In
the late ‘50’s, early ‘60’s, flying
up around 35,000 feet or so was a lonely experience. The
traffic was virtually all military and there wasn’t
a lot of that.
Not many airliners up there either.
Commercial jet service in 1959 had American Airlines with
just a few 707’s; Delta had around 6 jet Convair
880’s and United’s jet fleet consisted of a
few Convair DC-8’s. That was just about it.
So, if you were a hot young fighter pilot out there at night,
you were all alone. You would file a flight plan with ‘base
ops’, light up and blasted off. Climbing through 24,000
you’d contact the closest center and give them your
call sign; simply your branch of service and the last three
of your tail number. En route you’d report your altitude
and time over station, the name of your next VOR and fuel
remaining. If your speed varied more than 10 knots you would
inform them of that also. Beyond those few contacts, and
considering you were using UHF rather than VHF radios, you
might fly coast to coast and just about never hear anyone
else's radio transmissions. It was you with your thoughts.
Alone. Uninterrupted. Unbothered. And I was ‘unbothered’ a
lot.
The
Air Force had just put me out of a job by grounding all
the ‘86’s. For the moment I found myself assigned
to Base Flight at Robbins AFB near Macon Georgia. They
had 5 T-33’s there, and with me, only 5 “T” bird
pilots. That seemed great on the surface, but back then
the Air Force dictated how many hours you were required
to put on your fleet and that requirement was a bit onerous
for the 5 guys tasked to fly those hours off every month.
Air
Force didn’t seem to care how the birds were
utilized, just so the time got flown off. The point is
that I virtually owned my own “T” bird. Wherever
and whenever I felt like going, I went. There was a girl
in LA I was seeing a lot of, and they knew me by name at
Greenblatts Delicatessen on Sunset; Pizzeria Uno in Chicago
was a regular haunt of mine, and the Red Ceder Lounge in
Wichita had the best ham sandwich in the country. For
a magical 18 months in the early ‘60’s I had
nothing to do but put time on those birds.
I
was the only bachelor in that group of 5 and there was no
way the other pilots could be away from home, just “putting
time” on the birds, as much as I. So it didn’t
come as a complete surprise when word had came down to deliver
one of the T-33’s to Davis Montham AFB in Arizona.
The Boneyard. Finished. Grounded. Any airplane’s worst
nightmare. And I would deliver her.
Maintenance
of course picked the bird with the highest time, which just
happened to be the most trouble free of them all, and subsequently,
the one I had flown the most. As pilots, we generally ignore
the rational intellects view of inert objects. We tend to
see aircraft as less a collection of parts and more as a
dynamic being – each aircraft exerting its own active
influence upon us; every airplane possessing its own enigmatic
life; each aircraft seemingly alive. The sense we develop
for each aircraft may be good, or it may be bad. In this
case it was good, and filing the flight plan that afternoon,
I realized I wasn’t thrilled to make the trip.
Preflighting
the bird, I felt a sadness akin to that of sitting with an
old dog who’s grown old without us. But when we blasted
off into the dusk she headed for the stratosphere just as
eagerly as ever. Though I might be returning there thousands
of times in the years to come, not so this old girl. It would
be one stop for fuel at Carswell AFB outside Dallas, then
on to Tucson.
The
sun had already set as we crossed into Alabama and it was
one of those cold, clear nights when you can see forever.
The distance to the horizon from 35000 feet is well over
200 miles, so the lights of Jackson Mississippi were already
in sight as I called center, reporting over the VOR at Montgomery. “Montgomery
Center, Air Force 698, Montgomery at 25, 350, Shreveport
at 15 with an hour 30 on board”. Maybe they’d
come back with “rodger 698”, maybe they wouldn’t.
To balanced the stick and the flight planning with no autopilot
you’d jot down the time and fuel remaining on a little
pad strapped to your leg, then compare the new numbers to
those on your flight plan and look for discrepancies. A time
difference might alert you to the possibility of stronger
winds while a variance in fuel remaining would get you thinking
about an engine problem or a possible fuel leak. Satisfied
everything is going well, we continue on, crossing the Mississippi
near Jackson.
Satisfied everything is going well, we continue on, crossing the Mississippi
near Jackson.
I
smoked in those days. That little zipper pocket up on the
left arm of your flight suit was just big enough to hold
a pack of Luckies and a Zippo. There was something special
about the aroma of cigarette smoke mingling with the scent
of the rubber from your Ox mask and I’m on my second
Lucky as the moon’s reflection causes the Mississippi
to light up off to our right.
I can see Greenville AFB
about hundred miles up the river where I had finished up
my pilot training. I’m still thinking of my days
as a cadet when the lights of Dallas come into sight and
it’s
time to start down. The evening is passing quickly now
and I am aware this will be her last landing before Davis
Montham. Contacting the tower I call Carswell in sight
and with no other traffic in the area, we’re given
landing instructions while still fifty miles out. We touch
down as smoothly as I can and taxi to transient parking.
They begin refueling the bird and I’m off to Ops
to file for DM. “Headed for the bone yard is she” quips
the Airman behind the counter as he reviews my flight plan. “Yes” I
reply, and add that it seems a shame.
Snacking
on Coke and Clark bars from the vending machines, the parallels
of this old bird’s flying career and mine play on
my mind. It had only been 12 years since she’d rolled
out of Lockheed. Originally fitted with a pair of machine
guns in her nose, she had been pressed into service for
gunnery practice, then later converted back to pure training
configuration to spend her remaining years in support of
the Air Material Command. I trusted my flying career would
last considerably longer.
Back out on the flight line I
find her all gassed up and ready to go. 700 miles to DM
and it will be all be. It’s her last preflight and
I do a thorough job, trying to remember all the points
of the long ago discarded checklist. Tip tanks secure;
gun bay doors locked, pins out, freedom of controls. You
learn the checks as a rhythm of movement around the aircraft
and eventually the points become ingrained. If you skip
one your nervous system alerts you with a twinge. The checks
around the cockpit follow a similar pattern. Throttle,
master, ignition, light off. The need to follow the laminated
sheets of a checklist had passed years before.
The Airman
pulls the chocks and waves us off and rather than issuing
a string of taxi instructions the Tower just cleared us
to take off. It’s nearly midnight and the moon lights
up the cockpit as we turn on to the active. Rolling down
this 12,000 feet of concrete I remembered that it had hosted
B-24’s during WW ll, and now B-52’s and B-58’s.
Carswell was named for Army Air Corp Major Horace Carswell,
who, returning from a mission during WW ll, discovered
one of his crew members parachutes had been destroyed by
the same flak which had crippled his bomber. Major Carswell
remained at the controls in a failed attempt to land them
both safely. His family accepted the Medal Of Honor as
a grateful nation sought to make amends.
A
right turn now puts us on course as we again clime to 35,000.
The sky is clear all the way and the lights of El Paso
are already in sight. It’s the early ‘60’s,
and number one on the “Hit Parade” is the
classic western ballad “El Paso” wherein Marty
Robbins laments the hapless misfortunes of a cowboy lover. “Out
in the West Texas town of El Paso, I fell in love with
a Mexican girl” he sang. But it would all end badly
for the cowboy “on hill outside ‘Rosa’s
Cantina’. Now up over the VOR just outside El Paso
I key the mike and report “Air Force 698, on the
hill overlooking Rosa’s Canteena at 27, 350, DM with
an hour plus” “Rog Air Force. We got cha” comes
the reply from center. Things were a little less strict
in those days.
Catching the little South Western corner
of New Mexico it’s already time to start down. Less
than an hour or so now and it’s all over for her;
then rest.
Tucson is in sight as I cancel out with center
and call the tower at DM. Descending to the traffic pattern
I report that “This bird will be retiring”,
and imagine the words knifing through her.
One of the instructors
in my pilot training class had been Lieutenant “Dirty
boy” Katrier. He used to do something I have emulated
many times over the years and still love to do today. He
would come down final, call for a go around and a closed
traffic pattern, then suck up the gear, get fast and low
down to the runway, perform a sharp right and left turn
to ‘clear’ the runway, then at the far end
of the runway at over 200 knots, he would pull straight
up toward pattern altitude, then nearly over on his back,
roll out on downwind. It was an aerobatic maneuver for
sure but no one has ever called me on it. It just looked
fantastic and I’ve done it a hundred times now in
everything I’ve flown from the 104 to my Pitts. “Shining
your ass” is the vernacular.
So, fat on fuel, and
reluctant to end this birds last flight, I do a number
of those ‘closed traffic patterns’, getting
fast and clearing the runway with really sharp, low turns;
pulling hard straight up to pattern altitude and rolling
smartly over on downwind. It’s dark and the runway
lights are sharp and clear; the lights of the cockpit are
low, just enough light to see the airspeed; then, on steep
final, doing all over again. Finally I resign us both to
a touch down and full stop. The little bit of aerobatics
are exhilarating, and as we taxi off near the end of the
runway I feel OK with this bird. She’s given her
best and I have tried to appreciate it. It was a great
ride. But now it’s over and you’re both well
satisfied. She’s going to the barn and it’s
OK.
The
tower directs “nice show Air force, follow that taxiway
to the gate.” A long taxiway takes us to a wide gate
entering the highway which runs along side the base. A
little truck with a big ‘Follow Me’ sign is
there waiting, and as we approach, he drives out on to
the road.
Now, just like the dream we’ve all had,
I find myself taxing down a highway. A few yards later
we turn across the road into another gate and are stopped
next to a guard shack. That’s it. Shut down, un-strap
and head to the ‘Follow Me’ for a ride to the ‘Q’.
Look back? Sure.
It’s just an airplane standing there,
but for the moment, it’s goodnight to an old friend.
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