in the cockpit before the approach. I don’t think either one realized just how serious
the weather was that night; they acted completely clueless.”
“Ed always seemed to me to be on-top of everything in training. I would still wonder
if stress hadn’t led them to say things to relieve the tension…”
“Nonsense! When I heard that tape I knew we’d made a mistake in hiring him. It was
good riddance to someone who could have later caused the loss of many lives if he’d
advanced to the DC-8s.”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, I’m glad we’ve had this talk; I’m sure you want to get back to class. Drop in
any time you’re back this way.”
I returned to the classroom having learned two things: While it wasn’t supposed to be
used against the crew; the Cockpit Voice Recorder was a tool to get one fired. Therefore, in
the event of an incident I would leave the circuit breaker in, thereby erasing the tape – to hell
with FAA safety requests. Further, regardless of the minimums; if it doesn’t feel right, go to
your alternate – always error on the side of Safety.
Later at the Holiday Inn bar over scotch, one of the captains commented to me; “You
know why Gutt got fired? He was whistling ‘Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey’”
The name of our president was Bill Bailey.
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THE GOOD LIFE, II
It was more-than-good to be a thirty-four year-old captain flying for a growing
airline; when ONA was awarded a Navy Quicktrans contract it got even better. Boyd
Michaels, the DC-9 chief pilot, said if I moved to Alameda, California where the routes
began, I could plan on not being away from home more than three days a month! This was
too good to be true; we gave our notice to the landlady, packed our bags, and hit the road for
Northern California. Yippee!
Bill and Janet Foster lived in the hills behind Oakland. They advised us Montclair
was where we should plan on locating – down the block from them. Bill and I had shared a
villa in Vietnam when Janet and Vickie were both working for Alitalia Airlines in Hong
Kong. Vickie and I thought it a good idea to follow their advice. We bought a comfortable
three bedroom house on an upslope lot in a heavily wooded neighborhood with lots of deer
and raccoons for company. It was an all-together-different world less than twenty-five
minutes from the Naval Air Station on the island of Alameda.
Life couldn’t get any better than this; then, something happened to threaten our dream
existence. Toni’s maternal mother showed up one day at her school demanding her daughter.
How she located us I will never know; though I suspected it had been the loose tongue of one
of my family, who still lived near her. I had foolishly not formalized my custody of Toni and
was about to pay the price. The promise of a bicycle tipped the scales in favor of Bonnie, her
mother. Toni got the bicycle, and Bonnie got generous child support; which was what she
wanted in the first place. Apparently her career as a topless dancer was not panning out.
Vickie was heartbroken.
This was followed by my old nemesis asthma, paying me a call. It took a while to
figure it out; I was fine in the plane, there was no problem on the flatland. However, in
Montclair I would choke and wheeze to an alarming degree. I contacted a tame doctor; one
who had no idea I was a pilot, telling him I was a traveling salesman. (Most pilots had
separate doctors where they could go for treatment on-the-quiet as the FAA was still
following the policy of one had to be perfect to fly.) He advised moving out of Montclair, as
the eucalyptus trees were probably the source of my problem. He also said I should avoid
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flying as my ears could not take the pressure of high altitude – the train would be much
better.
When we shared our decision to move with the Fosters, they warned us of the dangers
of living on the flatlands in Alameda: “The people have no class. Vickie won’t like it. It’s
always foggy. There’s a lot of crime down there.” None of this proved to be true; the people
were a delight. Vickie loved it. It’s the best weather in the Bay and crime is non-existent.
Alameda is Mayberry. The locals advised when you drive over one of the bridges, or through
the tube to the island, “Set your watch back twenty years.”
We sold the house, moving into the only high-rise apartment in Alameda. I
immediately improved and stopped taking medications; it was like night and day. Eucalyptus
trees were the cause of my asthma. The Caravel Apartments were located next to a small
marina on the Oakland Estuary. It wasn’t long before we’d bought a little sailboat to explore
the islands and towns on the San Francisco Bay. We hoped Toni could one-day come up to
share some of our experiences.
True to the chief pilot’s prediction I was gone only three to four days a month, flying
mostly round-robins, during daylight hours. Vickie and I enjoyed our new life. We’d catch a
play in San Francisco, followed by dinner at an elegant restaurant, and a sparkling drive back
to our cozy little nest on the island. I’d get up in the morning wondering what I’d done to
deserve such good luck.
We were having such a good time we failed to recognize our friends, the Foster’s,
were coming apart. One day Janet came over to announce; “I’m leaving that sonovabitch!” It
was true they seemed to shout a lot at each other, but I assumed that was their way of
communicating – some couples are like that. Admittedly, Bill had taken on the airs of a
rather stuffy, snobbish airline captain; he referred to my DC-9 as, that little airplane and
tended to talk down to me, playing a one-upmanship-head-trip with me. He didn’t seem able
to leave his four stripes in the cockpit – taking them home with him. I assumed he’d get over
it when he got a little more command experience. It didn’t happen though, and they got a
divorce. Bill went on to fly the 747, we lost track of him. Janet went back to school to
become a psychologist. She and Vickie have always remained close.
78
ROUTE CHECK
The Navy liked keeping an eye on us, using route-checkers for the job. It was not
unusual for an officer in an orange flight suit to be waiting for us as we arrived to start a trip.
He’d announce he was Commander so-and-so, and wanted to route-check the flight. This
would be accompanied by a slip of paper from Navy-Norfolk, stating Commander So-and-so
had permission to ride, and to please show him all courtesies. Generally these guys were nice
people who made no comments other than to thank us, congratulating us on a well-run
operation. I got the impression it was a routine that filled a square – the Navy had a lot of
routines that made no sense.
Early one-morning a Commander James showed up in Alameda asking to route-check
me to Paine Field in Everett, Washington, and back. He was a smiling likeable guy in his late
forties dressed in the proper regulation-orange flight suit festooned with an assortment of
patches that included a leather name-badge giving his name, rank, and squadron. I’d seen
him before when he was checking other crews.
“Good morning captain, do you mind if I ride with you this morning?”
“No sir; do you have your authorization?”
Turning to our dispatcher he asked, “Son, has Norfolk sent in my authorization yet?”
The dispatcher shuffled through the stack of papers he was about to hand over to me
before answering, “I’m sorry it isn’t here; I’ll put in a rush request – you should have it in a
moment.”
“Thank you; sometimes the Navy drops the ball.” Addressing me he continued, “May
I see the licenses and medicals of you, and your first officer while we’re waiting?”
“Certainly,” I replied as I reached in my back pocket for my wallet. Ray Roy, my
copilot already had his out and handed it to the Commander.
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Examining the certificates he carefully wrote in our names and other details on his
clipboard before handing them back. “I envy you both, being so young and flying these
beautiful jets. I never got past the propeller equipment; ah, to be young again.”
I was given a copy of his authorization when it arrived over the Teletype from NavyNorfolk. Everything was in order before we proceeded to the aircraft. Other than low clouds
and the usual morning fog at Everett it was going to be a routine run. I grabbed another
Styrofoam cup to share my thermos of coffee with the Commander.
The takeoff over the Oakland-Bay Bridge always made me wonder if the loaded
aircraft really met second-segment-climb; or would I have to fly under the span in the event
we lost an engine at a critical time. Climb-out was smooth, the stratus cloud-deck was thin,
we leveled off at thirty-one thousand feet; our cruise altitude for the hour and forty-minutes
to Paine Field. The sun rose brilliant in the East lighting the cobalt blue sky and white clouds
below. It also shone on the contrail of another jet probably out of San Francisco and bound
for Seattle that was a few miles ahead of us.
Taking a sip of his coffee Commander James casually addressed Ray Roy, “You
know you have a very good captain here.”
“Yes sir,” Ray answered.
“Yes, you see this cloud we’re following? That cloud is formed by the cold, moist air
of the ocean meeting up with the warmer air of the land. That cloud is an indicator that we
are flying right up the Coast. It will take us right up to Seattle.”
“Really?” Ray responded. We were both waiting for the punch line – this had to be a
joke.
“Really. I once followed one of these long clouds all the way to Anchorage in an R4-D. If anything should happen to the ship’s navigation equipment; all I’d have to have done
is turn west and let down over the ocean to safety.”
“Aren’t there some big mountains on the way to Anchorage that could have gotten in
the way?”
“Not if you fly the coastal route. I’m sure Captain Case here knows what I’m talking
about?”
“Huh, yes sir.” Ray and I exchanged glances. The hair on the back of my neck was
standing up. Who is this guy? He’s no pilot and what he just said is completely wrong.
We continued along in silence following the contrail with the Commander smiling
and sipping his coffee. Ray called my attention to a message he’d written on a scrap of paper,
‘What do you want to do?’ it read.
I scribbled back, ‘Call Center – tell them we want security guards to meet our plane
when we arrive.’
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It was a quiet flight except for Commander James’ casual comments that all of
sudden made no sense to either of us. This wasn’t funny; who was this guy?
The ILS instrument approach seemed to take forever. We’d turned off the overhead
speakers, using headsets so Commander James couldn’t hear our conversation with the
ground.
“Ah, Quicktrans 9-3-6 we received a message you want Security to meet your aircraft
– do you have a problem?”
“Roger Approach, we have route-checker on board who may not be who he says he
is,” Ray answered.
“Roger, do you want armed intervention?”
I picked up the mike, “This is the captain; that’s a negative. Just make sure we have
some guards meet the plane.” All we needed was a bunch of police waiting to kill us all.
We touched down with less than a half mile visibility, there were flashing lights and
an ambulance behind the marshaller who waved us to the parking spot.
“Looks like you’ve attracted quite an audience with that landing?” Commander James
commented as we shutdown the engines.
“Yeah, they do that when the weather is down, in case I need a fresh pair of shorts.” I
said.
“Ha, that’s a good one captain. I’ll bet they’re here because of all the classified cargo
we’re carrying. Ambulances normally meet the plane when we have valued serums on
board.”
Ray extended the stairs, walking down, followed by the Commander and me. At the
bottom of the stairs was an older gray-haired man I’d never seen before. He nodded to me,
but addressed Commander James, “Billy, Doctor Brooks says to say, ‘Hello’ and he misses
you.”
“Really?” the commander never missed a beat, “I’ll be with you in a moment; I have
to complete my mission first.” He turned to Ray and me, “Gentlemen, you did a fine job. I’ll
certainly mention your instrument skills to the brass. It’s good to have you both on board.”
He then shook our hands, “And captain, I certainly enjoyed your coffee.”
Two guards led him gently over to the ambulance. The older man addressed me,
“Sorry captain – that was Billy – he’s harmless.”
“Harmless? The guy’s been riding around the system claiming to be a route
supervisor. What if he got violent? How many others are riding around?”
“He never has; he’s a Navy chief who is an inmate at Oak Knoll Hospital. Every once
in awhile he gets away and likes to do impersonations.”
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“How come Navy-Norfolk kept giving him authorizations to ride; didn’t they know
the guy’s a nut?”
“They have a lot to do back there and besides he knows how to talk their language so
he slips by. Like I said he’s harmless – thank you for calling it in so nobody got hurt.”
“You’re welcome.”
This was only one of several incidents that convinced me the Navy operates in a
never-never world of their own.
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A DEADHEAD
Our longest trip was from NAS Alameda to NAS Norfolk in Virginia, with a
scheduled stop at Indianapolis. The leg to Indy was just under seventeen hundred miles,
which meant we had to make a fuel stop if we carried a payload bigger than thirty thousand
pounds. Our contract was for thirty-four thousand and the Navy had a thing about making
sure we were always max’d out (We’d haul the same palletized anchor-chain from coast-tocoast to convince the bean-counters they were getting their monies worth.) This almostalways meant a fuel-stop at Mountain Home AFB in Idaho, and an extra couple of hours
tagged-on to our duty-day. Nevertheless, it was fun to get out and stretch the bird’s legs.
The crew hotel in Norfolk was across from a small marina. Swinging Virginia Beach
was a short drive away where there were sailboat rentals on Chesapeake Bay. Because the
Navy didn’t work on weekends, Friday’s trip meant spending the weekend on the East Coast.
I wanted to bring Vickie on the flight so we could both enjoy the ambiance of southern
hospitality.
Naturally, there were rules against transporting family members. However, we often
carried dead-heading World Airlines, and Trans-International Airways flight attendants from
the Oakland base to their homes on the eastern seaboard. Vickie had worked for the airlines
so she was comfortable appearing as a flight attendant. I decided to chance smuggling her on
my next weekend flight east.
The ‘9 could carry two passengers in very tight mini-jumpseats behind the pilot and
copilot. It would be uncomfortable but I thought she’d enjoy riding up-front where the view
was better. Showing up at dispatch I escorted her in; explaining to the dispatcher she was a
World Airlines ‘Stew’ I had met at the Lemon Tree, a bar where flight crews hung out.
“Twix Norfolk and get her an authorization will you?” I said with a wink.
“Sure Dave, I’ll get right on it. Oh, you’ve got another jump seater – a stew with TIA.
She’s deadheading to Norfolk too.”
“It ought to be a fun flight – huh?”
“I wish I was going; you and Ron up there with two beautiful babes – I hope you pay
attention to the flying and not get lost.”
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“I think we can figure it out.”
The second flight attendant had ridden with us before; she knew the drill. Introducing
herself to Vickie, they hit it off right away. Thankfully, they were from different airlines so
Vickie’s cover remained intact.
The plane was fully loaded which meant we’d be making a pit stop at Mountain
Home AFB. On descent, Ron radioed ahead that we required four inflight lunches and drinks
delivered to base ops when we pulled in to refuel. After landing, I and taxied up to
Operations, where a fuel truck was waiting. Ron opened the door and extended the onboard
air-stairs; Vickie and the other stew hurried down the stairs to get our waiting box lunches.
“Which one do you like?” the TIA stew asked Vickie.
Thinking she was talking about the lunches, Vickie replied, “It doesn’t make any
difference to me.”
“The copilot’s cute; I think the captain’s married.”
“Oh – I like the captain.”
“Great! I’ll serve the copilot and you take care of the captain. Who knows how this
might turn out?”
“Who knows?” Vickie replied.
By the time they came back with the lunches we were almost finished fueling. I called
for clearance while Ron retracted the stairs and locked the door. We lit the fires, blasting off
for Indianapolis after a forty-five minute turnaround. I didn’t know what had transpired
between the two females, but it was obvious something had been agreed to. Vickie was
unusually attentive to me as was the TIA attendant to Ron. She poured my coffee, mixing in
the powdered cream and sugar. She unwrapped my sandwich, and peeled my banana;
something was afoot.
The Holiday Inn bus was waiting for us outside Dispatch when we arrived in Norfolk.
It had been a fourteen-hour duty day, I was a tired captain as the four of us piled in the van.
“Oh damn, I missed my connection to New York. I guess I’ll have to spend the night
in Norfolk. Vickie, where are you going to stay? Maybe we could bunk in together?” the TIA
girl said.
“Maybe; I’m not sure yet.” Vickie answered.
Oh boy, this is going to get sticky, I thought.
Ron and I signed in for our company rooms, I advised the room clerk I’d be paying
separately for a second guest.
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Smiling, Vickie looked at me, “Captain, you’re sure the room has a couch I can sleep
on?”
“Absolutely – would I lie to you?”
The TIA stew turned to Ron, “Well, if he’s got a couch you must have one too. We
could watch TV before turning in, huh?”
“I think my room has twin beds if you don’t mind sharing the bathroom.” Ron
responded.
Walking to our rooms the TIA flight attendant whispered to Vickie, “Boy, you World
stew’s don’t fool around, do you? I wouldn’t have had the guts to hit on Ron the way you did
the captain.”
“Experience.” Vickie lightly shot back.
Needless to say I did some fancy talking explaining how things like that never
happened to me and I had no idea who the TIA stewardess was or had I ever flown with her
before. Once Vickie was convinced I was a straight-arrow we had a fabulous weekend;
sailing a Sunfish on the bay, wolfing down soft-shell crab, and boogieing to a loud band in a
Virginia Beach bistro.
Early Monday-morning we were checking out of the hotel prior to starting the run
home. I stood behind a couple paying their bill ahead at the front desk. I was dressed in full
uniform except for my hat, which was resting on top of my flight bag, being guarded by
Vickie. Feeling a tug on my left sleeve; looking down there was a boy of about ten years with
an arm full of newspapers.
He looked up at me, “Mister?”
“Yes son?” I smilingly answered, assuming he wanted to ask me a question about
flying.
“Mister, can I sell newspapers in your lobby?”
What? The little monster thought I was the bellman! “Kid I don’t care what you do,” I
angrily retorted; out of the corner of my eye I saw Vickie hiding a laugh behind her hand.
“Thanks,” the boy smiled as he headed off towards the front door.
For years after, whenever Vickie wanted to pull my chain over something she’d look
up at me and say, “Mister, do you mind if I sell newspapers in your lobby?”
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THE GOOD LIFE, III
I was beginning to act like a real airline pilot. I bought a bigger boat; a thirty-four
foot fiberglass kit sailboat, hull-and-deck, in Southern California. I hired a fellow to complete
it; he said he could finish the yacht in three months if I helped him. The factory wanted thirty
thousand dollars for an out-the-door model; I thought I could beat that price by buying
everything wholesale; how could anything go wrong?
I bought a used pickup truck to haul parts and commute back-and-forth. A whole
shop-full of tools were needed; a plastic-and-wooden frame to cover the boat was erected, as
well as a shed to store all the tools and parts. I found a cheap hotel near the yard where
Vickie and I could stay; it wasn’t much, but it was only going to be for three months.
The project started out well; every bulkhead and shelf was carefully measured before
being glued and screwed into place. The hull and deck were fiber-glassed together to form a
tight waterproof bond. The Boatwright taught me how to measure and fit compound curves; I
learned there was practically nothing on a boat that had a straight line. By the end of each
day all three of us were tired; the next day’s projects were reviewed over a six-pack.
I had arranged to bid back-to-back twelve day rest periods so the first month went by
fast. I tried to negotiate as much time-off as possible while the craftsman continued without
me. This should have been a good arrangement. Unfortunately I began to realize my skilled
journeyman didn’t do nearly as well when left alone; he needed constant encouragement.
“That looks great! How did you do that? Gee, you sure know how to work with wood…” and
so-forth. Judging by the empty beer cans I saw, he seemed to enjoy the after-work break
earlier and earlier.
By the third month it became obvious the boat was no-where near completion, I had
bitten off a truly big project – much bigger than I had estimated. I showed up one day to find
him assembling a cabinet using Elmer’s glue and galvanized nails.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
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“This is just a storage cabinet and will be covered over with paint. Nobody will ever
see it.”
“I’ll see it; I thought you said everything should be glued & screwed using marine
cement and bronze screws?”
“Yeah, well it takes a lot of time and trouble to do all that where it won’t ever be
seen; besides it’s not a structural item…”
“Everything in a boat is a structural item. It’s like an airplane; everything is
dependent on everything for strength. I thought we agreed on that before we started…”
“You’re making a mountain out of a mole hill; look if you want me to quit, I will.”
I think he figured he had me over a barrel; he was the pro and I was just a dilettante
pilot with more money than brains. I fired him and contracted to have the boat towed up to
Alameda. I could walk thirty-yards from our apartment to where the boat waited patiently for
me to finish her.
It took me two years to get Tai Ping launched. She was a staysail rigged ketch;
boiling along with her rail down, crossing the Bay, she was a beautiful sight underway.
Vickie and I had put in countless hours and the budget had gone out the window; I was proud
of our effort. The only downside was I saw every scratch, knick, ding, and mistake I’d made
when building her. I couldn’t get it out of my head that I should have done a better job. Of
course no-one else saw any of this, we received many oohs & aawhs from friends; even
seasoned yachtsmen said we’d done an excellent job.
One day as I Vickie and I slid Tai ping back into her berth there was a guy at the dock
to greet us. “A beautiful boat,” he said as I tossed him a line to tie her off to the cleat.
“Thanks, you want to come aboard and take a look around?”
“You bet – did you build her?”
‘My wife and I did. Come on, I’ll show you around.” We’d rigged Tai Ping for longrange ocean-passages, I was proud of the many features I’d installed.
“Could she make Honolulu?” he asked as I showed him the diesel engine.
“I don’t think that would be a problem – I built her for long passages.”
“You want to sell her?”
I was momentarily flabbergasted. “I don’t know, I hadn’t thought about it – we’d
have to think it over.” Exchanging cards we agreed to keep in touch.
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Three weeks later he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He then loaded her up with
groceries and sailed off to Honolulu, returning six months later. “Dave, she’s a great boat –
thank you. If you ever want to go sailing in her, call me and we’ll all go together.”
I never called; all I could think about were the scratches, nicks, dings, and mistakes I
made while creating her.
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VOICE FROM THE PAST
Summer lightning set off a huge forest fire in the mountains west of Colorado
Springs. ONA was called upon by the Forestry Service to deliver supplies critical to fighting
the raging inferno. That was how I found myself parked over by the corporate facility at the
Springs’ airport. Off-loading the bulky equipment was slow so Ron, the copilot, and I went
into the small terminal office for a cup of coffee.
“Case, what are you doing here?” a voice from over my shoulder addressed me.
Turning around, there was Walter Boener; we’d first met in Basic Training at Parks
Air Force Base in 1955. The last I’d seen him was in Bangkok in 1965 – ten years ago. He
had the same innocent blue eyes, the full head of salt and pepper hair, the easy smile,
“Walter, what are you doing here?”
“See that Beechcraft out there? I’m the test pilot for Beech, checking it out before we
start production.” He made it sound like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to
be a production-test pilot for Beechcraft. “Is that your DC-9 out there?”
“Not mine; it belongs to Overseas National, I’m just driving it.”
I introduced Ron to Walter and we continued our conversation, “How long did you
fly for Continental in Laos?” Walter asked.
“I was with them for a couple of years before my damn lungs gave out. I ended up
down in Vietnam. What happened to you after Bangkok?”
“I drifted around for a bit until some friends recommended me to Beechcraft. I’ve
been with them for five years now.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a career.”
“Maybe, but I’m engaged to a wonderful woman who wants me to quit flying. She
owns a ski resort and I might help her run it.” He looked at me with those clear pale blue
eyes that said, trust me.
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“Walter you are the luckiest guy I ever met.”
“Me; what about you? I think we’ve both done well for a couple of Privates.”
“Yeah I guess.” We went on like that until they’d finished off-loading my plane, then
we bid farewell to each other. It didn’t seem possible we’d known each other twenty years, I
still knew so little about him – except he’d led a fabulous life.
“Who was that guy?” Ron asked as we walked out to our plane.
“Walter Boener is without a doubt one of the most-fortunate persons I’ve ever met.
He and his Dad were in Germany on a buying trip from Paraguay, where he was born, when
the war broke out. The Germans found out he could fly and made him a test pilot on the ME109. His job was to take the plane off the production line, climb it to twenty-thousand feet,
then put it in a vertical dive to five-thousand feet. If the plane held together, he landed and
got another plane; if it didn’t the Germans got another test pilot. He’d just turned seventeen”
“That doesn’t sound like a career position.”
“He later flew on the Russian Front, he said, then test pilot on the two-sixty-two, the
first jet to fly combat. When Paraguay declared war on Germany, he was imprisoned and
escaped to fly for the Free-French.”
“He sounds like some kind of character out of a comic-book.”
“Yeah, except I’ve seen his logbooks; then he flew as a copilot on the Berlin Airlift,
before heading back to Paraguay and corporate work.”
“Somehow he hooked up with some guys at our embassy who convinced him to join
our Air Force; that’s where I first met him – we were enlisted recruits together.”
“Did you fly in the Air Force?”
“No, but the last time I saw Walter, he was wearing Second-Lieutenant’s bars and a
set of silver wings; I have no idea how he did it. The guy absolutely drowns in good-luck;
come on, let’s get this bird fired-up and make it to the hotel before the cocktail hour ends.”
“I’m with you, boss.”
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CARIBE CAPER
An American, who owned a grocery store on a small island in the Caribbean named
Saint Maarten, decided he could make a bigger profit by having his groceries brought-in by
air, rather than relying on the slower delivery by sea. He chose Overseas National Airways to
be the carrier and ONA decided the DC-9 would be perfect for the once-a-month Miami to
St. Maarten round-robin. Someone in scheduling assigned me to fly the run on the weekends
I laid over in Norfolk; I was delighted.
A balmy spot of land jointly shared by the French, (St Martin) and the Dutch, (St.
Maarten) is located just past the British Virgin Islands. After building a resort hotel for a big
corporation from Holland, the American opened the store. He was a likeable guy in his
forties who loved to accompany his cargo and regale us with stories of his adventures in the
Caribbean.
Leaving Miami I pointed the nose towards Andros Island, then we flew down the
Bahama chain, leaving Cuba and Dominica to starboard. It was easy to dodge around the
cumulous clouds that grew to huge, threatening thunder-bumpers on our return trip.
Abeam Puerto Rico we started our descent to his island. The runway was relatively
short between a big mountain on the left and a small hill on the right. However the approach
was over water, and a beautiful beach with topless sunbathers. If the weather turned
inclement one could either circle a few minutes for the downpour to pass, or try and get lucky
with an ADF. It was fun, seat-of-the-pants flying reminding me of how it used to be in the
Congo and Vietnam.
Normally, it took a couple of hours to offload the plane since it was all bulk cargo,
each crate and box had to be hand-carried by the local laborers. I didn’t mind this, because
the customer always treated us to an excellent lunch where the view from his porch was
spectacular. In addition to the sun worshippers there was a perfect little bay begging to be
explored by snorkel.
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After three trips, I couldn’t resist any longer; Chuck Howell was my copilot, I knew
he loved the water as much as I did so, when I called him to bring along his flippers, snorkel,
and mask, for our next trip south he was ready and willing.
Leaving Alameda, we flew nonstop to Indy, then on to Norfolk, and a tail-end ferry to
Miami, where we polished off the evening at Bryson’s 39th Avenue pilot-hangout. The next
day was a typical Miami morning; the sun used the puffy clouds for an easel to paint colors
impossible to duplicate with a brush. The plane was loaded, the customer waiting, the
weather perfect, off we flew for some skin-diving and feasting. Sometimes I couldn’t believe
I actually got paid to do this.
Two hours and twenty-five minutes later, I was maneuvering towards a visual
approach and landing on the exquisite jewel that seemed to magically materialize from
beneath the low puffy clouds clinging to the surrounding mountains. After landing we turned
around and taxied back on the runway since the airport wasn’t big enough for us to use the
taxiway. I parked not fifty feet from the lagoon we were going to investigate. Chuck and I
changed into our swimming trunks in the plane telling the customer where we could be
reached if he needed us.
The water was a delight; nearly the same temperature as the air. There was a reef, and
all manner of tropical fish swimming around; it was like being in a giant aquarium The fish
were as curious about us as we them, they’d swim right up, touching my hand, looking me in
the eye before dashing back a few feet to decide whether or not I was an acceptable guest.
Chuck and I were having the time of our lives when the customer shouted out to us that the
plane was off-loaded.
I looked at my watch; it had only been an hour and a quarter since we landed. I
wondered how he had managed to empty the plane so fast. We swam to shore to greet our
benefactor.
“Hey you guys, are you going to have time for lunch?” he asked as we staggered out
of the water.
“No, we’ve got to get the plane back; how’d you finish so fast?”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, I bought a small powered hand truck that really speeds
things up. We emptied that sucker in less than an hour. You looked like you were having
such a good time I didn’t want to bother you, but I thought maybe I should after your
company called to ask how it was going.”
“I told them we were still off-loading – you want to have lunch?”
“Thanks anyway, we better get back before the shit hits the fan.”
“How about a shower first?”
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“No, if Customs doesn’t mind, we’ll clear in our trunks and change in the plane once
we get airborne.”
So sandy, with hair all askew, carrying our snorkels, flippers and mask the amused
Customs officer passed us through, “Captain can you fly wearing those flip-flops?”
“The plane doesn’t mind what we fly in.” I laughingly responded.
Walking out to the bird Chuck was wearing an ear-to-ear grin, “Case, you sure know
how to make a trip fun – this was the best”
“It was fun; you close the cargo door and get the clearance while I kick the tires.”
The ride back was uneventful. The only comment I received was from our mechanic
in Miami, “Where’d all the sand come from – it’s all over the floor?”
“I don’t know maybe one of the loaders…”
“Jeez, I gotta sweep it up before it gets down in the E&E compartment. Those guys
are pigs. Dave, close the cabin door next time; you never know what switches they might
flip.”
“Good idea, thanks.”
It was about three months later, I was back at headquarters, sitting for a recurrent
ground school, when walking down the hall I passed Steedman Hinckley, the owner of the
airline.
“Hi Dave, how’s it going?”
“Fine sir.”
“Good; oh Dave, have you got a moment?”
“Yes sir.”
“Dave, I think our uniforms look good; they give us a professional appearance that
sends a positive image with the public – don’t you agree?”
“Yes sir, I like the uniform.”
“Good. Would you try to remember to wear it when you’re flying with us? Flip-flops
and swimming trunks really present a poor image; don’t you agree?”
“Yes sir, I…”
“I’m glad we had this little talk – you’ll be late for class. Have a nice day and call me,
Steedman.”
“Yes sir – uh, Steedman.”
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What a guy! He could have reamed me a new grommet, or worse yet I could have
been suspended. I was mortified; I thought I was being so cool. I never did discover who
snitched, after that I never flew in anything but a uniform.
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NORTH ISLAND SURPRISE
Bill was a military helicopter pilot before hiring on with ONA as a first officer. He
participated in the battle for Khe Sanh; one of the fiercest fought clashes of the Vietnam war.
Because of the terrain it was a helicopter shooting gallery. Many a mother received a letter
from the Department of Defense that her son would be arriving in a flag draped box. The
devastating experience of such a human trauma affects people in different ways; some
withdraw, others have bouts of depression. Bill became a happy-go-lucky extrovert – he was
just glad to have survived the carnage and wanted to live every minute to the fullest. He and I
became close friends flying the line.
We both fought our private demons by being the lives of the party. Layovers were for
blowing off steam drinking, dancing, playing jokes, and generally raising hell. I pretty much
managed to keep my goblins at bay until it was time to turn the lights off and pull the covers
up. I think Bill must have faced the same sad night-songs as I, that was why we hit it off so
well on layovers.
Where we differed was; when it came time to strap on our uniforms. I was a
Jekyll/Hyde; light and easy on the layover, becoming deadly serious in the cockpit. I truly
enjoyed the art of flying, treating it with great respect; knowing even little mistakes could
lead to tragedy. Unfortunately, Bill could not separate his layover image from his flying
persona. He treated flying as a light-hearted game designed to take him to the next party.
We were completing a scheduled three-day round-robin flight that had started-out at NAS
Alameda, running through eight stops and two layovers, covering the United States from east
to west, and north to south, before terminating back at Alameda. It had been an enjoyable
three days, telling stories, and generally being with someone else who had been-there-donethat.
Now, we were headed home, I was looking forward to spending a week sailing with Vickie.
Bill, being single, was thinking of his next conquest in Alameda.
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Our next-to-last stop was North Island Naval Air Station, near San Diego, where we transloaded cargo, and fueled within forty-five minutes, putting us fifteen minutes ahead of
schedule. Buttoning up, we were ready for the last sprint towards God’s country. It was ten
o’clock on a clear, sunny morning when the marshaller signaled the all clear, I cranked up the
big, powerful engines. Bill and I quickly completed the Before Taxi checklist. I told him to
call Ground Control for our ATC (Air Traffic Control) clearance.
Picking up his mike Bill said, “North Island, Overseas National 9-3-7 clearance on request,
please.”
The North Island ground controller confirmed, “Overseas National 9-3-7 clearance on
request.”
While we were waiting for our instrument flight clearance Bill commented, “You know
Laurie, the cocktail waitress at the Blue Knight; the one with the great butt? I think she likes
me and I sure like her. Where’s a good place to take her for dinner?”
“How should I know? Take her to the City…”
North Island’s ground controller broke in with, “Overseas National 9-3-7 – clearance.”
Grabbing his pencil out of his shirt pocket with one hand Bill prepared to write down
the instructions on the mini-clipboard attached to the control column while his other hand
juggled the microphone, “9-3-7 – go ahead, sir.”
I listened on my headset. It was very important we both hear, and understand the
instructions the ground controller was about to impart: “Overseas National 9-3-7 is cleared as
filed. Maintain one-four thousand feet. Maintain runway heading one-eight-zero for radar
vectors to Victor two-seven. Departure Control Frequency will be one-two-seven point
seven. Squawk zero four-zero-zero prior to departure.” Using shorthand common to all flight
crews, Bill expertly copied the clearance as the controller spoke it. When he finished writing,
he picked up the mike and read back the clearance to the controller, “Okay, 9-3-7 cleared as
filed, maintain one-four-thousand, maintain runway heading one-eighty for vectors.
Departure twenty-seven-seven. Squawk zero four-hundred.”
The controller acknowledged, “Overseas National, read-back correct.”
Bill pressed the button on his mike twice, making it click-click.
The read-back was technically correct in content; however, it was not correct in
accepted style. Bill’s read-back of the clearance should have been exactly as the ground
controller gave it to him. With this simple clearance Bill’s abbreviated return didn’t make
much difference, but with a more complicated clearance it could cause a mistake that would
later lead to a problem. Further, while it may have been accepted under some circumstances
to click the mike twice, a verbal “Roger” was proper, and “Okay” was also poor technique. I
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made a mental note to talk to Bill about the importance of using the correct terminology.
“Tell them we’re ready to taxi,” I ordered.
“Ground, Overseas National 9-3-7 – taxi.”
“Overseas National 9-3-7 taxi runway one-eight. Wind three-zero-zero degrees at ten.
Altimeter two-niner-niner-four.”
“9-3-7 – okay.”
Dammit, I thought, why does he use such unprofessional language on the radio?
While I knew we were buddies, and about the same age, for-sure I was going to bring this up
once we reached cruise altitude. “Clear right – flaps, one-five.” I commanded as I gave a
visual thumbs-up to the ground marshaller and advanced the throttles.
Moving the flap lever to the fifteen-degree position Bill looked to his right, making
sure there were no obstructions. “Clear right,” he acknowledged.
“Taxi checklist,” I barked.
“Comin’ up as soon as I get my map folded.” He should have taken care of that as I
was starting the engines, I thought. Bill busied himself with his map before reaching for the
checklist and starting to read, “Flaps?”
“One five” I responded as I confirmed the handle was at fifteen and locked in the
detent. After the next few items requiring both our responses were completed, I told him to
finish the checklist on his own.
Bill was humming a song while he performed the checklist, doing a little dance with
his hands as he confirmed everything was as it should be. This was too much; we were going
to have a lot to talk about once the plane was at cruising altitude. His unprofessional attitude
was going to get him in serious trouble with some of the other captains who would not stand
for his lack of cockpit discipline.
There was close to two miles to taxi before reaching the end of the runway, so once
the checklist had been completed it was normally quiet in the cockpit, except for a few casual
comments by the crew, but not today.
“You know, I think Laurie has the hots for me; she asked Chuck if I was married.
Don’t you ever stop in the Knight for a quick one?”
“No, when we get back to Alameda, I head for home – I like going home.”
“Yeah I don’t blame you, Vickie’s a swell lady. Hey; how about the four of us going
out to dinner or something?”
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Vickie is a swell lady; however she is also a bit of a snob. There was no-way she
would want to go out with a cocktail waitress from that raunchy bucket of blood. “Yeah, I’ll
ask her when we get back.”
“Hey – why don’t we both stop by for a quickie after we get in? Laurie’s got a terrific
body – you ought to see the tops she wears.”
“Yeah.” I didn’t want to waste my time going to some bar to stare at some broad’s
body and come home smelling like a brewery. It’s odd; a copilot can be a terrifically funbuddy on layovers, but not someone you want to fraternize with once you get home. I must
be getting to be a snob, too. “Call the tower and tell ‘em we’re ready to go.”
“Tower, Overseas National 9-3-7 is ready to go on one-eight.”
“Overseas National 9-3-7 roger. Position and hold runway one-eight.”
“Roger.”
“Finish the checklist” I groweled as I guided the plane to the end of the runway.
“Rog, Dave. Daa-da-dant-dant. Daa-da-dee…”
“Knock off the song and dance and do the checklist right.” I was irritated.
“Sure Dave, I was just trying to put a little life into it…”
“Forget the life – just do the checklist” I was getting angry over Bill’s clowning
around. Bill finished the checklist in silence.
“Checklist’s complete. We’re ready to go.”
“Call ‘em and let them know we’re on the roll.”
“You got it, ol’ buddy. Overseas National 9-3-7 is on the roll.”
I was pissed at Bill’s lack of professionalism. There is no place in the cockpit for
levity. I turned on the landing lights (Landing lights were turned on in daylight as another
safety item.) and advanced the throttles to maximum power. The bird started to pick up speed
as we rolled down the runway.
“Airspeed is alive.” Bill sang out.
“On the left.” I responded.
We were accelerating through one hundred and twenty knots when out of the corner
of my eye I saw a small twin engine, propeller-driven Navy plane landing on the cross
runway. He scooted across my line of sight, not thirty yards in front of me! As my hundred
thousand pounds of metal and fuel, being driven by twenty-four thousand horses swiftly
charged across his prop wash. It all happened in an instant, but it seemed to have taken place
in slow motion. We just missed what would have been a very fiery collision at the
intersection of the two runways.
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“Oh shit, what was that?” Bill yelled.
My mind shifted into high gear. Dammit! We had not been cleared for take-off! I
screwed up. I was thinking about Bill’s sloppy attitude and how I was going to ream him a
new gromment instead of concentrating on the job at hand – too late to stop now. “We
screwed up!” Aborting the take-off was out of the question. We would have slid off the end
of the runway and into San Diego bay. “Let’s keep her going.”
“Vee one.” Bill barked.
I took my right hand off the throttles and placed it on the control wheel.
“Rotate,” he called out.
Using both hands I applied a smooth back pressure until the plane rotated to fifteen
degrees nose up starting a three thousand foot per minute climb and acceleration to twohundred and fifty knots – what a sweet plane, she was.
“Overseas National 9-3-7, North Island tower.”
We both looked at each other, knowing full well what was going to be said next. Bill
picked up his mike and responded, “9-3-7.”
“When did you receive take-off clearance?”
I motioned to Bill to take over the controls and I would respond to the tower, “Tower
9-3-7. I’m sure sorry. I – ah – thought you cleared us for take-off. My apologies – my fault.”
My heart was pumping gallons from my adrenal glands that had kicked in at the near-miss
with the other plane.
“We had an S-2 touching down on runway two-niner. It looked kinda hairy at the
intersection.” The tower operator’s voice reflected his stress; I didn’t blame him one bit.
There wasn’t much time for conversation; we were headed out over the bay and
towards the Mexican border. “I caught that – I’m sorry – my apologies to the S-2.” The tower
had to switch us to departure control for vectors.
“Roger 9-3-7, frequency changed approved.” There was no belligerence in his tone –
that was good; maybe he was going to let me slide. I thought a violation of this magnitude
could mean my career; I was thoroughly shaken.
“Thanks. I owe you one.” I would have to report this to Mike, the chief pilot. There
was no sense bringing Bill into the matter; I was the captain – therefore, it was my fault.
The company together with ALPA, the pilots union, negotiated a two-week
suspension. Nobody, except me thought it was a big deal; I served the grounding on my days
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off. Bill and I remained friendly but there became a distance between us that never quite
went away.
I vowed not to ever get caught in a situation like that again – and I haven’t.
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SPLASHDOWN
In 1970, Overseas National Airways, (ONA), wet-leased a passenger DC-9 to ALM
(Antilles Airlines). It was to operate on a scheduled run from Kennedy, (JFK), to Princess
Juliana International Airport, (St. Maarten), and return. Wet-lease meant ONA provided the
plane, cockpit crew, and fuel; ALM supplied the three-person cabin crew. Most of the route
was over water; therefore regulations required the use of a navigator. It was a long non-stop
haul for the ‘9; however if the flight plan was followed and the plane step-climbed to its
maximum cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet, there was more-than sufficient
contingency fuel remaining for in-flight holding, should the weather take a turn for the
worse, and diversion to San Juan, the alternate airport. Several trips had been made with no
incident; the fuel tanks could be filled to capacity since passenger-weight compared to the
freighter operation was never a problem.
It was on May 2, 1970 Captain B. D. commanding ALM Flight 980 with fifty-seven
passengers and a crew of six pushed back from the JFK ramp at 11:02 AM, bound for St.
Maarten, 1467 nautical miles away. His first officer was Harry, an inexperienced pilot, whom
he had unsuccessfully tried to terminate. This was Harry’s first flight since the union got him
back his job and he was thoroughly intimidated by his captain. (I’m sure Captain B. D. would
have preferred almost anyone other than Harry to be in the right seat next to him.) Hugh Hart
was the navigator; a solid, fully reliable individual.
Flight 980 lifted off at 11:14 AM, climbing to thirty-one thousand feet; its initial
flight planned cruising altitude. Two hours later, passing Ginny intersection, Flight 980
requested deviation due to weather and descent to twenty-five thousand feet. Further, to slow
from their planned mach speed of .78 (530 mph) to .72 (500mph). Passing Guava intersection
at 2:02 PM, they were twenty minutes behind schedule, estimating landing St. Maarten at
3:00 PM with 6000 lbs of fuel (1 hour) remaining.
At 2:38 they were cleared to descend to ten thousand feet and fly direct to St.
Maarten. Ten minutes later they were advised St. Maarten had gone below landing
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minimums due to rain-shower activities. Captain B. D. requested, and was given, direct to
San Juan, their alternate. Barely eight minutes later, St. Maarten reported the weather had
improved to, two-to-three miles with scattered rain-showers. Captain B. D. elected to return
to St. Maarten and was cleared for the ADF/NDB (Automatic Direction Finder/NonDirectional Beacon) approach.
On the first attempt he was unable to locate the runway due to rain. He made two
more unsuccessful approaches; at 3:32 PM he requested direct to St. Thomas at four
thousand feet. (St. Thomas, the Virgin Islands, is a smaller-but-closer airport than San Juan,
Puerto Rico.) At 3:36 hours the situation was desperately serious; Captain B. D. requested
and received permission to fly direct to St. Croix, an airport whose runway was probably too
small for the DC-9. One minute later a red light on the instrument panel told the crew the
right engine was practically out of fuel. The public address system between the cockpit and
the cabin failed, so he ordered Hugh to go back to let the cabin attendants know they are
going to ditch in the water.
Hugh did the best he could, informing the ALM crew of the emergency and assisting
with positioning the big 25-man emergency liferafts. Some passengers couldn’t believe this
was happening.
Both engines flamed out; the plane was only seconds from splashdown at 3:46. The
cockpit crew failed to sound the emergency cabin alarm, thus warning the flight attendants
the plane was getting ready to splash in the water. Unfortunately Flight Attendant Margaret
Abraham was standing in the aisle briefing the passengers on how to don their life vests
when Flight 980 made contact with the sea. While some passengers assumed the bracing
position using pillows to absorb the impact, others were looking out the window, expecting
to see a runway. Still others were sitting in their seats without their seatbelts fastened, and
incredibly some were still walking down the aisle.
Just before impact Hugh had buckled into the forward stewardess-seat and yelled;
“Sit Down!” From the force of contact with the water Margaret was killed instantly when she
was launched against the forward bulkhead. Twenty-two more were to die. Fortunately, the
remaining thirty-five passengers, and five crewmembers survived by incredible luck.
Rescuers were on the scene within an hour and a half. The last person was lifted from the sea
one hour and thirty-five minutes after their arrival. The plane sank in 5000 feet of water,
becoming the first jet in history to ditch in the open ocean.
Both pilots were terminated. Captain B. D. never flew again as a pilot; Harry rejoined
his father’s furniture business. Hugh remained with ONA until electronic boxes finally
replaced all the navigators.
102
AGAIN, UPGRADE
Flying the DC-9 was a perfect way to thoroughly learn the ins-and-outs of jet
operation. It had everything and could do most anything. The two powerful Pratt & Whitney
engines provided more than enough thrust to keep me out of trouble. Empty, it was a frisky,
rollicking hotrod, which was close to a fighter in performance; fully loaded it still let you
know it could pull the load – a thoroughly great plane.
We continued the Navy contract for a couple years until they decided to buy their
own DC-9s, putting us out of the running. Fortunately, the Air Force had need for our
services and took up the slack with no furloughs. The downside was a base-change to
Warner-Robins, Georgia. Some pilots followed the bases; I preferred to remain in Alameda
where the family was taking roots. This meant I was spending more and more time away
from home – many months I was gone for twenty, out of thirty days.
Toni came home to us; deciding she would rather live with us than her biological
mother. We bought a grand house on a lagoon with a view of San Francisco. Vickie and Toni
made-do during my absences, one as a travel agent the other, a student. Captain Case and
family were definitely moving up in the world.
Occasionally I’d be called back to New York to fly a passenger charter. I loved flying
groups, rather than boxes. Being an extrovert, the human touch meant a lot to me and I didn’t
mind being gone from home so much when I had a load of people and a friendly, if
somewhat harried flight attendant to serve me a hot meal.
As of December 31, 1974, I’d logged 4830 hours in the DC-9, of which 3975 hours
were as captain. It was time to move up; so when a bid to fly international runs in our
stretched DC-8s opened-up, I jumped at the chance. The ‘9 grossed out at 114,000 pounds
and was limited to short hauls. Our big 250 passenger DC-8s grossed at 355,000 pounds and
offered world-wide adventure; they could and did literally fly anywhere. I also hoped flying
longer stage-lengths would mean more time at home; the ‘9s averaged 1:45 per leg, the ‘8s
were close to five hours.
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I won a captain’s slot February 4, 1975. Two weeks of ground school, ten hours of
simulator, followed by five hours of local training in Miami, a one-and-half-hour check ride,
and I was ready to begin the final portion of my training – flying the line. Overseas National
was very thorough in their training; no one was turned loose to fly on their own until they
had been trained, checked, and inspected, by several instructors including Bill Burks, the
chief pilot and Bob Ramage of Principal Operating Inspector, (POI), from the Federal
Aviation Agency, (FAA). ONA produced some of the best pilots in the industry.
I remember during my type-rating check ride we were using a runway in the
Everglades that was just for airline training. It was hot and humid in the cockpit, as most of
our flying was in the landing pattern accomplishing the various simulated emergencies and
procedures required for the rating-ride. Bill Burks was in the right seat, I was in the left, Bill
Parks was the engineer, and Bob Ramage was grading me from the jumpseat, Bill had put me
through enough maneuvers that I was soaked in sweat, and beginning to wonder where in
hell he thought-up all this torture.
I’d just completed a three-engine ILS to a missed approach and was once more on the
downwind leg for the final maneuver before being granted my upgraded license.
“Well, are you ready for another engine-out?” Bill said as he reached over to retard
the throttle on the number three motor, number four was already at idle.
“Yeah, do you want me to go through the memory items on the Emergency
Checklist?”
“No, we’ve already heard you stumble your way through it before, haven’t we Bob?”
“I’m okay with it. Let’s get this one over with and head back to Miami. We’re gonna
miss happy-hour if we screw around too much longer.” Bob lightly answered. These guys
were enjoying themselves while I was sweating bullets.
The two-engine approach is one that is no-longer accomplished in the real plane. Any
mistake or unscheduled problem could lead to disaster. Once the pilot calls for the landing
gear extension the plane is committed to land. Training in big airliners produced more
fatalities than any other regime of airline flight before the simulators were brought up to
speed.
Turning to the engineer I said, “Bill, make sure you review all the items on the
checklist and keep the fuel boost pumps and the igniters on. I don’t want to lose any more
engines.
“What’s the matter don’t you trust us? I won’t let anything happen.” Bill Burks
sounded hurt.
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“We’re on two engines fifteen hundred feet off the ground. If one of those other
engines decides to take a shit, we are in deep doo-doo; I don’t trust anybody.” I answered as I
turned the now-sluggish big bird from downwind to base leg.
“Relax Dave; we’re not going to lose another engine.” Bill Burks said.
“If you’re so sure we’re not going to lose another one, why are we doing this dumb
maneuver that could get us killed?”
“Because it’s required; now stop your bitching and fly the plane.” The chief pilot was
getting exasperated with my vocal concerns.
I heard Bob say to him in a low voice as I started my turn to final, “You know he’s
got a point.”
“I know, but we gotta do it ‘cause you guys require it.”
I purposely waited until I was sure I could make the runway before calling for the
gear down. Once those big rollers are lowered into the slipstream they produced a
tremendous amount of drag.
“Okay, Gear Down, Landing Checklist.” I called. The two Bills started the Call &
Response of the final items. It got real quiet in the cockpit as I made a few final corrections.
“Flaps, thirty-five. Burks, zero my rudder trim when I call for it.”
“Do you want full flaps?”
I didn’t know whether or not he was testing me. We had plenty of runway; I didn’t
want to upset the configuration by adding further drag. “No,” I answered.
I eased back the throttles, “zero the rudder.” The plane continued losing the last three
hundred feet as I slowed the descent and bled off ten knots. She touched down just like the
book said she was supposed to, I only brought engine number two into reverse to slow our
rollout and save the brakes. Reversing both could have meant a loss of control.
Bob let out a sigh of relief – the difficult approach was over, “Good job Dave,
congratulations – you get to buy the drinks when we get back to the hotel.”
“Come on; let’s get everything back to normal. Parks, go over the checklist and make
sure we haven’t forgotten anything – I’m hungry.” Bill Burks huffed.
I turned to Bill Parks after we’d turned around and were taxiing back, “Bill, let’s you
and I go over the checklist – I don’t want to miss anything.” I could see the look of relief on
Bill’s face; he didn’t want to do the checklist by himself.
“God damn, he just got his rating ride and he’s already acting like a captain,” Bill said
to Bob. “Is there anything left in those lunches?”
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Bill Burk sounded gruff, but I took it as a compliment – I was a captain and nothing
was going to happen on my watch if I could prevent it.
There followed four months of observing and further training to learn the routes and
different models of DC-8s in ONA’s stable. As I’ve mentioned, we flew the world; doing it
in five different series’ of aircraft. The baby ‘8 was a dash 20; it carried 150 passengers on
short-range trips being barely capable of making Honolulu from San Francisco. Next were
the -30s and -50s, each capable of 180 passengers at moderate range; we also operated dash
61s, 250 passengers, moderate-range. Finally came the queens of the fleet, the dash 63s, 250
passengers with long, long legs; they grossed out at 355,000 pounds and could carry 165,000
lbs of fuel, making twelve-hour runs routine.
Each series had a whole set of different numbers to remember; my flight bag was
loaded with manuals describing the multitude of special figures that only pertained to that
particular aircraft. We normally operated at the maximum allowable weights and range of
each plane; making a mistake was not an option.
In addition, we flew the Pacific, Europe, the Middle East, and Africa regularly.
Honolulu, Wake Island, and Guam, had different rules and procedures than England,
Germany, and Italy, which varied from Jeddah, and Cairo, as did N’Djamena, and Mombasa.
I was a busy-boy trying to assimilate it all and make sense of it. Fortunately, the senior linecrews were more than generous sharing their knowledge and various personal crib-sheets.
“The only time you have too much fuel is if you’re on fire; the ‘8 will fly over-gross,
it won’t fly without fuel.”
“Now Dave, remember when Frankfurt goes down, Düsseldorf will follow right
behind it – I like Brussels if you’ve got the go-juice.”
“If you can’t get into the Air Force Base at Guam, try the Navy field on the other end,
or Saipan; don’t screw around, you’ve only got island-alternate fuel, and that ain’t much
when one of those hurricanes come roaring through.”
“Look to Lockheed for leadership; look to Douglas for aircraft. And if it’s Boeing,
I’m not going.”
There was a special checkout required for the stretch ‘8s because of their long
fuselages. With most jets during the takeoff roll when the copilot sang out, “rotate,” the
normal procedure was to smartly pullback on the control column until the artificial horizon
indicated fifteen degrees nose-up. If you did that with the 60 series, sparks would fly from
the tailskid being dragged along the runway; which was usually followed by a hundred106
thousand dollar repair bill. Lifting-off with the stretches was a much more refined procedure;
at “rotate” the captain applied a back-pressure on the control column as he silently counted,
a-thousand-one, a-thousand-two, a-thousand-three. If he’s done it right the horizon
instrument will be indicating the pitch arriving at ten-degrees, (at eleven degrees he will get a
tail-strike). The vertical-speed indicator will tell him the plane has left the ground and is
beginning a positive climb. He will then continue the back-pressure until the pitch has settled
at fifteen degrees, then he can continue with his normal departure profile. It all sounds
complicated, but it’s like reading a musical score; it looks difficult until you hear it played, it
then settles into a smooth melody. It’s the same with flying; do it right and its music; wrong
and it’s fingers on a blackboard.
Lou Furlong was one of our senior instructors, check airmen, and an all-round
pleasant fellow. He was a seasoned veteran and had flown passenger C-46s and DC-4s out of
Burbank Airport in the early days of the non-skeds. He came-up as a civilian pilot and was
admired by all. I was looking forward to flying with Lou as he used to hang out at Aircraft
Associates, in Long Beach, California, where I started my career sweeping Hangars and
pumping gas over twenty-five years ago. Even back then he was looked upon as a giant; he
was a professional airline captain among inexperienced student pilots. He talked to the chief
pilot and senior instructors – as the lowly Hangar-boy I was invisible to him.
My logbook confirmed we flew a forty-five hour circuit that took us from Montreal to
multiple stops all over Europe, before returning to Kennedy. The run got off to a bad start
and got worse as it progressed: Where I screwed-up was mentioning that I’d known him back
in ’49 and ’50. Pointying out I was the skinny kid that had gassed the planes and cleaned the
restrooms, thinking it would make a bond. Instead, it had the reverse effect; somehow I
regressed back to the kid, and he became the aloof senior captain who didn’t talk to flunkies.
I couldn’t do anything right; I didn’t pay enough attention to my airspeed, I started
my descents too soon, I didn’t know how to file an international flight plan, and-on-and-on.
Part of it was true, I was screwing-up; instead of two old acquaintances meeting, it was a drill
sergeant intimidating a recruit. Also, I think part of it, for some reason, was Lou had made up
his mind I didn’t have the right stuff required to be a heavy-jet captain. It was seven days of
torture; I felt I was being treated as a new-hire student pilot. I was sure he gave me a Down.
Other than formal greetings, we never spoke much to each other after that disastrous week.
Bill Burks must have seen something in me Lou didn’t. My logbook for that period
reflected Bill was with me for a series of trips back over to Europe, covering much of the
same territory before he and Bob Ramage gave me my final checkout.
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They once more put me through the wringer as we winged along over the Atlantic at
mach .80. “How many life vests do you carry?” Bob demanded after the copilot had just
made the 30-west position report to Gander Radio and we’d switched over to Shanwick,
Scotland.
“Eleven.” I answered with a straight face.
“Eleven? Then how many life rafts are on-board?”
“Two-hundred-fifty, plus ten percent.” I confirmed.
“Are you nuts? You’ve got your figures reversed.” Turning to Burks he said, “Do you
think we’re pushing him too hard?”
“I think he’s trying to get out of paying for the drinks in Frankfort.” Punching me in
the arm he continued, “Don’t bullshit me Case, I know you know this stuff. We’ve got too
much invested in you for you to fail.”
“Hey, I got confused.”
“The only time you get confused is whether to bid Europe and drink Moselle wine
while you float down the Rhine, or the Pacific where you can watch the babes on the beach
sweating in their bikinis.”
“Those are problems.”
On the way back we had to stop in Gander for fuel. Bill wanted to load minimum as it
was getting late, he didn’t want to get stuck driving home on the expressway. I insisted on
another ten-thousand pounds because we’d be arriving with all the other air traffic into
Kennedy and might have to hold.
“Screw the ten-thousand, we’ve got plenty of fuel – it costs money to haul it.”
“I want it.”
“You’re pissin’ me off.”
I thought I’d screwed up because he was getting cranky. What saved my bacon was
we had to hold at two different intersections for over an hour before finally being given
clearance to land; the extra fuel came in handy.
“Bill, that was a good call on his part,” Bob confirmed.
“Harump; if we’d left earlier we wouldn’t have caught all that mess and we would’ve
saved the fuel.”
“Maybe, but from his experience-level it was a good call.”
They both gave me an, “Up,” I was flying the international runs in the Big Birds.
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NEW KID ON THE BLOCK
Practically all my familiarization and training in the’8 was on the Atlantic/Europe
routes. Therefore, it followed that Crew Scheduling assigned me to Guam/Honolulu turnarounds for my first trips in the big jets. While I hadn’t flown the run before, I loved the
Pacific and Honolulu. The Company booked the crews into a first-class hotel next to the Ala
Moana Shopping Center, near Waikiki. There were plenty of places the flight attendants
could shop and inexpensive, good restaurants, along Kalakaua Boulevard.
The pool was our central meeting place, it was like being in high school; the females
all occupied one section, while the guys sat around another. Unspoken rules and etiquette
was closely followed; the men never ventured onto the ladies area without an invitation, of
course they never intruded on us without permission. We were very protective of our female
crews; not letting any non-flight person get close to them, unless it was by prior approval of
the lady. There was casual back-and-forth chatting while still remaining separate.
“Does that stuff work?” asks an older captain.
“Sure, you want to try some – it’ll keep you from burning,” replies a senior
stewardess. Juniors, never addressed senior captains.
“Smells funny, you sure it will work?”
“Try it.”
“Anybody want to go to Chuck’s for dinner? They’ve got a four-ninety-five special
tonight that includes salad and a baked potato.”
“You buying?”
“Dutch.”
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It was the easy camaraderie between the cockpit and the cabin crews that made the
three-week assignment pass with a minimum of the loneliness associated with the freight
operation.
I deadheaded out on a flight from San Francisco to replace a captain that had timedout. I knew my copilot was E. J. Howe whom I knew from the ‘9s. The engineer, Kozlosky,
and the Senior flight attendant, White, I’d never met before. After checking in I headed for
the pool where several of the captains I’d known on the ‘9, that had now upgraded to the ‘8,
were doing their best to get a tan.
John Truman greeted me with, “Hey Dave, good to see you man – how do you like
the ‘8?”
“Love it; how’s the flying out here?”
“A piece of cake; we ferry non-stop to Guam, pick-up a load of slopes and haul them
back here. Another crew flies them over to Fort Smith, Arkansas for resettlement.”
Slopes? You mean Vietnamese, don’t you?” Having worked in-country for several
years and being married to a Chinese, I took exception to Truman’s racist remark.
It didn’t faze him; he continued right on, “They’re all slopes to me except for the
gooks. The only problem is you’ll have to stop at Wake Island for fuel, ‘cause the 30-series
can’t carry enough fuel with the cabin load.”
“Thanks for the info; who else is here?”
“Andrechyn, but I don’t think he’s coming down. He hung-out in the Sun too long on
the layover in Guam and fried himself lobster-red. Be careful down there, you’re closer to the
equator, the Sun is much more intense than here in Honolulu.”
“Thanks again; you got any suntan lotion, I forgot to buy some?”
“Naw, I don’t believe in that stuff – it makes you smell like a fucking faggot.” The
thing about John was, he was an equal-opportunity offender – he insulted everybody.
An attractive blonde on my left said, “I’ve got some, if you don’t mind the smell.”
“I don’t mind, it will wash off in the shower, and I’d rather smell than get
sunburned.”
As she passed the tube to my outstretched hand, I introduced myself as, Dave. Her
name was Marilyn, she was from New York with a great gift of gab; in a fun way we started
exchanging one-line zingers. New Yorkers are famous for their ability to give-and-take
repartee; being a born BSer, I could pretty much, hold my own in the game of oneupsmanship. After about an hour when she excused herself to go pee, her buddy leaned over
to me, saying in a low voice, “You know you’re really pissing her off.”
“No I didn’t; I thought we’re just having fun.”
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“You’ve really made her angry, she is a Senior. She can make life miserable for you
in the cockpit. I think you’d better back-off.”
“Gee, thanks,” I truly hadn’t realized I was really getting under her skin, I made it a
point to change to less challenging conversation before excusing myself using the pretext of
worrying about a sunburn.
The next day the three of us were sitting in the cockpit waiting for the fuelers and
caterers to finish doing their thing; we carried catering from Honolulu to Guam because it
was less expensive and more available. The door from the cabin opened, and in stepped
Marilyn. A look of shock came across her face as she saw me sitting in the left seat. “You!
What are you doing there?”
I smiled and answered, “I’m gonna drive the plane to Guam, why?”
“What are you doing in that seat; I thought you were a copilot?”
Wanting to have some fun with her, I responded with a deadpan look, “I answered an
ad in a paper; ONA was advertising for captains and copilots; the captains earned more
money and got to give orders, so I decided I wanted to be a captain.”
Howe probably saved my life by explaining, “Dave came up from the ‘9s – he was a
captain there.”
“Oh, oh boy,” she looked concerned that she may have messed-up. “Any of you want
anything before we leave?”
Howe and Kos asked for a coke and I requested a glass of water, which she brought
back on a tray. I made eye-contact with her as she handed me my water, “Marilyn, I want to
apologize about yesterday; if I said anything that offended you, I’m sorry – I thought we
were just playing around.”
She smiled back, “And I thought you were a new copilot and I was going to get even
with you today.”
“Friends?” I said as I turned, extending my hand.
“Friends,” she countered, shaking my hand.
We did become good friends. She was a terrific person to have onboard as crew; a
nice, fun, lady to enjoy a dinner or the poolside sun. (I was very happy for her and Skip
Doolittle, when wedding bells rang out for both of them – a great couple.)
Seven hours and forty-six minutes later the ramp personnel chocked the wheels in
Guam. After a short ride in the hotel bus we checked into the Travel Lodge. The cabin crew
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headed for the pool, while we-three from the ‘pit needed to replenish fluids lost from
dehydration; stripping off our bars and insignia we went straight to the bar.
Scotch and water is the nectar of the Gods; two were absorbed into my body before I
heard someone call my name, “Case, is that you?”
Turning to the sound, I saw an older man that took me a moment to recognize; it was
Dick Grider. I’d flown as his copilot on DC-4s in the Congo in’62, “Dick? Dick Grider, what
are you doing here?”
“Same as you, I’m flying the Vietnam shuttle; who are you with?”
“Overseas National.”
“Really? I’m with T.I.A. flying the stretch-63 out there, which model are you on?”
“I’m on a thirty series; we have to pit stop in Wake. How long have you been with
T.I.A.?”
“About five years; I got on right after InterOcean folded.”
“The left seat of the ‘8 is a lot more fun than the ‘4, huh?”
“I don’t know, with T.I.A. it’s all about whether-or-not the chief pilot likes you – and
I guess he doesn’t like me, I’m still a copilot.”
“Jeez, that’s awful, with O.N.A. it’s all about seniority, we’re ALPA (Air Line Pilots
Association). Why don’t you come over with us?”
“I’d like to, but I’ve got a lot of seniority with T.I.A. Our union sucks – my only hope
is that the chief pilot will retire and maybe the next one will like me.”
We had another drink and Dick brought me up to speed on some of the others I’d
flown with in the Congo; Jack Loughran was flying with Dick’s brother, Bob on ‘3s out of
the Virgin Islands, Mal Thompson was painting pictures in Paris, Jess Meade and Augie had
bought the farm on approach on a dark night in Biafra. It was a bittersweet meeting that only
lasted about an hour. I went away thinking how very lucky I was flying captain for a firstclass outfit like Overseas National Airways.
112
FRANKFURT LESSON
There were many benefits with the Air Line Pilots Association, (ALPA): contract
negotiation, protection from dismissal without cause, and of course, fair upgrading practices.
However, in my view, there was one large disadvantage to the union-enforced seniority
system: A freshly checked-out captain is normally one of the most junior, therefore according
to seniority he flies with junior copilots and engineers. While this may not seem like a big
deal – it is a terribly big deal. Unless the new captain upgraded from the ranks of the same
equipment, and routes flown, he is at a great disadvantage; there is nobody in the cockpit
with deep experience on the plane or the route. As in my case, I came up from the DC-9,
which was largely a domestic operation. Other than one trip across the Atlantic and down
into the Congo in a DC-4, I’d never experienced what was a completely different way of
doing business. Altimeters were set according to millibars, instead of inches; sky conditions
were given in octaves, instead of the scattered, broken, and overcast I was used to, visibility
was given in meters, thankfully, ceilings were still measured in feet, fuel was gauged in liters
instead of gallons, and kilometers were substituted for miles. Even with all the time spent in
familiarization and training it was very confusing and stressful.
On one early trip flying international with a junior crew I almost ran out of airspeed,
altitude, and ideas – all at the same time. The flight started out normally with a load of 250
dependants to be delivered from Charleston AFB to Frankfurt, Germany in a dash-61. (That
was the stretched model with the shorter range.) It was towards the end of winter so all the
wives and their children were happy to be finally loaded into the warm plane where the flight
attendants pampered them with meals and games for the children as we made the short hop to
Gander for fuel before winging our way east in the evening sky. Checking the weather for
Frankfurt I noted the dispatcher had given me Cologne as the alternate, with Düsseldorf as a
possible alternate-to-the-alternate. Regulations called for me to carry enough fuel to get to
the destination, plus ten percent, then to the alternate and be able to hold for thirty minutes.
Because of the lower gross weight limit of the dash-61s, I flight-planned to have on-board
only the required fuel, so there could be no hesitation; it would either be Frankfurt or an
immediate diversion to Cologne. When one airport in Europe goes below weather minimums
they all will shortly follow.
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The junior copilot and I attempted to understand the heavily accented English spoken
by the Shanwick, followed by London, and then the Maastricht controllers, plus make sense
out of the weather reports the copilot was trying to copy from the regularly scheduled
broadcasts.
We’d just crossed over Dover intersection and been switched to Maastricht Control
by London when Mike, the copilot, said in a voice stressed, “Dave, I think we may have a
problem.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I answered, trying to sound not overly concerned.
“Cologne has gone below minimums and Düsseldorf is close to going down.”
“What’s Frankfurt doing?”
“They’re three hundred feet, eight octaves, with an RVR (runway visual range) of
twelve hundred, (4000 feet).
“Okay, it looks like Frankfurt is still good with maybe Düsseldorf as a back-up.”
“Milan is no problem,” he commented hopefully.
Turning to Ron Roberti, the engineer, I asked what I already knew; “Can we make
Milan?”
Ron also knew that wasn’t an option. “Sure, if you want to coast the last hundred
miles and land with empty tanks.”
“Let’s push on to Frankfurt – that looks like our best choice.” I said with as much
confidence as I could muster. Damn, alternates were not supposed to go down before the
destination airport, I wished we were flying a dash-63, and then we’d have the range.
“Ask Maastricht if we can proceed direct to Frankfurt from overhead Sprimont,” that
would save us ten miles.
“Rog.” The copilot replied as he picked up his mike.
Through my earphones I heard Maastricht’s reply, “Sorry, unable. Maintain uppergreen-one, flight plan route.”
“Roger, Maastricht” Mike answered as he looked over to me making sure I’d heard
the transmission.
A few minutes later a heavily accented controller called us, “Overseas National 8-6-9
you are cleared to flight level one-eight-zero. Contact Maastricht Control one-three-three
point three-five leaving flight level two-four-zero. Good evening gentlemen.”
I reduced the power on the engines and rolled in a two-thousand feet-per-minute
descent on the autopilot. Mike repeated back the clearance, confirmed we were leaving flight
level three-three-zero for one-eight-zero, before bidding the controller good night. I called for
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the Descent Checklist. The long thirteen-hour duty period was about over; I was looking
forward to a little shut-eye.
We were further cleared to flight level one-two-zero and switched to Frankfurt Radar.
“Ona 8-6-9er you are cleared to hold at Rudersheim, expect further clearance in thirty
minutes.” It was not unusual for European controllers to address us as Ona, which was ONA,
the initials for Overseas National Airways.
“Roger, hold at Rudersheim. Further clearance in thirty minutes,” Mike
acknowledged. “Dave have you got the holding pattern for Rudersheim?”
“Yeah, it looks like left turns, one minute legs. Here, confirm it on the chart,” I said
as I passed him the map.
“Looks good to me,” he verified.
“Ask them for two-minute legs,” I ordered as I reduced the power levers to idle and
increased our rate of descent to three-thousand feet per minute. “Tell them we want to hold at
two-fifty knots.”
“Rog,” he answered, picking up his mike to relay my requests.
“Get the weather for Düsseldorf and let me know what Frankfurt is reporting,” I said
as I readjusted my seat; this was starting to get hairy.
“Düsseldorf is zero-zero with fog, the temperature and dew-point are the same.
Monitor Approach’s frequency for me Dave, I’ll get Frankfurt’s ATIS.”
“Shit,” there went any alternate, “I got Approach you get the latest runway
conditions.”
“They’ve got two-hundred feet with an RVR of eight-hundred meters.”
“That’s a half-mile, right? What’s the temp-dew-point spread?”
“A shade over – but a half mile is close enough. The temperature is twelve, dewpoint, nine Celsius.”
“What’s that in the real world?”
The copilot fiddled with his Jeppeson circular slide-rule before responding, “About
fifty-two – forty-nine Fahrenheit”
Dammit, if Frankfurt goes down, we’re dead meat – we won’t have the fuel to go
anywhere but down. I picked up my mike, “Frankfurt Approach, Ona 8-6-9, what is the
reason for the holding?”
“Roger, Ona 8-6-9er. One of your Air Force Charlie-one-forty-one’s blew a tire on
the runway. They’re working to clear it now.”
“We’re going to be very tight on fuel; any help you can give will be appreciated.”
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“Roger Ona. We are the only airport open at present; we will do our best. Are you
declaring an Emergency?”
“Not yet, but we are limited on how long we can hold.”
“Roger Ona; Lufthansa and KLM are ahead of you.”
“Roger Frankfurt, danke-schoen.”
We entered the race track holding pattern with the other two airliners below us,
separated by altitude and doing the same. The clock on the instrument panel never ticked so
slowly as round-and-round we droned. I made the usual announcement to the passengers
regarding a delay due to traffic. Senior flight attendant Bobbi Francis came up to offer us
more coffee. The look on her face indicated concern, “Dave, are we gonna be all right?”
“Sure; just as soon as they clear the one-forty-one off the runway and a couple of
birds below us get in, then it will be our turn.”
“You guys looked stressed out…”
“Just tired: nothing to worry about,” there was no sense in alarming her – what good
would it do?”
I was grateful for the steaming cup of coffee; my stomach felt empty, I lit a cigarette
to mellow out. Over the radio I heard Frankfurt clear Lufthansa to Charlie NDB (NonDirectional-Beacon, a low frequency radio fix) for the approach; we’d been holding thirty
minutes. KLM was cleared to flight level six-zero and we were given descent to flight level
eight-zero.
How’re we doing on fuel?” I asked Ron.
“It looks like about nine-thousand pounds to dry tanks – about forty-five minutes.”
“Thanks” If I declare an emergency it will take about the same amount of time to get
the other plane out of the way and me lined up for the approach as if I don’t. Besides,
declaring an emergency will generate a ton of reports and probably get me suspended after a
board hearing. I’m this close; I might as well ride her down, weather or no weather. I’ll hold
the Mayday call as a last resort.
“K-L-M Six you are cleared to Charlie N-D-B, descend to five-thousand feet on the
QNH, contact approach control on one-two-zero point eight. Lufthansa reported a ceiling of
one-hundred-fifty-feet and an RVR of four-zero-zero. – Ona 8-6-9er cleared to flight level
six-zero in the holding pattern.”
“Roger, flight level six-zero in the holding pattern,” the copilot acknowledged. “How
much in RVR four-zero-zero is that in feet?” he asked me after hanging up his mike.
“A little over a quarter mile.”
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“That’s below our minimums…”
“So, what do you want me to do; ask for inflight refueling?”
“We can’t do that – I just thought we’re going to get violated…”
“That’s the least of my worries. Right now we’ve got to get this bird on the ground,
and soon.”
Ten minutes later it was our turn: “Ona 8-6-9er you are cleared to Charlie N-D-B,
descend to flight level five-zero, contact Frankfurt Approach on one-two-zero point-eight. KL-M Six reported a ceiling of two-hundred feet and an RVR of eight-zero-zero. Good luck.”
After Mike read back the clearance and switched frequencies he brightened-up
exclaiming; “How about that, the field is above minimums!”
“It ain’t above minimums; K-L-M just gave us a pass to go down and take a look-see
without getting a violation. He’d heard our plight on the common radio frequency we shared
and decided to give me a helping hand; it’s a thing pilots do for each other.”
“Ona 8-6-9er after crossing Charlie you’re cleared to descend to four-thousand feet
on Q-N-H one-zero-one zero, maintain four thousand feet until intercepting the glideslope.
Cleared for the I-L-S approach; contact the tower on one-one-eight point-seven when
established. Cheers.”
The copilot read back the clearance and bid the controller good evening.”
“What’s that in inches?” I asked the copilot.
“Twenty-nine-eighty-three.” he replied after checking a chart on his clipboard.
“Twenty-nine and eighty-three, set left and thanks.”
“Set right.”
“Give me flaps twelve and the Approach Checklist.”
“Seat belt/No Smoking signs,” Ron read aloud.
“Both on,” I answered.
“Radar?” he challenged.
Checking the switches, I responded, “Standby.” And so the eight items on the
Approach checklist were confirmed.
I raised the right armrest to give my hand freer movement on the throttles. I had to
nail the glideslope and localizer dead center on the flight director, the speed must be perfect;
there would be no room for last-minute corrections. Realizing my left hand had tightened on
the control wheel, I deliberately relaxed the grip, trying to maintain a feather-light touch.
“Flaps, two-three.”
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Mike set the flaps to twenty-three degrees. “Localizer alive,” he confirmed what my
Command Bars were telling me. I eased into a fifteen degree bank to intercept the final path
to the runway.
“Glideslope alive.”
“Gear down, arm the spoilers, landing checklist – flaps, three-five.”
Ron started reading off the plastic covered checklist, “Gear?”
“Down, three green lights,” Mike replied.
He then visually looked at a gauge on his panel, “Pressure checks – Spoilers”
Verifying, Mike answered, “Armed.” Completing the response he tapped a gauge
before saying, “Pressure checks.” And so it went until all the items on the list were checked
and doubled checked. All three of us knew it was checklists that kept us from forgetting
anything – they were always taken very seriously.
At one dot above-capture on my flight director I commanded, “Full flaps – standard
callouts.” “Full flaps – checklist complete – standard calls,” Mike acknowledged. I eased the
four throttles back to one-point-one-five EPR power-setting (EPR = Exhaust Power Ratio, a
measurement of engine power.) the airspeed gradually fell off from V-ref + thirteen knots.
(V-ref = 1.30% of the plane’s stall speed.) At V-ref + five knots I moved the levers to just
over one-point-two EPR. From here-on I will be watching the flight instruments, gently
adjusting the power levers until the airspeed maintains a constant V-ref + five knots and the
little orange triangle on my flight director representing the airplane nestled up and stabilized
right on the Command Bars that will lead us to touch-down on the runway.
At one-hundred-thirty-eight knots hairline corrections will be the difference between
success and possibly a fatal-failure.
“Overseas National established on the I-L-S, leaving thirty-five hundred,” Mike
announced to the tower operator.
“Roger Ona, call over the marker.”
A light on the instrument panel flashed, and a momentary horn beeped a few times.
“Frankfurt tower, Overseas National 8-6-9 marker inbound.” Mike’s voice was deliberately
calm.
“Ona 8-6-9er you are cleared to land; contact ground on one-two-one point-seven
clearing the runway.”
“Roger, twenty-one point seven,” he acknowledged.
“One thousand feet, on profile – no flags,” this from Mike to me.
“No flags on the left,” I responded.
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“Five hundred on profile – no flags.”
“None on the left,” my hand was wet on the control wheel.
“Approaching minimums – minimums, no runw… I’VE GOT THE RABBIT!
RUNWAY-END LIGHTS!”
I risked a quick glance; the landing lights are a blinding glare against the fog, “I’m
still on the gauges.”
“ONE HUNDRED – I’VE LOST THE RUNWAY.”
My mind was racing in slow-motion. I knew I must hold the heading perfectly; we’ve
cleared the end of the runway, the flight director is now useless as I ease off the power
checking our descent – it’s up to God now.
The plane made solid contact with the runway; I pushed hard on the brakes with my
toes and reached forward, under the power levers, for the reverse levers, pulling with all my
strength on them while concentrating to keep the bird going straight with the gyro-compass.
“I’ve got runway-edge lights,” the copilot excitedly said as he leaned forward to look
out his side window. Ever so gently I applied pressure to the left rudder with my feet. Then,
on my side, I see the edge lights racing by. Easy – easy – a little to the right – easy. The
interlocks on the reversers finally release and I’m pulling so-much power I heard a
compressor stall. Bang! Bang! Pop! Damn, I eased the levers forward, reducing the power.
Thank God the runway is over twelve thousand feet long.
Gradually the big bird comes to a stop. We are still on the runway and the visibility
is near-nil. I ease the plane over to the left until I can make out the edge-lights; creeping
along I recognize a high-speed turn-off and take it. The copilot switches frequency, picks up
his mike and in a calm voice calls ground control, “Frankfurt ground, Overseas National
Airways 8-6-9 clear of the active. We’d like a Follow-me vehicle to lead us into the military
ramp, please.”
“Roger, Ona 8-6-9er a follow-me is on the way. Did you get a ceiling report?”
I nodded my head to the copilot in a gesture he understood. “It looked like twohundred feet.”
“That’s funny; our R-V-R indicates less than three-hundred meters visibility.”
Ten minutes later I asked the copilot to call ground-control again to verify a Followme was on the way.
The response was a standby, then a request to turn on all our lights, then a comment
the first Follow-me had gotten lost and they were sending out another. Mike replied we had
all our lights turned on. I could hear babies crying in the cabin and the flight attendants
making announcement to the passengers that we’d soon be arriving at the terminal.
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Suddenly a numbing tiredness came over me; I wanted to get to the hotel, I wanted a
couple of scotches, I wanted to sleep for twelve hours. I stank; I wanted a shower.
It was a thirty minute drive to the hotel. The bars were closed. Our Frankfurt handler
told us we’d be out again as soon as we got legal since the scheduled out-bound crew had run
out of time. The engineer said we had thirty-three hundred pounds of fuel remaining when
we shut off our engines at the ramp – about sixteen minutes flying time. He then smilingly
announced he had a bottle of scotch in his suitcase and would we be interested?
The old greybeards of the line were right; regardless of the flight plan – carry another
five-thousand pounds of contingency fuel – she’ll fly overloaded, but she won’t fly on empty.
The only real options were to head over the Alps to Italy or drop into Shannon to wait out for
the fog to lift. I made up my mind; the next time we’d wait out the weather in Ireland – to
hell with the cost to the Company.
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HIGH ROLLERS
The casino in Monte Carlo decided to boost their business by providing a week’s stay
and free air transport to players who could flash five-thousand dollars. This must have
seemed like a wonderful bargain to those bitten by the gambling bug; how could they lose – a
week’s vacation in France mingling with the rich elite on the Med? After all, they didn’t have
to spend the money, just show they’ve got it. Most went through the five, and then some,
within the week. The owners of the casino made a sure bet – the suckers didn’t have a
chance.
Overseas National provided the transport; it must have been a close-margin contract
because we only flew the route in the dash-21 baby ‘8s. The two small DC-8s were
something ONA had picked up from United Airlines; they were noisy, short range, almost
run-out early models about ready for the scrapheap. United flew them in a 150-passenger
configuration; we managed to increase the seating capacity to 180, making them sardinecramped, hot, and totally miserable for the customers. (About like the way the flying public
is normally treated today.) Overseas National figured they could get another couple of years
more revenue out of them. The seats were worn, the carpet patched, the galleys constantly
broke down. Naturally, junior pilots and flight attendants were assigned to fly them.
In order to fly from New York, our departure point, to Nice, France, the arrival
airport, we had to fuel-stop at Gander, and Shannon. A maximum on-duty time of eighteen
hours, pushed the flight-time to the limit of twelve hours. It was exhausting work for us in
the cockpit, but the poor flight attendants had it even worse; they had to put up with 180
grumpy, angry, egomaniac, gold-chained, gamblers who never hesitated to remind them that
they always flew first-class and this was the worst flight of their life.
The good news was the crew hotel was first-rate, right on the beach. There were
excellent inexpensive restaurants in Nice, and the company gave us a twenty-four hour
layover to recuperate.
One return trip stands out in my memory as being the epitome of How-Bad-It-CanGet. It was the last run of the monthly bid; we were all looking forward to returning to New
York and a few days off. The flight started out badly when Carole, the senior flight attendant,
came forward to tell me a fight had broken out in the cabin between two passengers arguing
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over a seat. We were parked out on the ramp at Nice; still loading from the bus that
transported the returning travelers from the terminal to the plane.
“Do you want me to go back and settle it?” Dennis, my copilot asked.
“No. Remember when Marshall went back to stop a fight in the cabin and one of the
guys broke his nose? I don’t want to lose a copilot when we’re headed home.” Addressing
Andre, our French ground representative I ask, “Andre, would you mind seeing if you can
calm those passengers down?”
“Oui captain, no problem; I will take care of it,” he said as he handed me the manifest
with the weight& balance information and excused himself to follow Carole to the back of
the plane.
Handing Dennis the paperwork so he could get started on his part, I lightly
commented, “See? Let him get the broken nose.”
Less than five minutes later Carole burst into the cockpit, “Captain, captain they’re
beating up on Andre!”
“What!”
“Those two assholes are pushing and punching Andre – they tore his shirt.”
Jesus Christ, what a way to start a flight. Picking up my mike I called, “Nice ground
control, this is Ona 8-2-1 – we’d like the gendarmes to come out here to assist with a
problem in the cabin.”
“Ona 8-2-1 what sort of problem do you have?”
“Nice ground, we have two passengers fighting in the cabin.”
“Fighting – boxing?”
“Oui, fighting.”
“We will send security right away.”
“Merci.”
Sure enough a van raced towards us with flashing lights, blah-blee/blah-bleeing of the
horn, with a load of uniformed officers riding on the running board. It looked like a Pink
Panther movie; I half expected Inspector Clouseau to hop out wearing his raincoat.
“You better go and show them in,” I said to Carole.
“What are you going to do?” Dennis asked.
“I don’t know – probably throw the boxers off the plane. Although, we’ll take a delay
while we search for their bags.”
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A few minutes later a disheveled Andre poked his head in the cockpit. “Captain it is
all right. Everything is settled; they said they would behave if you take them home. Captain, I
don’t want them to remain here; there will be much paperwork and problems if they don’t
stay on the plane.”
I knew what he meant; you can’t take a passenger off a plane without creating analmost international incident. And poor Andre, who wasn’t getting paid all that much, would
be stuck with reams of reports. The company would probably have to pick up all their
expenses, and airfare home on Air France. To throw them off the plane was not a good idea,
no matter what my common sense said. “What was the fight about?” I asked.
“One passenger said he had made reservations for the window seat and the other
fellow took it.”
“We don’t have reserved seating.”
“I know I tried to tell him that and he said sitting on the aisle made him airsick. He
was very aggressive.”
“Where is he now?”
“On the aisle, his wife is in the middle.”
“What do you say, Carole?”
“If he’ll behave, I won’t mind; I’ll try to get him seating in No Smoking after we get
airborne. Maybe somebody will be willing to exchange their seat.”
“Okay, things have settled down in the cabin; let’s take him home. Boy, what a way
to start a trip.”
I thanked Andre and the chief of security. The rest of the travelers were boarded, we
received our clearance, lifting-off for the first fuel stop at Shannon. I hoped that would be the
end of any more silliness, but I should have known better. We’d been at cruise altitude less
than thirty minutes when Carole marched into the cockpit and asked if she could sit in the
jumpseat for a minute to smoke a cigarette. Turning to look at her I saw her hands were
shaking as she lit her cigarette, tears were streaming down her face; she looked completely
stressed out.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“That motherfucker in twenty-nine-D, I’m gonna pop him!”
Carole was one of the females ONA recruited from the Inner City as part of a jobs
program the government offered to disadvantaged youth. She was attractive, street-wise, and
a tough, no nonsense black girl who recognized this was her chance to rise above the ghetto.
Uncle Sam had paid ONA to train her, guaranteeing her salary for six months – it was a good
deal for both parties. If she blew-up on a passenger her opportunity would be cancelled –
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she’d be immediately terminated. We both knew this as she struggled to get her emotions
under control.
“What the hell happened back there?”
“He’s the asshole that picked a fight back at Nice. You shoulda thrown his sorry ass
off the plane when you had a chance.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette before
continuing; “Anyway, he and his fat old lady have been complaining ever since we took-off:
‘It’s too hot. It’s too cold. The seat won’t go back far enough. We need a blanket and a
pillow. Did you get our request for kosher meals?’ Stuff like that. I tried to get some
passengers to swap seats; I even made a P.A. announcement – he’s such an obnoxious jerk
the other passengers don’t want to help him. ”
“So, what have you done?”
“Nobody else was too hot or cold. The seat went back as far as it should. We’d
already given away all the blankets and pillows. I checked the meal manifest and we don’t
have any kosher meals on board. Then, when I’m pushing the damn drink cart back up the
aisle the sonovabitch whacks me on the ass and says he’s gonna report me and make sure I
get fired for not showing him respect – that’s when I came up here.”
Jesus, I thought, do other guys have these problems or is it just me? “I’ll see what I
can do. Tell him the captain wants a word with him when we land in Shannon. Then, I want
you to stay away from him – you work the forward part of the plane; Let one of the juniors
work aft.”
“You can throw his ass off the plane – that’s what you can do.”
“And you can take it easy and settle down. You’ve got a good job, and in ten hours
this will all be a bad memory. Hang in there and don’t lose your cool in front of the other
passengers – okay?”
She finished her cigarette in silence, used the mirror behind the door to straighten her
hair and wipe her face before leaving the cockpit.
“Jeezus, she was really pissed,” Dennis said. “What if she decides to belt him?”
“For Christ’s sake Dennis, she ain’t gonna belt him. She’s a smart girl and won’t do
anything to jeopardize her chance to be somebody.”
“I don’t know; she’s part Puerto Rican and they’ve got fiery tempers. What are you
gonna do about the guy?”
“I don’t know until I talk to him.”
Two and a half hours later I was shutting down the engines in front of the terminal at
Shannon. The airport had a duty-free store where the passengers had one last chance spend
their money while we refueled for the Atlantic crossing. I asked Dennis to file and get the
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weather, something we normally did together, while the engineer did a fast walk-around
inspection of the plane before he started refueling. I remained in my seat as the passengers
deplaned wondering what this monster looked like? Could I control him? Would he get
physical? Why me? At last there came a timid knock on the cockpit door, “Excuse me.
Captain may I come in – did you want to see me? The problem had arrived.
Turning in my seat I saw a little Jewish guy about forty-five years old, maybe fivefoot six and 140 pounds, well dressed with the standard gold Rolex and gold pinky ring. He
was nothing like I expected. “I’m Captain Case, what is your name, please?”
“Kaplan, sir.”
“Mister Kaplan apparently we have a problem in the cabin. Suppose you tell me your
side of the story.” I said in my most-stern commander’s voice.
“Well, yes sir. My wife, Edie, and I always travel First Class on either Pan Am or
TWA; we’re not used to flying coach on charter airlines.”
Right off the bat he unknowingly pissed me off by inferring our airline was
something less than acceptable.
He continued, “Captain, Edie and I, with our two friends, have tried to cooperate with
the hostesses but they have refused to help us. I repeatedly asked for seats for my wife and
two friends in the No Smoking section of the plane where we could all sit together. The
hostesses chose to ignore my simple request.” Mister Kaplan went on-and-on about how the
snacks with the drinks were not what Pan Am served and how the plane smelled, and how the
overhead racks were full and they had to make-do by crowding their carry-on luggage around
their feet.
When it looked like he had finally run out of steam I asked, “Is there anything else?’
“No captain. You can judge for yourself we have been victimized. We are not to
blame for this unfortunate incident. And I think the stewardess should be reprimanded.”
I looked at him for a moment, the picture of innocence; could this man so gentle and
articulate possibly be the ass-grabbing tyrant that Carole described? “Mr. Kaplan I’ve heard
both sides of the issue, and I believe my senior stewardess. My gut feeling says to have you
taken off the plane by Shannon Security, and charge you with interfering with an
international flight.”
His jaw dropped and his eyes got big; he backed away from me. “However,” I
continued, “I’ll bet you’ve already had a bad experience with the casino, have lost your flash
money, and maybe more.” His eyes told me I’d hit a nerve. “If you’ll promise me you will
make no more trouble, I will take you back to New York. If on the other hand, you give me
your word, and change your mind once we are airborne, you can be certain I will call ahead
to have the FBI arrest you on landing. You will be handcuffed and taken off to a jail called,
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The Tombs. Your cellmate will probably be a big black man that will take delight in
exploring the various orifices of your tender body with his twelve-inch ebony woodie. You’ll
lose your job, and go broke paying for attorneys; your wife will divorce you, and generally
your life won’t be worth living.”
He hesitated before answering, “You have my word captain.”
“Good. I know you’re going to write a letter to the company about your terrible
treatment; so please spell my name right, It’s Case, C-A-S-E, not Chase, Kays, or Katz. Now,
if you hurry you can buy some duty-free booze before we start boarding. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye Captain.”
The rest of the flight went smoothly; Carole said he was the model passenger, and
asked what I had said to him? I told her I just requested his cooperation.
A couple of months later I was walking down the hall of ONA’s headquarters at
Kennedy, when Bill Burks spied me as I walked by his office. “Case, get in here – I want a
word with you.” When I walked in I suspected what he wanted; he asked me to close the
door. “What the hell happened on that flight from Nice? I got a letter six pages long!”
I briefly went over the incident, figuring I’d have to respond in writing to the
passenger’s correspondence. When I was finished Bill said, “Did you really say some black
guy was gonna butt-hump him?”
“Well, sort of – do you want me to write an answer to him?”
“Oh, hell no! That was a nice touch though – telling him a black guy was gonna ream
him silly – did he behave after that?”
“Yeah, we had no further problems with him all the way back. What are you gonna
do with the letter?”
Dumping the letter in the trashcan he said, “Do? I’m gonna file it of course. Come on,
let’s go get lunch. Do you have a credit card? I left my wallet on the dresser.” He never
carried any money – he was an equal-opportunity moocher. Nevertheless, he was a great
chief pilot; one we all loved and admired.
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SPOILER PROBLEM
We were ferrying a dash-61 (That’s the big, short-range DC-8) from Jeddah to
Karachi with only the cabin crew in the back. My first officer, Bill was dating Jane, the
senior stewardess. I knew he wanted to impress her with his flying ability, so I gave him the
leg. He was the same copilot I’d had a problem with in the DC-9, however that was over two
years ago; we’d both matured in our profession. He was an excellent pilot, I had confidence
in him. The nearly five-hour flight from Saudi Arabia was mostly uneventful. Receiving the
airport conditions we learned of light rain and that we’d be landing on the runway the
opposite of our inbound heading. This meant having to fly past the airport, to execute a full
instrument approach in the other direction, which cost money and time.
“Dave, how about we do a contact approach and get this turkey on the ground?”
“Let’s stay with approach control until we see how the field looks. If we’ve got a
good view of the runway from our downwind position, I won’t mind.”
We were cleared to descend to three thousand feet; Bill had called for flaps, twentythree and the Approach Checklist. I had visual contact with the runway through the light rain.
I waited until we’d passed the runway before canceling our instrument approach and advising
control we would be proceeding visually.
“Roger Overseas National 8-6-8 you are cleared the visual approach, contact Karachi
tower now on one-one-eight point seven.”
Bill also heard the transmission on his headset. “Gear down, Landing checklist,” he
requested as I reached for the gear handle and turned the dial on the VHF to the tower
frequency.
“Karachi tower Overseas National 8-6-8 downwind for landing.”
“Roger Overseas National you are cleared to land, altimeter two-niner-niner-zero.
Runway wet.”
Al, the engineer and I were finishing the checklist when Bill called for flaps thirtyfive and racked the big plane into a forty-degree left bank to the base leg. Bill was showing
off, playing fighter pilot for Jane. I didn’t mind, the plane was empty, it was fun breaking
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away from the usual conservative way we flew. He rolled the wings level ninety-degrees to
the runway heading when I noticed something wrong; the control wheel was almost vertical!
“You’ve got it!” Bill suddenly said, relinquishing the plane to me.
I had to hold almost full right aileron to hold the plane level. “Al, what’s wrong back
there?”
After a quick scan of his panel the engineer said, “Dave, it looks like you’ve lost the
spoiler pump – there’s zero pressure on the gauge. I think you’ve got a floating spoiler.”
The spoilers on the DC-8 serve two functions: primarily they are for ground use
canceling the lift on the wing, acting as giant air brakes after the landing touchdown.
Secondarily, they assist the ailerons when the landing gear has been extended and the pilot
calls for a larger input by racking the control wheel beyond eight degrees. During approach
the Flight Spoiler Pump provides pressure to accomplish this, while the regular hydraulic
system handles the ground function. Failure of the spoiler pump meant a panel or panels, had
failed to lock down in the fair position after Bill made the steep-banked turn and were
floating, causing the plane to want to roll to the left. I had to hold opposite aileron to counter
the abnormality.
This was a maneuver I’d never practiced in the simulator, so while I’d read about the
problem, I had never experienced it. My first inclination was to want to fly the plane around
the pattern at sufficient altitude to diagnose the issue and discuss with the crew a proper
procedure before continuing with the landing. However, it was most difficult to maintain
level flight, I was concerned that if, for some-reason, the other spoiler panels became loose,
there would not be enough power to keep the plane flying, or the landing speeds would have
to be increased to the point where I might run out of runway. It was not a good spot to be in.
I decided to go ahead with the landing, relying on my skill to get the bird down before
anything else happened. “Okay, let’s go for it. Bill ring for Jane, and Al, tell her to make sure
everybody is fastened in tight – it might be a rough landing. Bill when I command it, I want
you to manually pull the spoiler handle if it doesn’t deploy normally.”
“Shall I notify the tower?” Bill asked.
“What for? They’ll want us to circle around so they can get equipment in position.
I’m afraid if we screw around too long something else might go wrong. If something happens
on landing, you make sure you call the tower for help.” I didn’t trust the Pakistanis to be able
to do anything right – except to get in our way.
After the turn to final I noticed the more we slowed down, the more the plane wanted
to bank to the left. We were a good twenty-five knots too fast. Slowing down meant I would
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run out of aileron control and the plane would roll to the left during flair-out before touching
the runway. “I’m going to keep her speed up until we get in closer. Be ready for full flaps
and the spoilers when I give the order.”
“Rog,” was Bill’s response. “One thousand feet, lookin’ good except for speed.”
“Five hundred.”
“Two hundred – one hun…”
“Full flaps!”
I countered the ballooning tendency with the elevators thanking God I’d flown DC-4s
and knew how to manage last-minute corrections as I brought the four throttles to idle. The
landing lights reflected a shining runway slick with water. Would the main landing gear spinup thereby shifting the systems into the ground mode, or hydroplane, thus remaining in the
flight configuration? Spin-up meant the ground spoilers would deploy normally; hydroplane
meant Bill had better be fast with pulling the lever back. The plane touched down on both
main gears just as I reached the maximum limit of the control wheel. “Spoilers!” I barked.
Bill was reaching for the handle when spin-up occurred, driving it back into his open
grasp. He held the lever in the full back position as I pulled all four engines into reverse. Ever
so gently I lowered the nose onto the center line of the runway; the roar of the engines
confirmed Al’s calm announcement of, “buckets deployed, all four in reverse.”
“Eighty knots” Bill called out. I simultaneously reduced the power on the engines to
prevent any compressor stalls and eased off on the brakes. We’d made it.
Jane said the girls didn’t think it was any different from other landings they’d
experienced. While Bill entertained the stewardesses with stories of his exploits in Vietnam I
ruined a shirt assisting Al in changing the spoiler pump from a spare we carried in the
flyaway kit. Jane saw to it Al and I had hot coffee as a cold drizzle started falling. When Al
and I finished and were cleaning up in the cabin, Bill informed me I’d screwed up; landing
with full flaps instead of flaps 35, as was called-for in the operations manual. He was right,
I’d drawn a blank in the couple of minutes I had to react; so fire me, I thought.
We got about three hours rest in the cabin before loading up two-hundred-fifty Pakipilgrims bound for Jeddah and the religious experience of their lifetime. The thought crossed
my mind if the Hajji’s wanted a real religious experience, they should ride around for a while
in the cockpit of one of ONA’s planes.
Bill left Overseas National Airways shortly after the Karachi experience to become a
disc jockey in New York. He later quit that position to drive a cab. From there he
disappeared; a charming guy who seemed to never find his niche. Perhaps the combination of
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helicopters, the war, and the Marines, filled him with too many demons to manage. There is a
limit.
130
AU NATURAL
It was a hot summer day when my wife Vickie and I decided to drive over to Muir
Beach to sunbathe. Why Muir Beach? Because a large cliff protected it from the often-cold
wind of the sea, making it the warmest beach around the Bay and it was ‘Clothing Optional’
which suited us both. Vickie packed a lunch of salad, cold chicken and beer; it was going to
be a wonderful day.
The drive over from Alameda and along the winding road connecting Highway 101 to
Highway One took less than an hour in light traffic. The parking lot was only half-full when I
dug out the picnic basket, blanket, and together, we started down the dirt path to the beach.
After about thirty-five yards I suddenly remembered I’d left my smokes in the car. “Honey
you stay here with the basket, I’ll go back and get my cigarettes,” I said turning around and
starting back up the trail.
About halfway there I spotted a young woman coming down the narrow path.
Looking again I couldn’t believe my eyes; it was one of the flight attendants from Overseas
National. We recognized each other at the same time. “Sandy, what are you doing here? I
thought you lived on the East Coast.”
“I do, but I’m out visiting my sister who lives in Sausalito. She mentioned this was a
neat beach – you come here often?”
“Yeah, my wife and I love it because it’s warmer than the rest of the beaches around
here. Come on, I’ll introduce you right after I get my Marlboros.” Sandy followed behind me
to the car, then back down the path to where Vickie was patiently waiting. Making the
introductions we chatted for a few minutes; I mentioned to Sandy that Muir Beach was
actually two beaches in one. The left side was for people with bathing suits; while on the
other side of the rock outcropping was a nudist beach. Continuing, I added we were going to
the nudist side and I was sure she’d would be much more comfortable on the clothed side.
The three of us then proceeded to the fork where the trail split. Waving good-bye to
each other, little-miss-perfect-hostess-Vickie said, “If you get hungry, we’ve got plenty of
chicken; you’re welcome to share with us.”
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Thanking us, Sandy started off to the left; I was glad she opted for the clothing side.
After all, as a captain I wasn’t sure how it would look if the company found out I was nude
on a beach with one of our flight attendants, even with my wife along as chaperone. Vickie
and I found a nice spot, spread our blanket, and peeled off our clothes thereby joining the rest
of the nudists for a pleasant day in the warm, yummy, sun.
Looking around it was obvious the sun-worshippers weren’t any different than those
on the other side of the rocks. Kids built sandcastles near the water’s edge – couples strolled
along the shoreline, while others snoozed or read books as they got an all-over tan. Perhaps
we were a bit friendlier to each other because we were all members of the same club –
nudists with nothing to hide.
We’d been tanning for about thirty minutes and I was getting hungry. I suggested we
break out the chicken. Vickie dug into the lunch basket when whom do I spy splashing her
feet in the water as she walked along the shoreline? It was Sandy with her bathing suit slung
over her left shoulder; our eyes made contact at about the same time.
“Hi Dave – hi Vickie; do you mind if I join you?” She was smiling and heading our
way.
“Oh hi Sandy, you’re just in time; we’re going to have some chicken. Do you want a
glass of wine?” Vickie responded.
“I’d love one. It’s hotter here than over on the other side.” I poured her a frosty cold
glass of Chardonnay. “Thanks,” she said, taking a big swallow.
“Sorry, we don’t have any beach towels for you to sit on.” Vickie said as she scooted
over a little, she was using her sarong as a blanket.
“That’s okay; I can sit on my bathing suit.”
Vickie dished out the plates (She always carried extras) and we all dined on chicken
and my wife’s super-delicious potato salad, washed down with the chilled white wine.
Sandy raised her glass in a toast, “You guys sure know how to live.” We talked about
the airline and various amusing things that happen on charters. Vickie used to work for the
airlines so it was a fun lively animated conversation. It was also fortunate we’d brought a
large bottle of wine.
After lunch I had to pee. Since there were no facilities close-by, I excused myself and
headed out into the light surf. The water was ice-cold as I tip toed gingerly into the bay and
gradually got up to my waist; the water was freezing! As fast as possible I did a turn-around
and headed back towards the ladies.
It was then I spotted the two uniformed policemen heading right for our space.
Looking around, everybody had magically covered themselves with towels, bathing suits or
something. Vickie became aware of the officers about the same time I did and Shazam; she
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grabbed the corners of her sarong wrapping it around her. The only two people remaining on
the whole beach that didn’t have any clothes on were Sandy and I!
The cops were nice – almost apologetic. It seemed an old lady who lived up on the
top of the cliff had complained and they had to issue a couple of citations; we were
nominated they explained. The policeman handed us the tickets advising us to next time
continue down about twenty-five yards, that way we’d have a chance to get dressed before
they got there. Our location had made us the ‘sitting ducks’ for the cops.
After they departed everybody stripped back down to the buff except the three of us.
People came by and said. “We should have – blah, blah, blah. And, why didn’t we, yaketta,
yaketa. This was in the mid-seventies – the days of women’s lib. Sandy was hopping mad;
she said she was going to fight it. “They have no right. They can’t do that to us,” she ranted
on and on.
I too was a bit unnerved, but for a different reason; I was thinking of my airline
pilot’s license. It had a moral turpitude clause; which can mean anything from embezzling a
bank, to fighting, to peeing behind a bush, – to maybe going nude at the beach? Jesus Christ,
could I lose my license? Quieting Sandy down I agreed to pick her up the following week so
we could both go together to see the Judge. I swore her to secrecy, not wanting anyone in the
Company to know of this incident. She promised she wouldn’t breathe a word to a soul.
The courthouse was located in that beautiful Frank Lloyd Wright building in Marin
off Highway 101. A receptionist gave us directions to an office down the hall. The room was
small and could have been part of a law library. I opened the door for Sandy and she stormed
in with attitude, ready to do battle. I had hoped she would just remain cool and not
antagonize anyone until I could size-up what exactly was going to happen and what was
going to be our punishment. A pleasant man about my age in a suit and tie introduced himself
as an assistant district attorney and held out his hand to both of us.
“Now, let’s see what the officers wrote up. Do you have your citations with you?”
We each produced our tickets and handed them to him. He took a moment to study
the forms before saying, “Muir Beach? Yes that’s Missus Talbot; she’s the little old lady who
lives at the top of the cliff. She puts her binoculars on and calls the police about every
weekend demanding they do something about those terrible nudists. We have to respond or
she calls the mayor.”
“What’s it going to cost us?” Sandy demanded.
Shut-up Sandy, I thought.
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“Cost you? I don’t see why it should cost you anything; you weren’t really doing
anything wrong. Your only crime was being in the wrong spot at the wrong time. I’ll tell you
what – next time why don’t you go down to the far end of Stinson Beach like I do? It’s got a
good beach and Mrs. Talbot can’t see that far.” Holy mackerel, the D. A. was a nudist, too!
“You mean this isn’t going to go on our record or anything,” I said.
“I don’t see why it should; she’s just a nuisance caller. Why don’t I just tear-up the
tickets and you can forget about it,” he said with a grin.
Sandy stood, up and gave him a big, ear-to-ear smile as she threw her arms around
him in a hug. I thanked him and shook his hand. He seemed genuinely pleased that he wasn’t
going to have to bring the law down on these two would-be sex offenders; it was a win-win
for everybody.
About a month later I was in the cockpit with my crew waiting to board passengers
for an all night red-eye from Kennedy to Frankfurt. The cockpit door opened and Jane, the
senior stewardess, entered. “Anybody want any coffee before we start boarding?” We all
ordered what would be the start of about fifteen cups to get us to Frankfurt.
A few minutes later she came in with a tray containing our coffee and packets of
cream & sugar. As I reached for mine she said, “Hi stud, I hear you like to go around with
your weenie wagging?” I almost died.
Responding with as much stiff-upper-lip snobbishness as I could muster, I countered
with, “There’re a lot of people willing to assassinate a gentleman’s character over nothing.”
“That’s not what I hear – Studly,” she smilingly replied while making her exit and
closing the door.
“What was that about?’ the copilot said.
“Nothing – no big thing.” I replied.
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A HEALTHY PARANOIA
Except for the two baby ‘8s, Overseas National operated new, or practically new,
equipment. For the most-part the maintenance was superlative, all the employees cooperated
to make the operation run smoothly. On occasion however, when the schedule got tight due
to a mechanical or weather-delay, short-cuts were sometimes taken. As the captain it was one
of my responsibilities to ensure those short-cuts never led to what I referred to as a ‘Killing
Situation.’ While generally easy going on layovers, my head did a turn-around when it came
time to go-to-work; I didn’t want anybody to unintentionally kill me.
The night I landed at Frankfurt on fumes cured me of flying with barely minimum
fuel. A mechanic who spun the truth to get me to take a plane that wasn’t quite all it should
be, or a loadmaster who was more than a little loose with the cargo weights, the dispatcher
that told me the weather shouldn’t be any problem along my route, and the copilot who
didn’t understand how important it was for him to make sure his figures were correct; all
gave me pause.
Don’t misunderstand me, if a pilot waits until everything on every flight is perfect,
there will damned few flights he’ll ever take. The important thing is the pilot must know
which apparently small, seemingly insignificant annoyances, that when bunched together
might lead to his not collecting his next paycheck.
Part of my pre-flight cockpit briefing was to tell the crew members two phrases I
never wanted to hear uttered in my cockpit were, “Goodbye Mom” and “Oh shit Dave, I’m
sorry.” We all make mistakes; one of the primary responsibilities of the crew is to check on
each other, to ensure the mistake is caught before it becomes a problem.
I once had a copilot look-up the takeoff speeds on a page in his manual that was for
two-hundred-fifty thousand pounds, instead of three-hundred-fifty. Had we used those speeds
it would have killed us. Fortunately, I recognized the speeds were far too slow and suggested
he might want to check that he was on the right page. After a bit of attitude from him for
questioning his work, he became most apologetic when he realized the mistake he’d made.
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By the same token, once on an instrument departure I started to make a left turn in
the wrong direction that might have taken us into a mountain. My copilot looked over at me
and said, “Dave, I think you want to take the other right – the one that goes out over the flat
lands.”
“What?” Realizing what I’d just did I answered, “Thanks, I was just seeing if you
were paying attention; clear right?” We both knew I was lying.
Fuel on an airplane is measured in pounds, therefore when I ask for one-hundredthousand pounds, the engineer must convert the figure to U.S. or Imperial gallons, or liters,
depending where in the world we happened to be. Mistakes have been made and fatalities
have occurred. I didn’t want it to happen on my watch, so I always asked how many gallons
or liters we added, confirming the number on my Jeppesen whiz-wheel.
It was also important there was an easy give-and-take in the cockpit; generally the
three of us worked as a smooth team. When something required a cooperative effort, the
normal routine was to let the copilot fly the plane, while the engineer and I discussed what
caused the problem. Was it going to get any worse, and how could we fix it, or work around
it? Most engineers were older, having years of experience flying the equipment they once
worked on in the Hangar. It was good to have this knowledge sitting in the cockpit with you
when bound for some God-forsaken destination that didn’t have anything but a sometimetelephone.
“Ron, you fly the plane; Corky, what does the MEL (Minimum Equipment List)
say?”
“It’s a good thing this isn’t a 30-series; we’d be stuck on the ground for a week before
the company could get us the part. With the sixty models the pumps are all interchangeable.
If you’ll give me a hand, I think we can swap the reverser pump with the auxiliary pump and
keep on truckin’ until we can get back to a maintenance base.”
“How long will it take?”
“We should have it done in a couple of hours.”
“I’ll send a message to the company through Berna Radio letting them know we’ll be
taking a small delay.” Tuning the High Frequency radio I picked up my mike and before
calling Berna turned to my excellent first officer, who had been doing a great job of soloing
the plane, “Just think Ron, this will all be yours one day – did you pack any coveralls?”
He looked over at me and rolled his eyes, “Yeah, sure in a pig’s ass. Delta’s hiring,
I’m gonna call them when we get back.”
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I knew he was kidding; Ron would be bored stiff flying for some scheduled carrier,
going from Atlanta to Miami three times a week. “Berna – Berna, this is Overseas National
8-6-4 on fifty-six – over.”
Overseas National insisted on using professional flight engineers on planes requiring
the third crewmember. I felt safer and more comfortable knowing I had a licensed mechanic
who took great pride in understanding every nut, bolt, valve, spring, and cable on Donald
Douglas’s miracle machine. The engineers all carried small tool kits allowing them to fix
many of the problems that came-up during a flight. Further, when an inflight mechanical
problem occurred, I knew I had someone with a deeper knowledge than I to discuss what
options were available and how it might affect the trip.
“Dave, the forward oven won’t work, can Corky take a look at it?” the senior
stewardess might say after we reached cruise altitude.
“Corky, do you mind?”
“No sweat, I think it’s the timer; we had the same problem last week on the Honolulu
run. Let me dig out my tools.” Turning to the stewardess, he continued, “It will cost you a
beer when we get on the ground.”
ALPA, the pilot’s union, long ago forced the scheduled airlines to hire second
officers to fly the third seat, thereby dispensing with mechanic-engineers. Second officers are
the most junior in experience and lowest on the seniority list. Their main priority is to moveup to the copilot’s seat where they’ll earn more money, and can look out the window. They
care little for learning the plane beyond what it takes to make that forward move. When
inflight problems did arise the captain was taught to call the company and let them decide the
correct course of action to take. This bit of micro-managing was a step towards stripping the
captain of his authority while maintaining his responsibility. (“Captain, remember you work
for us and you’ll follow our orders.” Unsaid and only understood by a few is; if something
goes wrong Captain, you’re to blame.) I’ve always thought the non-mechanic second officer
compromised safety but it gave the pilot’s union a stronger bargaining position, the bottom
line is always money, isn’t it?
Further, speaking of safety; why are we flying two-engine airplanes with two-pilot
crews across oceans when four engines with three-pilot crews are safer? I was told because
they’re cheaper to operate and the insurance companies can live with the actuaries. Of
course, if you someday find yourself in an inflatable life-vest floating in frigid saltwater and
wondering how much longer you’ll stay afloat, you may not agree with this logic.
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138
SIMILARITIES
Hassan Shaban was a successful Palestinian businessman in Saudi Arabia. We met in
Jeddah where I was temporarily based for the Hajj season. He was a man in his late forties
going to overweight from good living. We were both extroverts, sharing a raucous sense of
humor. One day he invited me to a barbeque party he was giving for some friends in his
beach cottage at a location everyone referred to as “The Creek” on the Red Sea. This was
where the wealthier local residents went to get away from the sizzling summer sun. The fact
he owned a place there told me he was a lot richer than I had imagined.
“David, why don’t I pick you up at the dock Saturday at ten o’clock? Bring a bathing
suit and dress casual, okay?” ONA had leased a Greek ship for all their employees; it was
safer for the stewardesses, the food was American-style, and because the water was pure,
there was less illness due to dysentery.
“Sounds good, I’ll be there unless I get stuck on an extra-section trip. Can I bring
anything?”
“Just your sense of humor and a few jokes; I think you’ll like my friends.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Saturday rolled around; it was fortunate my bid-line held, I had the day off. The
launch was filled with stewardesses and pilots heading off to do some shopping at the souk,
as the local market-center was called. Several girls asked if I was going shopping, letting me
know the price of gold was down in case I wanted to buy something for Vickie. When I told
them I was going to a party out on the creek, they all wanted to know how I got invited to go
there, and who was the rich sheik, and did he have a harem, and advised me to be careful he
might be gay. Walking up the gangway to the gate, there was Hassan waving to me beside
his shiny-new black 600 Mercedes four-door sedan.
When the crew spotted the car there were a lot of whispers like; “Jeez, Dave can you
take along a guest?” and “Case, you’re not back doing some CIA shit, are you?” Good
naturedly I brushed off the comments, breaking away from the group to greet Hassan.
“You didn’t have to bring out the big car for my benefit,” I said as I shook his hand.
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“It’s not for you David, I have my family in the back and my wife likes to ride in
comfort. Do you mind riding in the front with me?”
“Of course not.” The only time I’d seen his wife she was with their daughter, both
had been covered in head-to-toe black abayas completely hiding them from view. “Is Sam
going too?” Sam was his thirteen-year-old son; a min-version of his dad with a constant
twinkle in his eyes that said, mischief. I’m sure he had another, more formal Arabic name,
but he was always Sam to me. Hassan opened the door for me, as Sam called out from the
back, “Hello Captain Case!”
“Hi Sam, how’s it going?”
“Dad’s going to let me drive the car when we get to the creek.” Sam excitedly
informed me.
“Good, don’t run into anything or we’ll have to take a taxi home.” Hassan’s wife and
daughter wrapped in their abayas remained silent.
It was actually cold in the car during the twenty-five minute drive on the new smooth
highway. The Saudi’s did everything first-rate; the road was better than anything we had in
California, with very little traffic. We turned left to another well-maintained secondary road,
eventually arriving at a large double gate surrounded by a very secure looking eight-foot
fence that I noticed was topped with imbedded broken-glass. Hassan got out and opened the
lock from a set of keys he had in his pocket. “I don’t like servants here when we’re here, this
is my private sanctuary,” he explained as he got back in the car.
It looked like the fence enclosed about two acres of sand, (probably one hectare, a
unit of measure in Saudi) the unpaved circular driveway was graded. At the far end, next to
the water, was a strikingly lovely white house of perhaps three-thousand square feet; simple,
yet elegant, in its design. Tall pillars supported an open roof leading directly to the water’s
edge. Rooms I assumed to be bedrooms were on the right, while the left contained the
kitchen, dining, and a large living/library area.
As soon as the car was unpacked Hassan’s wife and daughter went down the hall to
one of the rooms on the right. Sam began nagging his father for the keys to the car. “Dad,
dad, can I now? Can I please have the keys? Can I? Can I? Huh, can I now?”
Hassan reached in his pocket, handing Sam the keys, “Close the gate and don’t go
over thirty miles an hour.”
“I won’t,” he was off to close the gate, do circles inside the compound, raising clouds
and clouds of dust.
“I love that boy; I can’t say no to him.”
“How old does he have to be before he can get a license?”
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“Here I don’t know, but I want him to know how to drive so when he goes away to
school he hopefully won’t do anything stupid.”
“Where do you plan to send him?”
“I like England but my wife favors France for some reason. Come on, let’s have a
drink.” We walked back to the porch that extended over the water where a mini-bar and
fridge was all set-up by a big, fancy barbeque. He may not have had any servants while he
was in residence; but somebody had prepared all this before we arrived. “What would you
like?”
I knew drinking alcohol was against the law in Saudi Arabia, “How about an ice tea?”
“How about a scotch, or a tall gin and tonic?” Hassan said as he opened the bar to
reveal a completely stocked liquor cabinet.
I was amazed; I didn’t think he drank, “Gin and tonic sounds good, thanks.”
“I’ll have one too – Tanqueray all right – do you like lime?”
“Tanqueray’s excellent – yes please.”
We’d just taken a couple of sips on our drinks when his wife walked out wearing a
low-cut peasant blouse, a pair of tight-fitting silk toreador pants and high-heels. Her hair was
down to her shoulders, she had a touch of make-up and was drop-dead gorgeous. She looked
at me and smiled before turning to Hassan; “I’ll have a tall gin and tonic and make it light – I
don’t want to get tipsy.”
My shock must have shown; I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t
someone who looked like she’d be right at home on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. She
smiled at me again, “It’s the custom here, women have to wear the abaya in public, but I can
dress as I want in my home. Hassan lets me go shopping in Rome a couple of times a year…”
“That’s all I can afford,” he winked as he chimed-in while lighting the grill, “Between
her and my daughter, they keep me broke.”
“Oh you poor baby, think how much it would cost if you had to support more girls?”
she responded as she stroked his cheek.
Hassan’s daughter appeared in a black bikini, carrying a large Turkish towel,
ignoring us adults, she spread it out on a corner of the porch, laying down to soak up the rays.
She too was a stunner; seventeen, hard-body, long flowing jet-black wavy hair, beautiful eyes
and full lips. She sported a gold chain around her ankle and diamond studs in her earlobes.
I tried not to gawk at this vision of killer-beauty as Hassan commented for her to
hear, “If she doesn’t start acting more sociable, I’m going to offer her to one of the Sa’ud
family for their harem.”
“Hassan, don’t say that; she’s just going through a phase – she’ll grow out of it.”
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Hassan lowered his voice and replied, “Habibti, you know I’m just teasing – I would
never do that.”
Within the next thirty minutes the remaining five male guests arrived separately in
Porches and Mercedes. They ranged in age from mid-thirties to mid-forties; all were wearing
casual western clothes, slacks or Levis, Aloha or short sleeve summer shirts, with expensive
Nike tennis shoes. English was the common tongue; gin or scotch the drink. There was an
Egyptian, Syrian, Iraqi, Jordanian, and a Saudi Royal; I was the only westerner. All were
well educated; mostly in America. The Saudi had graduated from Stanford.
I gathered most were doing business with Hassan. Conversation was light and easy:
“Tell me David, what do you do on that ship all night long?”
Before I could answer the Saudi Royal interrupted with; “Orgy with all those
beautiful hostesses,” which brought a nervous chuckle from all.
“Not quite; we mostly work our butts off flying, so the free time is spent resting up
for the next trip.”
“Any chance you could get us out to the ship?’
“I’ll check it out, but I doubt it. The company has very strict rules, nobody wants to
lose their job.”
Sam had stopped making circles in the front yard long enough to come in and grab a
big orange from the bowl of fruit Hassan’s wife had put out on the table.
“Those are good looking oranges,” I commented, “they look like the kind I fly from
Israel up to Rome.” I hoped I hadn’t offended anyone by mentioning Israel.
“They’re the same, only we import them from Cairo,” Hassan acknowledged, “My
friend here keeps us supplied.”
“I thought you guys were bitter enemies?”
“David, our governments are bitter enemies. We are businessmen – we do business.
There is no profit from being enemies,” the Syrian explained to me.
“Yes, it’s amazing what a change in billing, or a lost manifest, or a little cash in the
right spot can accomplish,” the Jordanian added.
The Israelis purposely did not stamp the passports of flight crews when they knew we
were going to be working a contract out of Saudi to avoid getting us hassled. Still, I was
learning things I didn’t know existed; here these guys were doing business as though there
were no problems in this end of the world. Maybe their governments could eventually work
things out.
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“The problem is not with the merchants; it’s with the religious leaders. They want the
power and they make our lives miserable in the process.”
More drinks were poured. Hassan’s wife brought out a tray loaded with hamburger
patties, which Hassan carefully laid on the hot grill. The air filled with the smoke of meat
freshly cooking. Going back in the kitchen his wife returned with all the fixings to make a
good hamburger, together with a sack of Lay’s potato chips on the table next to the fruit
bowl. “Hassan, you’re going to burn the meat if you don’t pay more attention.”
Hassan flipped a couple of patties, checking to see if they’d cooked long enough,
“Habibti, they’re all right, I’m doing just fine.”
“The fire’s too hot – you’d better turn it down unless you want charcoal.”
“Habibti, everything’s under control…”
“I don’t want you to spoil the meat…”
Suddenly he hands her the hamburger flipper and says, “Here, you do it! I’m making
another drink.”
She took the flipper, lowered the fire, and started turning the burgers, thereby saving
what could have been an embarrassing moment for Hassan.
Under his breath he said to us, “Women, they’re all the same – I don’t understand
them. Anybody want another drink?”
I thought how perfectly normal; this is exactly a scene from a barbeque party in the
States. On a one-to-one basis these people are not much different from us when it comes to
core values and attitudes. How did they ever get such a reputation for being a bunch of
primitive ignoramuses? Religion? Who knows?
The day went well; I commented about how I loved the falafel & hummus served to
me in Damascus by our ground representative.
“Better than these hamburgers Hassan tried to cremate?”
“Not better, just different and every bit as good.”
“David, why aren’t you a diplomat? You’re wasting your time as a pilot.”
“In a way a pilot is a diplomat; flying around the world he has to make sure the plane
keeps moving, that sometimes takes a lot talking,” I responded.
“And a lot of bullshit;” this, from the Saudi Royal, which again brought a laugh from
everybody.
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Along about six o’clock the sun was getting low on the horizon, it was time to end a
lovely day. The five guests bid a friendly goodbye to me and Hassan’s family with promises
to do it again. Watching them drive off in their fancy cars I turned to Hassan, “Let me give
you guys a hand cleaning up.”
“No problem David, don’t worry, we have a very good way to clean up. It will only
take a minute.”
We’d eaten off paper plates, using paper napkins; there was partially consumed food
and mess all over. I knew it would take his wife some time before we’d be ready to head
back. To my surprise everybody started throwing the waste into the lagoon, making a terrible
mess on the pristine waters I’d snorkeled, and the water Jacque Cousteau once called the
most beautiful ocean in the world. “Are you sure you want to do that?” I asked; I was
dumbfounded.
“Don’t worry David, the tide will take the garbage out to sea where the fish will eat
all the food and the plates will disintegrate.”
“I don’t know, in America we always put waste in bags to be carried away by the
trash haulers.”
“Here, we throw everything in the water – everybody does the same thing. Besides,
we don’t have trash haulers out here. The sea will take care of everything – it’s natural.”
But I did worry, although there really wasn’t much I could do about it. In America
we’re so very conscious of our environment, third-world countries don’t give a damn and
there’s not much we can do about that.
Hassan’s wife and daughter changed back into their abayas, got in the back of the car
with Sam, and we drove back to the city as the sun set in the west; the end of an almost
perfect day.
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DC-10 PROBLEMS
Overseas National suffered two major accidents involving their DC-10 fleet in fairly
quick succession.
The first occurred to a fully fueled plane with over one hundred fifty deadheading
crewmembers bound for Jeddah. During takeoff at New York’s Kennedy airport a flock of
birds were ingested into the number three engine, causing it to explode and collapse into the
main landing gear, which in turn gave way, rupturing the fuel-laden wing. The plane
immediately exploded into a ball of flame as it slid off the runway. Only very quick and
disciplined action by the entire crew prevented a major catastrophe. It was indeed fortunate
the only injury was to Captain Davis, who cut his hand sliding down the polypropylene
escape tape from the cockpit to the ground.
The second tragedy took place on landing in Istanbul. It was an early-morning flight
in clear weather when the captain under-shot the runway by a quarter mile. The ground
leading up to the runway was smooth; it appeared the plane was not too badly damaged.
However, by the time the Turkish authorities, using military tanks, finished towing the plane
to the paved surface they had so wounded the big bird it was a total write-off. Again, it was
fortunate there were no serious injuries; only one passenger claimed a back injury when
sliding down an escape slide.
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BACK TO COPILOT
I was number #73 on the pilot’s seniority list when I hired on in January 1968; only
Jimmy Hamilton was lower than I. Almost ten years later I had moved up twenty numbers
due to attrition. Plus, there were 135 pilots behind me. Starting out as a copilot on the DC-9, I
advanced to captain, then captain on the international, long range DC-8.
Overseas National was a mostly smooth running progressive company that carved
had out a niche, allowing it to grow rapidly. There was a healthy balance of civilian and
military contracts, in both cargo and passenger traffic. We flew domestic and worldwide. For
the most-part the management and employees worked as a growing family. Insurance
covered both DC-10 mishaps. Therefore, what could have gone so wrong that I suddenly
found myself a copilot seventeen numbers removed from flying captain?
Perhaps it had something to do with a government edict called “Deregulation,” which
threw the whole industry into a turmoil. With deregulation there were no more protected
routes; scheduled carriers could bid on the supplemental business, and vice-versa. Except,
most scheduled routes were operated by recognized airlines, the little guys didn’t have much
chance competing against them. Our Logair freight business suddenly went to Hawaiian
Airlines; the Honolulu based carrier began flying Air Force cargo runs. A Hawaiian airline
flying night-freight based out of a little town in Georgia – it was crazy.
In my new position as a copilot I made up my mind to be the best I could. I’d flown
with copilots who thought they were captains and it drove me nuts; I wasn’t going to be one
of those. I’d help and support the captain anyway I could by following, not leading.
Obviously, I knew the routes, the equipment, and the procedures so there wouldn’t be any
problem flying the right seat. In a way I was looking forward to the experience; I could learn
some tricks from those senior to me. I had no responsibility except to show-up on time.
Most of the captains were a joy to work with, going out of their way to make me feel
comfortable. They recognized my past experience, and shared left-seat time leg-for-leg. I
must admit I didn’t expect the kindness and cordiality, it was flattering.
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“Dave, if we keep losing business I could be in the right seat bidding lines against
you.”
“I hope we don’t lose anymore work, the Hajj still looks good.”
“Yeah, but I heard World is gonna try and underbid us next year – they’re down to
four aircraft.”
“Jeez, I’ve got a buddy at T.I.A. that says they may go under if things don’t pick up.”
“They’re owned by Trans-America, who has more money than the U.S. mint; I don’t
see how they could go under.”
“You never know…”
“You know what they say; be nice to your copilot, because he’ll be ahead of you on
the next seniority list. Do you want the steak?”
“I like chicken.”
“Hey, have you been to that bar about two blocks from the hotel down by the river?”
I also learned firsthand about some of the other captains my copilots had been
complaining about for years. I’d always brushed aside their negative comments with easy
humor, feeling they couldn’t possibly be as bad as some said. Woefully I found out they were
right, and I was wrong – sometimes very wrong. While in a minority, they definitely stoodout in their outside-the-box behavior. Some were incompetent; others liars and cheaters,
some I felt were psychologically unfit to fly. It was stressful and exhausting when I was
assigned to spend a month with one of these individuals.
One fellow always insisted on making a full instrument approach; not due to the
weather, but because he was on overtime and wanted to make his paycheck as big as
possible, to hell with the fact it cost the company over one-hundred dollars a minute to
operate the plane. This same person would pick-up, or switch, the tips the crews left on the
table when dining together.
Another was an absolute gentleman on the ground and a screaming tyrant in the air.
He seemed to take delight in humiliating the stewardesses. On one flight I excused myself to
go to the restroom and found the stew in the forward galley in tears: “That sonovabitch –
what’s wrong with him? I made his coffee just like he asked, with two sugars and one
cream.”
“I don’t know he’s probably having a bad day; maybe his old lady sent him out
without giving him any.”
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“Well, he ain’t gonna get any on this trip either – that asshole.”
“Chill out, it’ll get better. I gotta go…”
“You want me to make you a chicken salad like last time for dinner?”
“Love it – thanks. I gotta go.”
One time I was making a low minimum approach into Detroit. The ceiling was 200
feet, ice on the runway, braking action fair-to-poor, (read, poor), with a fifteen knot
crosswind and blowing snow. I wouldn’t have given the landing any of my copilots, but
Frank said it was my leg and moved over to the right seat before we left Las Vegas.
We were on final approach; the gear was down, flaps, full – the checklist was
complete. “Standard callouts, Frank, make sure you give me a call one-hundred feet above
minimums.”
“No sweat, Dave; you just get us on the ground, okay?”
“Okay.” From my peripheral vision I noticed Frank was fooling with the HF (High
Frequency) radios on the overhead panel. I wondered what in hell he was doing with those;
they were primarily for long-range over-water use. But my priority was keeping the plane on
the glidepath, and on speed. Just before we got to the outer marker, which was a mandatory
call to the tower, Frank exclaimed; “Hey Dave, I got my wife at home!”
“What?” I didn’t know what he was talking about. The locater light began flashing, a
beeping horn announced we were over the outer marker. Frank was somewhere else.
“I got my…” Frank was holding his mike and smiling.
There wasn’t time to bring him back; I picked up my mike, “Detroit, Overseas
National 8-6-8 marker inbound.”
“Rog Overseas National 8-6-8 you’re cleared to land.”
“Dave, I just talked to my wife in Connecticut on the HF; ain’t that great?”
“Yeah, it’s great. Now can you give me standard calls; we’re marker inbound.”
“Oh yeah – sure – you’re out of a thousand, on profile – WOW, it was just like she
was here.”
The engineer leaned over to whisper to me; “Don’t worry Dave, I’ll back you up.”
“Thanks.”
The thing that kept these guys on the payroll was the union. Whenever it was
mentioned we ought to get rid of them the union representative would chime-in with, “we’ve
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got to show solidarity; we’ve got to protect everyone, or else the company will start deciding
who they want to keep or fire. Do you want to be fired with no union to protect you?”
“No.”
“Besides, they’re not that bad.”
Yes they were; there’s an old saying, “God protects the drunks and idiots.” These
guys had double indemnity; although, amazingly enough, none of them to my knowledge
were ever involved in a major accident.
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TRAGEDY IN NIAMEY
March 3, 1977 Milt, Dick, and I picked up a dash-63 from a maintenance check
accomplished by Lufthansa at Frankfurt airport. We ferried it over to Paris where Willard,
Jess, Sam, and a loadmaster were waiting to take it on a twelve-hour round-robin through
Africa. Milt generously let me fly the left seat for the one-hour flight. We both commented to
each other about the plane having no follow-up problems after completing the routine checkup. (It was not unusual for planes to come out of these checks with a list of minor squawks.)
We agreed the Germans did a fine job although it had been after nine in the evening before
they released the plane to us.
Checking into the hotel we passed the outbound crew in the lobby and in addition to
the normal pleasantries, told them the plane seemed to be in excellent condition. John
Willard mentioned this would be his last trip before retiring due to the age-sixty rule. It
would be our turn to fly the same route when they arrived back in twelve hours. I remember
belting down a couple of expensive scotches at the hotel bar after dinner before hitting the
hay. It was going to be an easy daylight flight for us; I didn’t envy Willard and his crew
having to work all night.
The ringing phone woke me up. Obviously there was a wrong number; it was still
dark outside. I’d left a wake-up for 7:30 in the morning; I was ready to chew some ass for
this screw-up. I answered with a cranky, “Hello.”
“Hi Dave it’s Milt; the plane crashed in Niamey.”
“What?” was my shocked reply.
“Willard and the engineer are dead, Jess and the loadmaster survived.” Milt’s voice
was flat, just stating facts.
“Jesus! What happened?” This couldn’t be happening – something’s wrong.
“I don’t know. Our Paris rep. just called me, I’m not sure Kennedy knows about it yet
– I’ll call them after you hang up.” Milt was really shook up
“Yeah, sure, have you called Dick?” I asked.
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“How about you ringing-up Dick, and the loadmaster while I try to contact Kennedy
dispatch? I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour.” Saying goodbye I turned on the light, it
was 5:37 in the morning.
After brushing my teeth, I slipped on a shirt and pants and headed down to the dining
room. Dick and the loadmaster were already there with a big pot of strong coffee. Joining
them, I poured myself a steaming cup. “What happened, Dave?” Dick asked.
“I don’t know – they just crashed. I hope Milt has learned more.”
The three of us drank our coffees with little conversation while we waited for Milt to
show up. He arrived about fifteen minutes later with the news the plane had landed about a
quarter mile short of the runway. The cockpit had broken away from the main fuselage; the
force of the crash had torn Willard and the engineer’s seats from the floor and while still
strapped in their seats they were thrown outside onto the ground – neither survived. Totally
disoriented, Jess stumbled out of the cockpit before passing out in the tall grass surrounding
the accident. The loadmaster remained strapped in his seat until the rescuers arrived. He got
away with a splinter-break on his leg. It was odd; the deaths were diagonally across from
each other, instead of fore-and-aft or left-and-right.
“Dave, did you notice anything unusual about the plane when you flew it last night?”
Milt wanted reconfirmation.
“No, it handled fine. Everything worked as it should have. Remember how we
commented about it?”
“Yeah. I wish I’d flown it last night; maybe I could have detected something.” Milt
was our former chief pilot, at one time heading the union. He was an excellent pilot with a
strong background. In a way I wished he had flown the leg too.
Dick addressed Milt, “The plane was in first-class condition. I did the walk-around,
being extra-careful because of the Lufthansa check; I didn’t find one screw out of place.”
We all wondered what in the hell could have happened. Willard and Jess were both
excellent pilots, Sam Barilla, the engineer was reliable and experienced. Later, we learned
the weather may have been a factor, it was blowing sand. When Jess reported the outermarker inbound, he requested that the tower turn up the runway light to full intensity.
The next day, Bill Burks, George Flavell, and Bob Ramage showed up to take
command of the investigation. Bill represented the company, George the pilot union, and
Bob the FAA. After interviewing us they flew down to Niamey, which is the capitol of
Niger, an impoverished country in the middle of Africa. When they arrived on the scene they
found that scavengers had already started to work raiding the cargo. The cockpit voice
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recorder had been destroyed by the resulting fire. French authorities took over the
investigation as Niger was once their colony and the spoken language was French. They took
the Flight Data Recorder to Paris for analysis; it divulged nothing meaningful. Jess was
recovering in the hospital. His mind had blanked out the crash; he didn’t remember a thing
except reporting the marker inbound. The loadmaster was not a pilot, so he had little to
contribute, except Willard was flying and they may have started a go-around just before the
plane pitched up to crash.
Since the plane came to rest three hundred feet short of the runway Paris chose to
officially call it a case of “Pilot Error.” Fully ninety-percent of all aviation accidents are
identified as “Pilot Error,” it’s a convenient catch-all phrase letting everybody off the hook
except the pilot, who most-times is dead.
Because of the sandstorm and the fact the airport was on the top of a cliff, George
thought wind-shear may have been the problem. This made far more sense than the French
rush to judgment. Jess volunteered to take sodium pentothal (truth serum) in the hope he
might recall something. The Airline Pilots Association’s chief flight surgeon felt that was
excessive and unnecessary. The accident became one-more never-to-be-solved mystery listed
under, “Pilot Error.”
Had it occurred twelve hours later Milt, Dick and I would have been the crew. Fate –
luck – the-roll-of-the-dice – whatever you call it, the three of us dodged a bullet. It’s
probably why I’ve never gambled for money; When the chips were down, I always wanted
all the luck I could get in the cockpit.
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153
BIG BIRD
A bid opened for DC-10 first officers; I thought it a good idea to add the big widebody to my resume should the company fold. I was one of three copilots and three captains
who reported to the American Airlines training center in Arlington, Texas for the two-week
course. It was the first time I’d ever experienced airline training outside the supplemental
environment; what a difference it was. The instructors were pleasant, the training positive
and relaxed. There was no shouting, or brow-beating; it was assumed we’d all pass. The
cadre was there just to show us how easy it was to fly the three-engine, five-hundredthousand pound, 350-passenger Douglas beauty. Classroom work was a joy. Our instructor
explained the facility was open 24 hours a day, so if there were those who felt better studying
at night or wanted to use the library, there would be someone on premises to help them. The
written quizzes were designed to confirm the student was absorbing the material; not the
pass-fail-do-or-die atmosphere provided by ONA.
The simulator was fully-visual, which meant you began the session at the gate by
starting the APU before push back. This was followed by the engine-start once the plane was
ready to taxi and the ground-tug disconnected. Everything was real; screens gave the
impression through the windows you were traveling on the taxiway of the airport. It was
important to check your ground speed with the INS since you sat so high off the ground it
was easy to go too fast. Making turns were tricky as the nose wheel was quite a distance
behind the cockpit and the main landing gear was much wider than the DC-8 we were all
used to.
The instructors wanted us to use the auto-systems far more than we were accustomed
to on the ‘8s. Auto-throttle, auto-speed, auto-climb and descent, auto-approach and landings,
all tended to confuse us, who never trusted autopilots and had always relied on our ability to
hand-fly the plane in tight situations. However, little by little, we learned a new way of doing
things; this was what the future was going to be, so we’d better buckle down and change our
ways. After the initial shock of learning to rely on the auto features, I soared through the
training.
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As we neared the end of the program Rod Mims, one of the other copilots and I
approached our instructor with a proposition; if we could get the government to approve the
course under the GI Bill of Rights, would American Airlines type-rate us as captains in the
plane? Normally, a copilot was not rated in the plane until he was ready to fly as a captain.
Rod and I both thought if we had the rating, and an opening came up, we’d be all set to slide
into the left seat. In the event ONA ceased operations, a DC-10 type rating would look that
much better on our resumes.
Rod was a retired major from the Air Force, he’d never used the GI government
program that provided money to those who’d served during World War II and the Korean
conflict. So, he was fairly sure he’d have no problem getting the funds. I, on the other hand,
had just made the tail-end cut when I served as an enlisted man in the Air Force, and had
used some of the money to get my Instrument rating back in 1958. I wasn’t sure there was
anything remaining in the program when I phoned the Veterans Administration for help. A
few anxious days later they said I’d just gotten in under the wire, they were going to close
down the program at the end of the month and there was still twelve thousand dollars
available.
Our instructor got back to us after checking with his boss; American would provide
each of us with three hours in the left seat of the simulator (all our time to date had been in
the right seat) and three bounces in the real plane with the FAA on board for the rating. Two
hours in the simulator was training; the third hour became the check ride. The only time we
saw the actual airplane was when we did the three takeoffs and landings. It would be tight,
with no room for mistakes but we both felt confident, deciding to go for it.
When we told the company of our decision, they were less than pleased; they didn’t
want the copilots rated because historically a qualified first officer might seek employment
elsewhere as a captain. I’m not sure management realized there was no other supplemental
airline operating the DC-10, that was not an option for us at that time. If I remember
correctly, Rod and I both came down with colds (at least that’s what we told ONA
Scheduling) that lasted about a week right after we’d completed our company provided twoweek training. Those cold-bugs gave us just enough time to get our captain’s qualification
under the GI Bill.
Douglas Aircraft and ONA provided a very-welcome factory instructor by the name
of Miller, to ride the line with all of us until we got comfortable in the new plane. Miller was
a nice guy, very low-key. He made his comments and suggestions from the jumpseat without
interfering with the flight.
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I was struggling with the different philosophy of operation that applied to the ’10;
everything was by the numbers and used auto-systems. Up to this point in my aviation career
it was a matter of learning how to fly the aircraft using hand-eye co-ordination and manual
inputs. With this plane it was all about planning ahead using the two autopilots, coupled with
various other automatic features. The pilot was more a manager, than an operator. At first it
was very disconcerting. Fortunately, I wasn’t alone in my frustration; the captains were
suffering the same problems and insecurities.
When things got confusing both the captain and I were more at ease reverting to
flying the plane in the same manner we operated the DC-8. When this happened Miller
would comment; “There’s no doubt you guys can fly the plane manually, but Douglas wants
you to learn to use all the fancy gadgets they’ve installed for your convenience and comfort.”
“Convenience, Hell – those infernal doo-das are driving me nuts!” the captain replied.
“We’ll hand-fly her until we get out of ten-thousand and have some space. The last time I
engaged the autopilot the damn thing was on the copilot’s side and we damn-near headed out
across I-don’t-now-where.”
“That’s why you’ve got to always check to make sure the plane is properly
configured before you do anything.”
“To hell with that, I never had this problem on the ‘8; I’ll hand fly it until we get out
of the high-density area.”
I understood Miller and his desire to bring us up to speed, but I agreed with the
captain; there were just too many switches and knobs to lead one down primrose path on the
‘10. Better to hand-fly it until we settled down and got comfortable with all the additional
devices. Miller did provide us with two items of value; a gold tie tack I still have, and his
business card.
I was in the right seat when senior-Captain Frank got his a route check by the FAA.
The flight was scheduled to operate from Frankfurt to Majorca in Spain. The weather was
overcast with light rain at our departure point, improving to sunny and warm on the island
playground. I’d settled down and gotten comfortable to the unique operating features of the
plane, but Captain Frank was a nervous wreck. I’d never flown with him before so I didn’t
know whether or not it was the plane or “checkitus.”
We went through the checklist together and as we got closer to starting the engines
Captain Frank became more hyper. By the time we closed the doors, activated the INSs
(Inertial Navigation Systems), and pushed-back for engine-start there was a film of sweat on
his brow. I tried to help him all I could; the departure required several course changes and
altitude restrictions making it especially difficult with the high-density traffic flow. We
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discussed how he wanted the navigation radios set for the initial course intercepts and which
auto-pilot was going to do what. I handled all the communication, as he wasn’t comfortable
talking to the controllers with their heavy accents.
Fortunately, the examiner was a very pleasant person we all knew from flying the ‘8s.
He wasn’t out to bust anyone; he knew Captain Frank was an experienced international
captain with thousands of hours under his belt. He just wanted to make sure Frank had a
handle on flying this new piece of complex machinery.
After the engines were started, the tug disconnected, the correct portion of the
checklist completed, and at Frank’s direction I called for taxi clearance. We were cleared to
runway two-five left, airport information Foxtrot was current, and advised to follow a
Lufthansa 747.
“What did he say?” Frank asked.
I repeated the clearance and checked Foxtrot; Frank’s glasses had slipped down his
nose and his face was wet with sweat. We were operating under a new FAA concept, sterilecockpit, which meant no extraneous conversation. I would have liked to have made some
comment to put him at ease, but it would have only exacerbated his self-induced suffering.
“The new altimeter is two-nine-nine-nine, set right.” Out of the corner of my eye the
examiner appeared relaxed; I hoped he remained that way.
“Set left.”
We were number five for take-off, Flow-Control was in effect. The morning in-bound
traffic was heavy, which meant we could plan on about ten minutes before it was our turn.
The cabin door opened up and the Senior walked in, she smiled at the examiner as she
squeezed past him and the engineer to address Frank, “The cabin’s secure; you guys want
any coffee after take-off?”
“No; wait until I turn-off the Seat Belt sign before bringing us a cup.” Frank
responded.
“Right; I hope this rain stops before we get to Majorca, I brought my bikini.” When
none of us responded, she got the hint and exited with a “Bye.”
“A pretty girl,” the examiner commented.
“This is a sterile cockpit,” Frank retorted.
“Oh, right – sorry.”
In America most departure procedures are fairly straightforward; you are cleared for
take-off, switched to departure control, and given a heading to intercept the airway that will
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start you on your trip. Not-so in Europe, and particularly Frankfurt; the designers of the SID
(Standard Instrument Departure) seem to take delight in burdening the flight crew with allsorts of altitude and speed restrictions. This complicates the pilots’ already-high workload
during the initial phase of the flight. We were assigned the Nombo Four Golf SID which for
illustration I’ll describe as follows: Climb on runway track to FRANKFURT VOR 4.5
DME/FRED VOR 1.5 DME or 800’, whichever is later, turn LEFT towards RIED VOR, at RIED
VOR 12 DME turn LEFT, intercept 118° bearing to KONIG NDB, turn LEFT, 103° bearing to
AKONI, turn RIGHT, intercept FRANKFURT VOR R-130 to HAREM, turn RIGHT, 148° track to
LAMPU, turn LEFT, 134° track to NOMBO. In addition, the SID required altitude and speed
restrictions, further compounding the pilot’s workload. Frank and I had gone over all of this
prior to pushback, agreeing it would take a team effort with me feeding him the headings,
speeds, altitudes and courses while tuning the various VORs for him to follow.
It was finally our turn, “Overseas National Zero-Three-Three you are cleared for
takeoff runway 2-5 left. Contact Langen radar 1-3-6 decimal 1-2 when airborne. Tag.”
“Roger, Overseas National Zero-three-three, Langen 1-3-6 point 1-2, good day.”
“Runway heading checks left.”
“Checks right.”
“Checklist complete,” this from Jack, the engineer; “Let’s get outa here.”
Frank advanced the power levers with Jack’s hand following to trim the power.
“Set max power,” Frank commanded.
“Power set,” Jack acknowledged.
“Eighty knots,” we were loaded with three-hundred-fifty passengers and their
baggage, but light on fuel because of the short trip and the fact fuel was cheaper in Spain.
The ‘10 was a rocket at that weight.
“Elevator checks,” Frank confirmed as he rocked the control column back-and-forth
assuring freedom of movement. (This was mandatory after a passenger jet crashed on takeoff
from Kennedy when it had picked up a rock, jamming the elevators.)
“Vee-one, rotate,” I called. Frank pulled back on the control column, the big bird
leaped into the sky.
“Vee-two, positive rate,” I continued.
“Gear Up, hold the after takeoff checklist until we clean up the flaps,” Frank ordered.
I reached forward and rapidly moved the landing-gear handle to the ‘Up’ position.
We were out of a thousand feet at the end of the runway. “Cleared direct Ried, set on your
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side,” I advised as I switched communication radios. “Langen radar, Overseas National ZeroThree-Three out of one thousand for three.”
“Roger, Ona Zero-Three-Three, maintain three thousand until further advised.”
“Roger Langen, Zero-Three-Three.”
The plane started to rapidly accelerate with the drag from the landing gear removed.
“Target two-ten knots, Frank.”
“Roger.”
“Two for three, turn left to intercept the one-one-eight bearing to Konig; it’s on your
ADF,” I advised.
“God damned ADF – I hate ADFs.”
“Gear check?” The engineer interrupted, as he accomplished the After Takeoff
Checklist.
I moved the landing gear handle to the neutral position, thus assuring the gear would
not accidentally fall out of its well, then back to its ‘Up’ lock. “Gear checks, Frank, three
thousand, we can accelerate to two-fifty when you turn onto the one-one-eight bearing.”
He had to pull the power way back to maintain three thousand feet and our speed; the
flaps were still extended for safety at the lower speed. “Okay, I show the one-one-eight
bearing. Flaps, up; do the checklist now. I’m pushing up to two fifty and engaging the
autopilot.” Frank reached up to the glareshield where the auto-controls were located and
flipped a couple of mini-levers; suddenly the throttles retracted to idle and the plane lost
power. All of us in the cockpit came bolt upright.
“What the fuck…” Frank exclaimed.
Everything looked normal on my side, I didn’t have a clue what went wrong, but I
had an idea, “Flip the autopilot off,” I said.
Frank hit the autopilot disconnect button on his control column and advanced the
power levers back to their proper setting.
“Ona zero-three-three you are cleared to flight-level one-two-zero, contact Rhein
Radar on 1-3-4 decimal eight – gutentag.”
“Roger, Overseas National zero-three-three leaving three for flight level one-twozero; Rheim Radar on 1-3-4 point 8.”
Frank advanced the throttles, ordering Jack to set climb power. I wound up the
Altitude Alert device to twelve thousand feet as we left three thousand for our new assigned
altitude. We all looked at each other; what was wrong with the plane? “What the hell went
wrong, all I did was engage the auto pilot.”
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Jack said everything on his panel looked normal; I agreed that mine was as it should
be. From the jumpseat the examiner checked both of our instrument panels; “Frank, is your
inner airspeed bug at Vee-two?
“Yeah, I normally squeeze all the bugs together after takeoff so I won’t screw-up and
use the takeoff settings for the landing bugs; it’s an old habit.”
“And a good idea on the ‘8; but this is the ‘10, set your inner bug at the speed you
want to maintain and let the auto-throttle take care of the rest. I think what you did was
engage the auto-throttle when you flipped on the autopilot telling the plane to slow to Veetwo. Set the bug at two-fifty and re-engage the autopilot; let’s see what happens, okay?”
Frank cranked in the proper speed, cautiously engaging the autopilot; everything
remained normal. We all breathed a sigh of relief; this plane had a whole bunch of features
that could lead a pilot astray.
“Out of five for twelve, two-nine-nine-two set right. Heading one-zero-three from
overhead Konig to the one-thirty radial from Frankfurt. Do you want it on your side?” I could
see Frank was struggling; he was an excellent pilot, it was just this plane, and getting
checked that was giving him fits.
“Yeah, thanks. Let’s get some coffee? Ding the stew, will you?”
I pushed the call-button on the overhead, signaling a stewardess was wanted in the
cockpit. We each gave her our orders as Frank and I continued to monitor the departure
instructions. Things settled down after she came in with the steaming brew.
The examiner took a sip of his and leaned forward to give us some pearls; “You know
they didn’t tell you this in training; this is something I figured out on my own. The DC-10 is
the first generation of a new philosophy we’re going to all have to learn. Heretofore, pilots
flew their planes; they sat in a seat and handled controls that by-way-of cables actually
moved the rudder, ailerons and elevator. A pilot was an integral part of the plane. With the
‘10 the pilot becomes more a flight-manager; he doesn’t so much fly the plane as he manages
the various auto-systems, they control the plane. In the ‘10 your job is to program and
observe the systems are doing their job. From takeoff to landing the whole thing will become
automatic.
“That may be true, but I don’t like it,” Frank said, “I like flying my planes; I don’t
like having some computer deciding to shut off my power or thinking for me.” I understood
what he was saying and agreed with him. However, I also saw the logic to what the examiner
was saying.
“Over in Europe they’re working on a plane that flies by computer; the pilot has no
direct control over the plane. He addresses the computer, if the computer likes what he does,
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it follows his commands; if it doesn’t like what he orders, it does its own thing. Supposedly,
to keep the plane safe.”
“Supposedly. I can’t believe a computer can operate a plane better than I can; it can’t
think!” Frank and I both were thinking we may be going the way of the dinosaurs.
“Nevertheless, that’s the way it’s going; it’s called, Fly By Wire.”
Jack leaned forward, “Yeah, they got rid of the navigators, they’re trying to fire the
engineers – the pilots will be the next to be replaced by some pimply-faced geek sitting
behind a computer in a cubby-hole in Milpitas.”
Frank took a slug of coffee, “I’m glad I’m getting near retirement – this ain’t fun nomore.”
I didn’t say anything but I did think about all the pilots I’ve known that have slipped
under the radar. Would this ever happen to me?
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THE INTERVIEW
As I mentioned earlier, Overseas National lost the Logair contract to Hawaiian
Airlines. However, Hawaiian didn’t have any equipment to operate the routes, so the
company sold them their entire fleet of turbo-prop Electras, furloughing the pilots who were
then hired by Hawaiian; such is the supplemental airline business. ONA was shrinking, it
didn’t take a genius to realize it may not survive the turbulence surrounding FAA mandated
Deregulation. Another nail for the coffin was when management discovered they could sell at
a handsome profit, their positions on the assembly line of Douglas for the planes they’d
ordered. After all, why put-up with employees, regulations, and a multitude of other details
when you can put a deposit down for a plane, then sell it six months later for ten-times the
deposit?
I began looking around for another job. ALPA was no help, none of the scheduled
carriers would talk to me, there were no corporate jobs available, the prospects looked grim
indeed. I remembered Miller’s card; he was the Douglas production pilot that rode around
with us until we got comfortable with the ‘10. I decided to give him a call; maybe he knew of
an airline that needed a driver. Since all my jet experience was in Douglas aircraft I hoped he
might have something.
He seemed glad to hear from me on the phone, suggesting I fly down to Long Beach
for lunch and to offer some suggestions. I wondered why he couldn’t make his ideas known
over the phone, but I was the guy seeking work so I booked a flight out of Oakland to Long
Beach on Pacific Southwest.
He drove over to pick me up from the terminal, and seemed secretively enthusiastic
over something; “Let’s go over to the plant, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”
That someone was the chief pilot for Douglas Aircraft who came around his big
walnut desk to welcome, and shake my hand, “Good to meet you Dave, Miller’s been telling
me about you.”
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I was surprised; I hadn’t expected anything like this. Miller excused himself, saying
he had some paperwork to finish. “Excuse me sir, I didn’t come prepared for an interview I
didn’t bring a resume…”
“You come well recommended. Let me start with saying, for obvious reasons we
don’t pirate pilots from those we do business with; it might have a negative on sales and our
reputation. Therefore, the pilot must come to us first; you contacted Miller?”
“Yes, but…”
“Well, how do you like our DC-10?”
“I like it fine, it takes some getting used to after the ‘8, but it seems to be an excellent
aircraft.”
“You flew the ‘8?”
“Yes sir, and the ‘9; all my eight-thousand plus hours of jet time is in Douglas
equipment.” If I was going to be interviewed, I figured I might as well lay it on as thick as
possible.
“Which branch of the service did you fly?”
“None, I was a civilian pilot.”
A slight cloud came over his features, “That’s too bad, most of here are retired
Navy.”
“Navy pilots are excellent; they have great hand/eye coordination and must fit in here
like a glove.” A little polish never hurt.
The cloud went away and he continued, “Yes, we like their can-do attitude. You
might work-out; let me go over what the company is planning.” He expounded on the DC-10
and ’11, before showing me an artist’s rendition of a military transport; and generally
sunshine-pumped me with a glowing forecast of the manufacturer’s future. “One of the
things you’ll become involved with is a service we are going to offer to buyers of our
aircraft; you’ll be contracted to them until they can get their people up-and-qualified. You
don’t mind working overseas, do you?”
“No sir, I’ve spent much of my time overseas.” I wondered who was getting
interviewed.
“Enough talk; let’s take a tour of our facility. Wait ‘til you see the executive dining
room”
He showed me the production line where shiny-new DC-10s were lined up in various
stages of assembly. I met a foreman who briefly explained the operation.
“You won’t mind doing production test-acceptance will you?”
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“No sir.”
We toured a room full of drafting tables, “This is where the C-17 is taking shape.”
The executive dining room was impressive; lots of wood paneling, chandeliers, linen,
silver, stemmed water glasses, and uniformed servers. The upper classes do live differently.
On the way back to his office we met an older man walking towards us. Eye contact was
made and the chief pilot came to attention, almost saluting, before addressing the senior.
“How do you do, Admiral?”
“Fine, what’s on the menu today?” His manner and body language let you know he
was someone used to being in charge. I stood a little straighter when he looked me over.
“The red snapper was well prepared, sir.”
“Who’s this?” he said as he motioned towards me.
“Excuse me sir, this is Captain Case, a pilot; he may be coming aboard.”
Turning towards me the admiral looked me up and down before asking, “Are you
Navy?” There was no attempt to shake hands.
“No sir, civilian.”
Again, he paused, “I see,” again a pause, “Well, I must be going.”
“Yes sir. Good day Admiral.”
Continuing down the hall I asked, “Who was that?”
“That was the Admiral; he commanded a carrier in World War II. He runs this
division.”
Stopping at a door the chief pilot opened it to reveal two long rows of identical desks
with identical in-trays and identical everything and an aisle down the center. “This is where
you’ll work when you’re not flying.”
“What sort of work will I be doing?”
“Reports, working on checklists, preparing manuals – things like that.”
“What’s a normal month look like?”
“Well, flying will be your first duty, but we expect you to put in a forty-hour week…”
“You mean if I flew a night hop, I’d be expected to show-up for work the next day?”
“Well yes, assuming you got some sleep first. We don’t just hire pilots; you must be
able to pitch-in with the paperwork.”
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I thought this a good time to ask what the starting pay would be; “What will I be
earning for all this?”
“We start you out on a salary of sixteen hundred dollars a month.”
I was making twice that as a copilot; perhaps this was only a ninety-day probationary
pay, which would not be unheard-of in this business. “I see, how long will I be at sixteen
hundred a month? When could I expect to be earning more?” I sensed I’d hit a nerve, but as
good as the job looked, the bottom line with me has always been; how much?
“Well, you understand we’re not the airlines; we have to live within our budget. The
sixteen hundred dollar figure will be for the first year; then you can expect a raise.”
“What sort of a raise is normal at the end of a year?”
“Usually we increase your pay by six percent if your Efficiency Report reflects you
are pulling your share of the load.”
Efficiency Report, isn’t that a military term, I thought. Here is Douglas Aircraft, one
of the leading builders of commercial airplanes in the world paying their pilots less money
than a toll-taker on the Golden Gate Bridge. I would have loved to fly for Douglas; teaching,
testing, contributing to design, all the fun-things most pilots aspire to do when they start in
the profession. But sixteen hundred a month was chump-change; it was an insult.
“Most of our pilot are retired military, so they already have a retirement paycheck,
and of course the use of the Post Exchanges.”
It was my turn to cloud-over; “Well okay, do you mind if I think it over and call you
back tomorrow?”
“No, it was good meeting you. My secretary will show you to the gate.”
“Thanks,” we both knew I wasn’t going to be doing any flying for Douglas Aircraft;
they were cheap, and I had let my feelings show.
(Eight months later, when ONA shut-down their operation, Douglas had their pick of
the pilots from the seniority list and several hired-on. I hoped they offered them more than
they did me.)
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THE STRAW
I was called back out after spending one day at home; it was an emergency, a copilot
had become ill and I answered the phone. It had been three weeks since I’d seen my family;
Vickie was planning a weekend camping trip to the gold country. She wasn’t happy when I
told her I had to commercial to Paris to fill-in for the sick pilot, “How come you’re the one
they always call?”
“Maybe because I answer the phone.”
“I wish you’d stop answering the phone; we never see you anymore.” It was true; I
seemed to always be in a plane, or hotel room waiting to get in a plane. I was lucky to get ten
days at home out of the month and that was often split into three periods, which meant by the
time I’d caught up on my sleep and jet lag it was time to head out to the airport. I was living
two different lives; a family man with a wife, child, and the appearance of a successful
marriage and the happy-go-lucky worldwide airline pilot. I’d been with ONA for almost
eleven years, except for the twelve months spent flying the Navy contract out of Alameda,
I’d been away from home fully eight-months out of twelve. Birthdays were missed,
Christmas was seldom attended, school activities were out of the question, only occasionally
would Vickie and I celebrate our anniversary together. I was fortunate to be able to demand
Thanksgiving off; but it was usually followed by a return to duty the next day. It was nowonder many pilots married and divorced; they became strangers in their own home.
I’d made repeated requests for a leave-of-absence but it was always turned-down
because it meant I would lose FAA currency and have to be retrained and tested at company
expense. They were not about to bear that cost just because a pilot became homesick.
Depression was a topic never discussed on the line; whatever the problem, scotch became the
answer.
Arriving in Paris I just had time to check in to the hotel, raid the mini-bar, take a
shower and go to bed before putting on my uniform to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for
the 350 tourists returning to Los Angeles. I met the captain and crew at the curb when we
boarded the limo that took us to the airport. He was a most-senior good-old boy who’d been
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with the company since their inception in the early fifties and stayed with them through their
many reorganizations; a pleasant fatherly figure liked by all. The engineer was one I’d flown
with on the DC-8s and was top-quality. I don’t recall the stewardess, but the ten cabin crew
members were all first-class. I felt that while it was a long over-the-pole, eleven-and-a-halfhour flight, it was going to be a good run.
Unfortunately, problems started as soon as we settled in our seats with the paperwork.
“Captain, it looks like we may have to put into Gander for fuel; I’m showing seventythousand pounds of passengers and baggage, plus catering and CoMat.” (An abbreviation
standing for Company Material; which could mean anything, from a spare hydraulic pump,
to an extra tire.)
“Let me look at that.”
I handed him the paperwork reflecting we could not fly non-stop from Paris to Los
Angeles with our load and the negative-wind factor. He studied it for a while, I was in hopes
of learning a pearl of wisdom from this oh-wise-one as he came up with an answer I’d
missed.
“We can’t stop at Gander, I’m on over-time, they’ll pull us off the flight because
we’ll exceed our twelve-hour maximum flight time. What did you use to figure the weight of
the passengers and baggage?”
“The standard numbers; one-sixty for the passengers, forty pounds for the baggage.”
“Try one-forty for the passengers and twenty pounds for baggage, take a couple of
thousand pounds off the CoMat and catering; that’ll save us sixteen thousand pounds.”
I looked up at the passengers staring down at us from the glass terminal; they all
appeared over-weight, and loaded with hand-carry baggage. They were returning from two
weeks’ vacation; my original estimate had been very optimistic, there was probably another
five thousand pounds that I let-go using standard weights. The captain’s numbers were going
to put us at least twenty thousand pounds over the maximum designed weight of the aircraft.
Nevertheless, I ran the numbers that confirmed we were legal using his revised numbers.
“The ‘10 is like the ‘8, it will fly a little over-gross and you won’t even know it,” he
gently chided me.
“Yes sir,” Nevertheless, I wasn’t at all comfortable with his explanation; 20,000
pounds was not “a little over-gross.” ONA had wrecked two DC-10s in less than a year,
would this one be the third? I reminded myself to shut-up, I was the copilot, he was the
captain, and more experienced in the plane than I; he must know what he was doing.
Although, I hoped that Overseas National’s Dispatch would catch the jiggle and refuse to
sign-off on the required shared responsibility flight release as was required. Instead, they
automatically approved what the captain signed.
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The passengers were loaded, we pushed-back, started engines, and I copied the
clearance to Los Angeles as we taxied down into position for take-off; maybe it was going to
be all right.
“Runway heading checks left.”
“Checks right.”
“Checklist complete,” the engineer responded as he put down the plastic covered
letter-sized document and adjusted his position to back-up the captain on the throttles. I made
one-more survey of the outside before looking down on the instruments to call-out the
speeds. The captain advanced the three big General Electric CFM engines to their maximum
power; there would be no reduced-power takeoff that the company always demanded this
time. He released the brakes; there was none of the normal sudden feeling of acceleration as
the aircraft slowly began picking up speed – she was heavy.
“Eighty-knots.”
“Elevator checks,” the captain answered.
It seemed to take forever for the plane to get up to the hundred fifty-five Vee-one
speed; the end of the runway was a lot closer than I’d ever seen it. There was no-way we
could ever have successfully aborted as procedure required in the event of an engine failure.
“Vee-one – Rotate!”
The captain smoothly lifted the bird into the air as the end of the runway flashed by,
Jesus, that was close!
“Vee-two – positive rate.”
“Gear Up!”
I reached forward and smartly positioned the handle to its Up position. We were
airborne and climbing but she wasn’t demonstrating the performance that was normal for the
DC-10. The captain continued to fly the plane while the engineer and I completed the various
checklists and I handled the radios through the departure. He finally engaged the autopilot
and throttles and leaned back to light a cigarette, “That was a bit tight back there.”
“It was tighter than I’d ever seen it. There was no-way we could have aborted…”
“Yeah, well General Electric make excellent engines; they seldom quit.”
“If one of them had decided to take a dump back there, we wouldn’t be here talking
about it.”
We were assigned an initial cruising altitude of thirty-one thousand feet; but we had
to level off at twenty-eight thousand to burn-off fuel, lighten the load, and reduce the power168
demand on the engines. From thirty-one thousand the flight plan called for two-thousand foot
step-climbs to thirty-seven thousand as the plane burned fuel, becoming lighter. Due to our
over-weight we remained one segment behind the flight plan; when we were supposed to
climb to thirty-three, we made thirty-one, and so forth.
This meant we were burning much more fuel than was called for on the flight plan.
Our position report every forty-five minutes reflected this fuel burn; we were down one
thousand pounds, then five hundred, and again five hundred, and again five hundred. Our
great-circle course took us as far north as latitude seventy-five before we began a downward
curve towards Los Angeles. Both the engineer and I were concerned we would not have
enough fuel to make LA with legal reserve, but the captain wasn’t bothered in the least.
Approaching Edmonton I suggested we re-file for Spokane to fuel. “Dave, I’ve told
you before; we can’t do that without running out of duty time. The company would have to
hotel the passengers; that would cost a bundle.”
“We’re running low on fuel…”
“We’ve got plenty left – did you worry this much when you flew the DC-8s?”
Abeam Reno the engineer passed a note to me on my right side, away from the
captain’s eyes. It read, ‘I estimate we’ll be landing with less than seven thousand pounds
remaining.’ That was about thirty-five minutes to dry tanks, barely enough to make a missed
approach and do a Mayday to a ninety, two-seventy return to the airport.
“Captain, we can put into Oakland and to hell with the over-duty time, they (the
FAA) may not find out about it.”
“I’m not going to get a violation the last year of my career. Get the weather at LA.”
We were one hour out and scheduled to arrive at three in the afternoon, the beginning
of the rush-hour arrivals from the East Coast. “They’re reporting runways 2-5, one mile haze
and smoke, wind calm, expect an ILS.”
“Damned smog, well it’s okay we’ll get a straight-in approach from over Ontario.”
The guy was a nut; if we got any delay or hold we were screwed; there were 350
people back there and he was acting like it was a fun-flight in a light plane. If things truly
turned to shit, we could Mayday into Ontario, I dug out the instrument approach plates – just
in case. The engineer passed me a note saying that was why the other copilot went on sick
leave; the captain scared him.
We requested to remain at altitude as long as possible to conserve fuel. When
approach control finally insisted we start down, we were cleared straight-in with no delays.
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The ILS was perfect with none of the usual speed restrictions or delays Los Angeles was
famous for; somebody was definitely looking over our shoulder. The landing was normal and
there was no delay getting to the gate. The engineer told us we landed with fifty-eight
hundred pounds remaining; barely enough for a missed approach and a Mayday return. I was
a nervous, exhausted, wreck; I wanted no-more part of this captain, he was an accident
waiting to happen.
Our ground representative was all smiles, telling us how happy the passengers were
that we arrived, on-time. He announced we were ticketed to commercial to Denver where we
would crew-rest before flying back to Frankfurt, then ferrying to Paris for another LA return.
“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it? It looks like we’re going to have a good month for
overtime, I need the money.”
“Captain, we had less thirty-minutes of fuel remaining…”
“We made it, didn’t we? Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”
I didn’t know what to do; for-sure I didn’t want to fly with this guy again. If I
complained, I doubted anyone would take it seriously. They would take the attitude that I
was a captain reduced to copilot, so it was sour-grapes. Besides, he was a senior old warhorse and even-though I had over ten years seniority, I was looked on as one to the new
fellows. No, complaining would gain nothing.
Walking up the passage towards baggage claim area I spied the pay-phone. The
answer was simple; I put down my flight bag and dialed the eight-hundred number
connecting me to Crew Scheduling in New York.
“Scheduling, Sam speaking.”
“Hi Sam, this is Dave Case…”
“Yeah Dave, what do you want?”
“Sam, I quit.”
“What?”
“I quit – I don’t want to fly anymore.”
“Dave is this some kind of joke, you can’t do that. You’ve got to go to Denver…”
“No I don’t – I quit. Get someone else, tell ‘em I’m sick.”
“Dave, you can’t do this – you’ll get fired.”
“Sam listen; I quit – I don’t care.”
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“Where are you? Where can we reach you?”
“I’m in LA, at the terminal. I’m going home – goodbye.”
Bill Hobbs, the new chief pilot kept me on the seniority list for six months before
one-day I convinced him I really wasn’t going to return; I had turned a page in my life. ONA
ceased operations three months later, so I wouldn’t have missed much anyway.
That was it; the ballgame was over. I was forty-three years old, except for the time in
the Air Force I’d been more-or-less flying steadily since I was sixteen. My daughter had
grown-up without me, I’d spent less than a third of my married life with my wife, and I was
bone-tired. Fortunately, there were a few bucks in the bank, I had been writing articles for a
yachting magazine. I was putting the finishing touches on a twenty-nine foot sailboat we both
thought it a good idea to take little trip around the Pacific, to get to know each other. Our
daughter had graduated from high school and moved out on her own so, why not?
We sailed out the Golden Gate for Mexico and the South Pacific a year after I had
made my decision to quit. Quark, our little boat, carried us 14,000 miles in less than two
years; followed by a book, “Sailin’ South.”
I was to learn the ballgame wasn’t over; it was just the sixth inning stretch. There was
going to be another fifteen years of flying the world; the Fat Lady hadn’t sung, she’d just
cleared her throat. Is life good, or what?
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