by Zenon Garnett, Commercial Pilot Student
One of the constant challenges of living is that life seems to be constantly challenging us. It is an oxymoron akin to the idea that youth is wasted on the young. Life rarely affords us the opportunity to relish in our accomplishments before providing us with another hurdle to leap. Perhaps the secret to contentment is to find joy in life's various challenges, rather than striving so eagerly towards the goal that we collapse in a heap before we get there. I prefer to think my life will be more comparable to a long distance marathon than a 100m dash. Thus setting a pace and taking care of the details becomes more important than a mad scramble towards your goal only to find that the final reward is death.
The point I'm getting to (in a rather round about way) is that Piloting is the most challenging set of skills I have ever set out to master. Perhaps this is why it constantly manages to hold my attention and regard. I can remember when I first set about my flight training I overheard an instructor say to another student that a commercial pilots licence was really more like a “licence to learn”. At the time that seemed like the most terribly ridiculous and cruel thing to hear for a student who still had 200 hours and close to $40,000 worth of flight training to undergo. Surely a private pilots licence would make me a “pilot” right? Shouldn’t a commercial licence be the pinnacle of pilot learning? Yet in retrospect the simple statement that each respective licence is in fact a “licence to learn” seems to become truer and truer the more I become immersed in the subject matter. If I had to sum up my experience of learning aviation in only one unquotable sentence I would say that, “aviation is a complex series of difficult and different skills that all seem to make a lot more sense once you learn them.” Or maybe I'd just say it’s “really hard”. Perhaps this is why it has also been the most fulfilling, satisfying, and interesting thing I have ever done. Granted I don’t have children, I'm not married, and I've never even come close to winning an Olympic medal. But I’m confident to say that aviation—as a passion, hobby, and hopefully career—will continue to challenge me for the rest of my life. After all you can’t even get the biggest most prestigious “licence to learn” until you've got over 1500 hours of flight experience—the Airline Transport Pilot Licence!
In his book The Outliers, Malcom Gladwell contends that to become a master of any skill a person must be able to spend 10,000 hours practising and perfecting that skill. For the average person that means 10 to 20 years of dedication. Even Mozart, who started composing when he was 6, didn't start to produce is best work until his early 20’s. Which all leads me to one question, is that 10,000 hours Flight time or Air time? It probably doesn’t matter, I just want to enjoy the trip.
By Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 Squadron, RCAF
Killed in a mid-air collision
11 December 1941
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split cloud—and done a hundred thing
you have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
high in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
my eager craft through footless halls of air . . . .
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
where never lark nor even eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
the high untrespassed sanctity of space,
put out my hand, and touched the face of God
By Captain Ken Buchholtz
The weather briefing at the Burley FSS indicates VFR conditions along my route. “If you can get past some low cloud around Twin Falls you will be OK” --- so said the weather briefer. I set out on the first leg of the day – Burley Id. to Nampa, leg 2 to Ephrata Wa., then leg 3, home to Vernon BC.
As I fly past Twin Falls the weather isn’t bad at all. I’m relieved as this area is supposedly the only “bottleneck” and I’m looking forward to getting home. The ceiling has lowered a bit but is OK. I continue.
I’m a 19 year old commercial pilot returning from a vacation in Arizona, flying an aircraft a year older than me – a 1947 Cessna 120. It has an 85hp Continental with electrics and a primary panel with a Narco Omnigator. This “modern radio” has 5 transmitting crystals! To receive, you crank the tuning handle to find the correct frequency or you could receive on the VOR frequency!
The ceiling is getting lower and the visibility is reducing. Hmm – the briefer indicated conditions should improve. I continue, expecting the improvement up ahead. I’m following the hi-way toward Boise, watching closely for a railway that heads west toward Nampa. Good, there it is. I turn left and start following the railway. I’m now below 1000’ AGL. I continue, descending as the ceiling lowers and the forward visibility worsens. I’m wondering why the weather isn’t improving like my weather briefing indicated it would. (Ever hear of an upslope condition?) (ICE FOG!) I can’t be that far from Nampa? --- What’s a little weather? Flying in poor weather--- isn’t that the bush pilot legacy? I press on.
I continue to monitor the engine for any indications of carb ice, checking and applying carb heat regularly. I’m low now – and the visibility is poor. I slow the C-120 to allow more reaction time. I fly with the railway in sight out my left window, watching ahead for obstacles. Boy, this is getting to be hard work! As cold as it is outside, I seem to be rather warm – must be my layers of winter clothing.
I HAVE to be almost at Nampa!
I’m lower still. --- The visibility worse. --- Have to be real careful. --- Tall trees. --- I ease the C-120 up a bit for extra clearance. --- This is not good. --- I’m in trouble. ---- I’m flying at about 100 ft AGL --- have less than 1/2 mile visibility. --- Can’t turn around now --- no place to go. --- Not very smart!
I remembered someone saying “the only thing worse than being on the ground wishing you were in the air--- is being in the air wishing you were on the ground”
.
I want to land --- LAND! --- How am I going to find the airport? I’ve only been to Nampa once before and the weather was CAVU.
THINK!
I know --- I’ll fly to the town --- then fly ½ mile parallel tracks north and south. The airport is slightly north east of town with the hi-way to the north and the railway to the south.
(Have you ever found yourself remembering things you didn’t think you knew??)
I remembered the railway ran directly into the industrial area of town and there was a factory with a tall smoke stack. --- Careful --- I’m getting close. --- There ---
The smoke stack looms out of the ice fog.
I make my 180’ turn around the stack and position myself for the grid pattern I intend to fly.
Just then an “inner voice” says – “go this direction”. Curious - I follow, knowing I can always pickup the railway to the south again. “Now go this direction”. As I peer intently into the ice fog, a metal roofed barn comes dimly into view. I vaguely remember a similar looking building near the airport. I fly toward the barn.
YES! THERE!
It’s the tarmac turnabout at the runway button.
I turn, throttle back and land.
Relief floods over me.
I made it! Thank you Lord!
I don’t see the airport buildings until I reach the taxiway at midfield. The airport seems deserted as I taxi up to the pumps.
Then the “Gas Jockey”, a fellow a few years younger than me, approaches to help with the refuelling.
“You picked up a bit of ice” he says.
“Only a little” I reply: “I kept a close watch and applied carb heat regular” “No - on your wings” I turn and look. WHOA! There is clear ice all along the wing spreading back from the leading edge. I was so concerned about carb ice I never even thought about any other kind of ice!
We finish fuelling and tie the C-120 down. My flying is done for the day. So much for getting home, but I’m thankful I’m down safe.
I only have a gas credit card and $20 cash. (No such things as bank cards back then) I make arrangements with the gas jockey to spend the night in the hangar. It is COLD. I roll out my sleeping bag on the front seat of an old pickup truck parked in the hangar and, removing only my boots and winter coat, I crawl in.
I fall asleep thinking of my family, feeling very much alone.
--- It’s Christmas Eve---
When I wake I try to drink from my thermos only to find the contents had crystallized overnight from the cold. I make my way to the washroom hoping there would be hot water to wash and shave. There isn’t. Oh well, at least the cold water pipe didn’t freeze.
The weather is no better than the previous day. I won’t be flying any where. At noon I walk (trudge) towards town, feeling sorry for myself. It is my first Christmas alone, away from home and family. Finding a corner store open, I buy a quart of milk, a can of “Klick” sandwich meat, and a loaf of bread. Christmas dinner!
As I plod through the snow toward the airport a vehicle pulls up beside me. It’s the airport gas jockey. “Hi, you’re coming to our place for dinner” “No – Christmas is a Family time – thanks anyway”. I had been traveling a couple of days – slept in my clothes, was disheveled and feeling somewhat grubby, so didn’t’ really want to go with him. Yet - I longed for that family time. “My parents told me I wasn’t to come home without you” he explained. I get in the car. I feel even more uncomfortable when he tells me he has 3 sisters – 2 of them around my age. I mean – I’m grubby, embarrassed, feeling out of place.
His family welcomes me into their home, making me feel at ease. The Family is of European descent and the dinner is a fabulous multiple dish spread. They treat me as a Special Guest! Unknown to me, the father has already booked and paid for a motel room for me for the night.
Humbling.
The next morning the weather improves and I am able to continue my flight home.
Over the years, I’ve worked numerous Christmases away from my Family (it’s called “juniority”). I have told this story of warmth and kindness and giving, a countless times, around the world, to fellow crew members.
I would like to once again thank the Hansen Family of Nampa Idaho for sharing their “Spirit of Christmas” with me.
It was an unforgettable “Christmas of 1967”.
To all my Friends I would like to extend “best wishes” this Christmas season.
“I cannot imagine anyone looking at the sky and denying God.” --- Abraham Lincoln
"When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return." --- Leonardo da Vinci
by Sydney Preston
Be still thy soul, the Lord is here to guide thee.
Be not afraid whatever fears betide.
In all thy ways when dangers grave assail thee
Look to the Lord, He will provide.
Through all thy days when hand and heart do fail thee,
Be still thy soul, He will provide.
Be still thy soul, the Lord is here beside thee.
Be not dismayed, beneath his wings abide.
When griefs you bear , your friend is always near thee.
Look to the Lord, he will provide.
Reach out in prayer, the Lord will always hear thee.
Be still thy soul, He will provide.
by Bill Wickland, Co-pilot
I’m the Co-pilot, I sit on the right
I’m not important, just part of the flight
I never talk back lest I have regrets,
But I have to remember what the Pilot forgets.
I make out flight plans, study the weather,
Pull up the gear and stand by to feather,
Fill out the form and do the reporting,
Fly the old crate when the Pilots are courting.
I take the readings, adjust the power,
Handle the flaps and call the tower,
Find our position on the darkest of nights,
And do all the bookwork without any lights.
I call for my Pilot and buy him cokes,
I always laugh at his corny jokes,
And once in a while, when his landings are rusty,
I’m right on the spot with “Gawd, but it’s gusty!”
All in all I’m a general stooge,
As I sit on the right of the man I call “Scrooge.”
I guess you think that it’s past understanding,
But maybe, some day, he’ll give me a landing.
by Alan Hemingway
The Start of It All
As a young boy I became fascinated with flying.
When I pedaled on my bicycle to a large field on the edge of Middleton Park on the south east side of the town of Leeds, I had just turned 11 years of age and it was a beautiful warm June day. There was not a cloud to be seen in the sky and there had been nothing but talk at school about a flying circus that was coming to Middleton and for the sum of five shillings you could go up for a 20 minute flight.
On the following Saturday I pedaled my bicycle as fast as I could go out to Middleton Park. On the downhill stretches when I did not have to pedal, my hand kept wandering down to my pants pocket to make sure my five shillings was still there. As I got close to the park I could see an aircraft with two wings, one above the other, rise up over the trees, circle and then disappear behind the trees. My heart began to beat faster and I stood up on the pedals to make more speed. A few minutes later I was at the edge of the field looking at two de Haviland biplanes—they both had open cockpits. One of them was just taking off, bouncing up and down as it ran faster and faster across the grass. Then all of a sudden it parted company with the ground and was airborne. It climbed upwards, kind of lazily, and after a few minutes it made a turn to the left. In the meantime the second aircraft was taxing to takeoff.
I thought to myself, "This is for Me", so feeling down into my pocket I pulled out my five shillings to make sure it was still all there—it was.
I looked around at the crowd and spotting a school chum I pushed my bike over towards him. I begged him to look after it for me whilst I had a flight. He told me I was crazy, but I was already heading for the small line up of people waiting to take a flight.
The first aircraft was loading a passenger for another trip. I was able to look it over better now, it had two open air seats, and the pilot sat in the rear one and the passenger up front. A man was standing on the wing strapping the passenger in. The propeller had never stopped turning as the man got down off the wing and walked towards our line up.
He walked slowly down the line taking money and handing out tickets in return. When he got to me he looked me over and asked my age. I told him I had just had my 11th birthday. He then asked me whether my mom or dad were with me. I replied in the negative. The next second my dream to fly collapsed all around me as he said "I'm sorry son but without your parents permission we cannot take you up".
Dazed, I went over to my friend and retrieved my bicycle. I felt so sad I went away from the crowd and spent the next few hours just watching the two biplanes do their thing. That night I hardly slept because I could not get those two aircraft off my mind.
Two months later our family moved to another area of Leeds which was about five miles from Yeadon Airport. During the war years Yeadon was to become an assembly area for Lancaster bombers which were built in underground factories.
I soon discovered the shortest route to take, through the countryside, to get to Yeadon Airport. I would bike out there on a Sunday at least once a month, weather permitting. My favourite perch to watch the comings and goings of the aircraft was on top of a stone wall which was common in the north of England for fencing off one field from another
At this time Yeadon was only a grass field and aircraft took off and landed into the prevailing wind. My happiest time was when the wind was in my direction and the aircraft took off away from me and came in to land just over my head. A small plane commonly in use at this time was called the "Flying Flea". It was about the most skimpily built thing possible to fly. Everything was wide open and you could see the pilot’s legs and hands. and for that matter, his total body. It was as if he was sitting on a plank on edge which had a little bit of padding where he sat. On a fine day there were quite a few "Flying Fleas" coming and going. They sounded more like mad wasps than fleas when airborne. The odd "Rapid Dragon", a twin engine plane, would land and disgorge a few passengers. As yet, Yeadon had not become the main Leeds/Bradford Airport but to me it was next door to being in Heaven.
***
A Brief Account of his Flying Career
February, 1941 to Air Force Recruiting Center in Leeds to volunteer. (17 yrs 3 months old)
April, 1941 had medical in Leeds, passed medical. Put on Volunteer Reserve for Air Crew Training.
May, 1942 to Cardington Airport for medical —written and oral exams (three days} passed all exams —told me I would be called when system could absorb me. Joined Air Cadets.
May, 1942 told to report to Oval Cricket Grounds London.
June, 1942 to Ludlow in Shropshire —living under canvas.
July, 1942 Sgt. Harrop arrived to take us to Scarborough in Yorkshire for I.T.W. November wrote exams —passed. Due to bad weather could not progress to grading school. Took extended navigation course.
Late February, 1943 to Scone near Perth, Scotland to commence grading school at #11 EFTS on Tiger Moths.
June, 1943 sailed to New York on Queen Mary (five days) then to Moncton, NewBrunswick —Canada.
June, 18th by train to Assiniboia, Saskatchewan (three days) to #34 EFTS. Commenced flying Cornells on 27th June and soloed at 6 Hours 45 Minutes. Cornell Course lasted 75 Hours 15 Minutes.
August 23, 1943 by train to #11 SFTS Yorkton, Saskatchewan to commence flying on twin engine Cessna Cranes. Soloed at 6 Hours 40 Minutes.
December 10, 1943 completed course, awarded Pilots Wings. Cessna Crane Course lasted 160.00 Hours.
January 2, 1944 sent to #32 OTU. Pat Bay Airport, Vancouver Island.
January 19, 1944 commenced flying Beechcraft Expediter. Soloed at 5 hours 15 minutes.
February 2, 1944 commenced flying Dakota (DC3), soloed at 1 Hours 0 Minutes.
March 24, 1944 course completed. OTU Course lasted 97 hours 40 minutes as follows: Beechcraft Expediter, 367 hours, 10 minutes and DC3 (Dakota), 60 hours, 30 minutes
May 29, 1944 from Pembroke Dock in Wales flew in Sunderland flying boat to Calcutta India, arriving June 15
June 18, 1944 flew to Argartala on DC3 from 117 Squadron
June 19, 1944 flew to Sylhet in Assam on DC3.
June 21, 1944 commenced training for supply dropping on Dakotas with 117 Squadron.
January 29, 1945 completed tour. Being 504 hours and 15 minutes operational flying. Total of 132 sorties or missions as the Americans would say.
February 9, 1945 flew a plane to Alipore—Calcutta for overhaul then had a two week rest in Kashmir.
February 25, 1945 picked up an overhauled Dakota and flew it to Hathazari.
March 31, 1945 flew a Dakota to Dum Dum (Calcutta) Airport.
April 6, 1945 commenced glider towing at Bihta in Bihar State, India.
January 19, 1946 last flight in India
August, 1946 discharged from R.A.F and given six months leave
May, 1954 became a reserve instructor for the R.C.A.F.—flying Chipmunk aircraft located at Vancouver Airport. I acquired a commercial license endorsed with an instructor’s rating, instrument and night flying rating as well as the coveted DC3 endorsement.
***
Pilot Training in Canada
JUNE 1943
We were told to parade every morning including Saturdays and Sundays. On parade the following Thursday the Adjutant got up and said "you would be pilots are leaving for Southampton to go by boat for training in Rhodesia, South Africa". We were told to be back on parade by 10:30 A.M. ready to move out.
My kit bag only took five minutes to pack, another five to walk back to the Parade Ground. I sat on my kit bag, noting the time was 9:45 A.M. There were others just as eager to get out of A.C.R.C. By 10 A.M. just about everyone was there. We were clock watching, wishing the time would pass. 10:30 A.M. came and went, then 11 A.M. Everyone was getting fidgety and glancing in the direction of the gates looking for the buses which were to take us to the main railroad station in Manchester.
The Adjutant showed up at 11:15 A.M., climbed up onto the platform and made the following announcement: "Last night Southampton was bombed. The convoy that was to take you to South Africa was damaged including the ship you were to travel on. I regret to tell you that you are confined to camp, no phone calls allowed. In a few days you will be told where and when you are going. Meanwhile you are to parade everyday at 9 A.M. and 1 P.M." It was not until years later I realized this little speech would change the course my life was to take. I headed back to my quarters and padlocked my kit bag under bed number 5. This done I lay on the bed and tried to unwind.
The next day at 9 A.M. parade we were told once more to be back at the Parade Ground at 10:30 A.M. We did not rush to get back this time arriving there at 10:20 A.M. The buses were there; this time the Adjutant wished us Farewell and Good Luck. Not a word about where we were going or how we were going to get there. Our kit bags were stowed and we took our seats. The driver would only say we were going to the railway station in Manchester.
Boarding the train we headed north, changing at Carlisle on the Scottish border. The second train took us through Glasgow to Greenock where we disembarked in a siding overlooking the River Clyde. We marched down to a dock, boarded a lighter and headed out to a massive white and dirty gray colored ship anchored out in the stream. She bore no name but I knew from pictures I had seen in school that this was the famous Cunard Line Ship—"The Queen Mary". I also knew she ran between Great Britain and New York. As we grew close I was awed by the size of her.
Once on board we were assigned to our cabins, shown the dining room which had high ceilings supported by massive marble columns. We also toured the kitchen, bakery and laundry room. The size of everything was mind boggling. There were guns on the forward and rear decks. Radar discs on the top deck were already turning and smoke was beginning to increase out of the funnels. I thought to myself, `we must be leaving on the night tide' but where is our escort. The ship was almost devoid of troops. There were only about 300 R.A.F. personnel, plus the crew and gunners for the guns.
After dinner we were told to stay behind in the dining room. An Army Officer told us we would not be here on a holiday but would be given Guard Duty. He divulged we had 3,000 German and 2,000 Italian prisoners down in the hold of the ship. They would be allowed up in groups to eat and when out at sea would be allowed up on a closed off area of deck to exercise twice a day. The Italians were to be kept separate from the Germans and would eat and exercise at different times. From a list of names he called your name and your designated times for Guard Duty. I was put in charge of 20 men, given the 4 P.M. to midnight shift then given a 38 revolver and told to shoot any prisoner who gave trouble; no warnings to be given. I was also told not to wear my gun when mingling with prisoners while doing a head count. Also I was told there would be Army men with sub —machine guns close by, and if shooting starts get yourself down and stay down! We had no trouble throughout the whole voyage.
Some of the Germans could speak good English and asked me what ship were they on, I told them "The Queen Mary". To which they said, "Germany sunk her over a year ago". No words could convince them otherwise. They had been brought aboard in the black of night and therefore did not see the size of the ship.
I was right; we pulled up anchor at 10 P.M. and left on the night tide proceeding down the Clyde slowly escorted by tugs on each side. It was pitch black out, not a light to be seen anywhere. About midnight the engines worked their way up to full speed, this told me we had cleared the mouth of the Clyde. My guard shift being over I went to bed.
The next morning, after breakfast, I ventured on deck, there was nothing but sea all around us and the ship was zigzagging back and forth. Spotting one of the crew I asked him when we would be meeting our escort. He informed me the ship did 38 knots (44 M.P.H.) and did not need an escort. She was too fast for any submarines. He also told me we were well past the northern tip of Ireland. I was told it would take five days to reach New York because of the zigzagging.
About noon on the second day out the Italians were allowed up on deck in the exercise area. About 20 minutes later the forward deck guns and the stern guns fired off about 10 practice rounds each. The Italians though they were being rescued, threw their arms around each other and started shouting "Savior, Savior". When the guns stopped they were disappointed when the ship kept going full speed and there was nary a bird, let alone a rescue boat to be seen.
The Germans were next allowed on deck. They looked around the sea in every direction and were bewildered when no escort ships were to be seen. The size and speed of the Queen Mary overwhelmed them. I was walking amongst them—minus revolver—when a German who spoke fluent English said to me "This is the 'Queen Mary' and we are without escort". I said it was true. I could see he was having a hard time comprehending this because his government had told the German people the Queen Mary and the Queen Elizabeth had been sunk the year before. They had also been told Germany ruled the seas. To cheer him up I told him he had been fed nothing but propaganda. It did not help matters when a Sunderland Flying Boat appeared on the scene and stayed with us for the rest of the daylight hours.
On the third day out the weather turned for the worse. It was colder and we saw the odd iceberg. Rain came down in torrents. One of the ships crew informed me during the night we had changed course to the north and were then south of Greenland. That night about 10 P.M. we came to a dead stop. The engines and pumps stopped, we drifted for about two hours and then the engines started again and with a shudder she was under way. Later, one of the ships Officers told me that radar had picked up what appeared to be a surfaced submarine ahead. In the morning, at day break, a Catalina Flying Boat appeared and spent the rest of the day scouting the sea all around us.
Icebergs were still to be seen, and the next morning which was the start of the fifth day, the weather was warmer and we were in fog. I was told by a crew member we were only 300 miles off the mouth of the Hudson River and New York. At 2 P.M. in mild fog we stopped and waited for the Pilot Boat to bring out the Pilot who would take over the ship and pilot us up the Hudson to where we would dock. Because of the fog our progress was slow. We could faintly make out the Statue of Liberty on our left and soon after we were joined by half a dozen tugs which did a ballet around us before taking up positions to push us towards the dock. Their engines would snort like mad bees and then become quiet. Each tug pushed in turn to manoeuvre us to the side of the dock. Ropes were thrown and were tied to the dock. Two or three gang planks were put down.
Then our journey was over. We were not allowed ashore but spent many an hour looking over the scenery for the fog had lifted and the sun was out. At the dock immediately to the north lay the "Normandy" on her side. It was rumoured that she had been sabotaged, hence the heavily armed guards around the Queen Mary. At the dock, north of the Normandy, the Queen Elizabeth was tied up and, noting the smoke coming from her three smokestacks, I figured she would be leaving on the next high tide. In the morning she was gone and so were we!
***
A Strange Experience in Assiniboia, Saskatchewan . .
The cookhouse staff was Canadian and the majority of the girls who waited on the tables were French. One of the girls had black hair, good looks and spoke with a cute French accent. She took a shine to me and made conversation whenever she had a chance.
I asked her where she lived in Quebec and she told me she came from a farm in the far north. In winter her father had a trap line and most of the winter they had moose meat for dinner. Evidently wolves were quite predominant in winter.
Appearing at my table after dinner one evening, she produced some snapshots of the farm where she lived. The farmhouse was made of logs, smoke was coming off of the chimney and children were playing in the front yard. Upon closer scrutiny I could see a coffin, with the lid off, leaning against the wall close to the front door and the body lying within it was that of a bearded old man.
She must have seen the look of horror on my face for she quickly explained it stayed at—50°F for four months of the year and a grave could not be dug. The coffin lid was removed during the day so the children would remember granddad who was 90 years old. Each night the lid was nailed back on so the wolves couldn’t eat him.
She also told me that a gun was necessary when visiting the outhouse after dark. This reasoning made sense to me.
***
A Close Call
July 10, 1945 I flew 12 passengers to Allahabad, New Delhi and Cawnpore. When we were 20 miles out on our approach to New Delhi we ran into a sandstorm. I immediately called the New Delhi control tower and notified them we were inbound, as well as our altitude and location.
The tower told me we were the only aircraft in the vicinity of the airport, landing approach was into the west and to pick up the beam then land at my leisure. I bracketed the beam and started to let down towards the outer marker beacon. I no sooner thought I had the approach in hand when I looked out of the windshield to see a British Overseas Airways Corp. passenger plane bearing straight for us.
My reflexes reacted immediately; I chopped the throttles, at the same time putting the Dakota into a steep dive straight ahead. I would bet that we missed each other by no more than 20 feet. I levelled out, turned 180° to find the beam and start the approach all over again. While I was doing this I told my wireless operator to call the tower and ask him if they had anymore surprises in store for us. The tower came back to say their radar was not working.
I picked up my mike and told the tower to call the B.O.A.C. pilot and tell him we were two miles out on final approach. After we landed and parked I went to the control tower and had very strong words with them.
***
Alan was a pilot with 117 (RAF) Sqdn. flying D.C. 3's supplying the 14th army with it's needs as they pushed further into Burma. As 1945 dawned their activities increased and presented Allan with many interesting memories.
Jan. 2nd, 1945 Alan and his crew along with a 7,000 lb. load were headed for the west side of the Kaladan valley two miles north of Teinnyo. The DZ (drop zone) was close to the main road running north and south. His was one of ten aircraft, so they had a very large circuit to contend with, the drop taking almost an hour to do and with no fighter escort they did not enjoy spending this much time on a DZ. After the drop they headed north back to Hathazari. That flight took three hours.
The second load of the day was a split load destined for two different DZ's. It consisted of 7,400 lbs. of rations and gasoline. The gasoline was for the tanks at the second DZ. Both drop zones were in the Kaladan Valley, the first was at the 500 foot level on the west side of the valley, three miles north of Awrama village. A small jungle trail ran up the hillside and over the top. It was in a small clearing on this trail that they were to make the drop. The DZ was not hard to locate and Alan decided the best approach was north to south and then swing around into the east to approach again. This put them over the edge of the valley where it would be easier to put the aircraft down if anything went amiss.
This drop went off successfully and they turned north following the Kaladan River until they reached the village of Munhdaung. The valley narrowed to about eight miles wide at this point and as they swung into the west over Munhdaung, mortar shells started bursting all around them. It took Alan about two seconds to dive from 600 feet to about 100 feet! Their fighter escort moved in quickly and strafed the village while Alan flew about five miles to the west to the DZ. The recognition letters were out and the tanks were clearly visible blasting away at the enemy.
Flying wide circles around the DZ and studying the situation, it was apparent that the Japanese were in control of the ground situation. But once again the fighter aircraft appeared and began beating up the enemy ground positions. Moving his aircraft to a safer distance Alan had his navigator warn the "throw out" crew to do a maximum drop each time they could go over the DZ.
Shortly one of the fighter escort appeared and rocked his wings to signal that it was OK to attempt the drop. While the fighter planes continued to beat up the area the supply drops were made. As the gasoline packs hit the ground the ground troops busily retrieved them and it was obvious that the fuel was badly needed. In all it took ten runs to get rid of their load before Alan and his crew high tailed it back up the valleys and over the mountains to Hathazari
It was a 3 hour and 45 minute flight that according to Alan was "one of the more exciting ones"
***
Part 2 ——In my own words
Jan 15th. 1945, the army had taken Akyab and its airport during the night and we were headed down the coast bright and early with 4,200 lbs. of Red Cross supplies. We were the first aircraft to land at Akyab since it had been taken, and the Japanese were still lobbing mortar shells on to the field. The runway was still in one piece as we landed and quickly taxied to the unloading area as directed from the makeshift control tower. Upon stopping we ran for the comfort of a slit trench. The army took about 25 minutes to unload our aircraft and put six stretcher casualties and 10 walking casualties on board. Our crew ran to the aircraft and I started the engines and taxied to the end of the runway for takeoff. As we got close to the end of the runway the control tower called and said we should hold position until an American DC3 landed.
We held, and as tile American touched down a mortar shell hit the plane towards its tail. The aircraft stopped about half way down the runway. The crew scrambled out and ran like hell to put as much room as possible between themselves and the aircraft. The next minute the plane blew up shooting flames 200 feet into the air.
More mortar shells began to explode close to the runway as I taxied out and lined up on the runway centerline. The guy in the control tower screamed over the radio "You're crazy, you'll never make it”. With part flaps down, I stood on the brakes, brought the engines up to full power, and released the brakes .We rolled forward like a bullet out of a gun. I coaxed the aircraft into the air turning ever so slightly to the west. We passed over the right side of the burning aircraft at about 400 feet and could feel the intense heat inside our own aircraft.
Up came the wheels, then the flaps. As we turned north over the sea we could see the burning aircraft and four or five aircraft circling the airfield trying to figure out how to get down. We followed the coast north for about 120 miles and landed at Cox’s Bazaar. We were to pick up five passengers and take them to Chittagong, where we were taking the wounded. We arrived without incident, unloaded, took off and fifteen minutes later were back at Hathazari. Flying time 3 hours and 15 minutes.
One night in mid —January I was told to attend a special briefing and to bring only my navigator with me. At the briefing there was only the CO, an army liaison Captain, my navigator and me. We were shown a location on a map approximately five miles northwest of the village of Kaboing, which lay on a small river that fed into the Chindwin to the east. Our cargo was to be 7,000 pounds of pure silver Rupees especially minted for the purpose of rewarding local tribal people for spying on the Japanese. On the receiving end of the drop would be a Captain Stewart who had been born to missionaries in Burma and could speak various tribal languages. He had a small detachment of soldiers with him and they had spent months behind the Japanese lines. We were told that the villages in the valley was infested with enemy troops.
Upon hearing this I suggested some dummy bundles with parachutes attached be put on board so we could occasionally break away from the true DZ and drop the dummies at various points in the valley to distract the Japanese into thinking that there was more than one contingent of the army in the valley. The Liaison officer thought this was a good idea and he would attend to it.
The next morning we were up at 5:30 AM and after a quick breakfast we drove out to the aircraft. On climbing aboard we found a Lieutenant Colonel sitting on top of the cargo. I asked him who he was and what he was doing here, to which he replied, "the name is Grimm and I'm here to make sure you bastards do not steal any of this cargo”. He was nursing a submachine gun on his lap and had the brains to bring along a parachute. I invited him into the cockpit but he refused. I told him of our non smoking rule and why. He said he did not smoke.
Ten minutes later we were airborne and swung around onto an easterly course. I told my navigator I wanted a course to take us about 50 miles north of Gangaw in case the Japanese still had any Zeros at the Gangaw airport. A direct route to the DZ would take us within 5 miles of Gangaw and would have been too risky and asking for trouble. It was a bright clear day and as we climbed to 8,000 feet to clear the mountains we could see the valleys below still covered with fog.
After flying at 8000 feet for 25 minutes, I began a slow let —down to 4000 feet and started flying east through one valley to the next , staying as low as possible when passing over a village in case it was occupied by the Japanese. This way we would be well past them before any guns could be trained on the aircraft. After just over an hour of flying we came to the valley at the south end of which lay the Gangaw airport. We were 50 miles north of Gangaw and our course took us over the village of Sihaung Ashe, which lay on the west side of the Myittha River as it wended its way north up the valley then east to join the Chindwin river. The valley was only 10 miles wide at our crossing point and we were across in three minutes and heading into a valley through the next mountain range. Seven minutes later, clinging close to the mountainside I turned south into the valley where the DZ was located.
Flying south for 20 minutes brought us to the area where the DZ was supposed to be. We flew circles in the area looking for a small hole in the jungle which Captain Stewart and his men had created during the night to make a drop zone. After much zigzagging back and forth we located the target. I quickly looked around the area for points of identification so we could quickly return to the DZ when we left to do dummy drops around the valley. To the south, a small river took a sharp turn to the northeast and I chose this as an identification point. The jungle clearing that formed the DZ was only about 150 feet by 150 feet. Flying over it once more to verify the identification letters, I swung around to start the drop. There was not a soul to be seen on the ground and with such a small target we could only drop a couple of bundles on each run.
After three drops we headed up the valley about ten miles and made a dummy drop. Heading back to the real DZ we came too close to a village and some puffs of smoke coming up towards us indicated that someone did not like us being there. Fortunately we were not hit. Back at the DZ we dropped another six bundles into the clearing, then headed east about five miles for another dummy drop. This time we stayed close to the ground and away from any village. Then back to the DZ. Rupees being heavy, it did not take many bundles to make a 7000 pound load. This time we dropped the rest of the load.
When this was done I chose two more places to do dummy drops and then headed for the protection of the mountains in the northwest. I instructed the crew to keep a sharp outlook for Zeros because the Japanese knew we were in the valley and had possibly alerted their air force of our presence. We passed from one valley to the next and climbed to 8000 feet to negotiate the next mountain range. Clinging to the mountainside we had reached 7000 feet when I saw what appeared to be three Zeros about 10 miles away heading in our direction.
Knowing that at the speed they would be traveling, they would be on us within two minutes I did a steep diving turn, heading for the valley bottom at the same time telling the crew to keep an eye on the Zeros. Seeing a small valley heading west I turned into it. It was exceptionally narrow so I quickly took off some speed so that we could negotiate the turns in the valley. The adrenaline flowed and I and I could feel the perspiration building up at my belt line. Six or seven minutes passed and nothing happened so I came to the conclusion that we had not been seen. The narrow valley led us into another valley heading northwest. Climbing to 7000 feet we cleared the ridge at the end of the valley. A quick scan of the sky told me we had not been spotted by the Zeros and they must have gone hunting elsewhere.
And now it was all downhill as mountain slopes gave way to flat land and rice paddies. We landed at Hathazari having a flight time of 3 hours and 50 minutes.
We bid farewell to Lieutenant Colonel Grimm as crews began loading the aircraft with cargo for our next flight.
****
A very strange follow up to this story:
On June 2nd. I did a flight to Calcutta and stayed overnight at the Grand Hotel. My navigator spent the evening at one of the missionary temples and my wireless operator —Scotty —decided to do some shopping. After dinner I wandered into the bar to see if anyone I knew might happen to be there. There was not, so I sat on a stool at the bar and ordered a Tom Collins. Later when I was halfway through my second drink I noticed an Army Captain enter the bar. He came towards where I sat and I noticed he walked like a cat – always on edge, nervous, head on a swivel as though watching for the unexpected. I thought to myself "This one must be fresh out of the Burmese jungle". He sat down next to me and ordered a double "scotch on the rocks”. We struck up a conversation and upon noticing my pilot's wings and Burma Star ribbon on my uniform, he said, "What squadron are you with?" I told him I had just finished a tour with 117 Squadron. With a hollow kind of a laugh he said "One of your boys went to one hell of a lot of trouble a few months ago to do a special drop to me in the jungle and it was all a wasted effort ." I studied him for a couple of minutes and said "You must be Burma Stewart". He had a long sip of his drink before replying. "How the hell do you know me ?" I told him that I was the pilot who had dropped the silver Rupees and asked him if they had picked them up to pay off the natives. He ordered another round of drinks and then proceeded to tell me what had happened that day.
They had chopped the hole in the jungle during the night and then withdrew to a small hill about a mile away to watch the drop. He said it was a magnificent sight to watch us doing our stuff to put the money in the hole. Talk about "money from Heaven". When the drop was finished they decided to come down to the drop and pick up the money. Suddenly they heard machine gun fire nearby and they soon realized the valley was swarming with Japanese. They decided to forget about the money as the risk was too great. All week they had been having close calls with Jap patrols and they were getting quite nervous. About 20 minutes later three Zeros appeared on the scene and that clinched it. They climbed all day and all night until they reached the floor of the next valley. A couple of days later they were picked up by a flight of L5 aircraft landing on a dried up rice paddy.
I just about choked on my drink . “You mean to say the money is still there?" "Yes" he replied "and you and I are the ones who know where it is because Colonel Grimm was killed about three weeks ago while out on a jungle patrol". We made a pact right then and there to come back after the war and get the money. We finished our drinks and I bade Stewart "goodnight and good luck".
I have not heard of Stewart since the chance meeting. I often wake up at night and think about all that money lying in the jungle. With the heat and dampness, the parachutes and packs would have rotted long ago. The jungle growth would have closed the hole within a year or two. On occasion I still think of going back to see if I could locate the money. But then I think of those Naga tribesmen still chopping off heads—and I would like to hold on to mine fur a while longer!
***
Final memories of flying his beloved D.C.3 with the R.A.F. in Burma and India.
January 16, 1946. I took D.C.3—KJ900 up for a 25—minute air test and the next day flew it to Jodhpur taking 4 hours 50 minutes whereupon I bid this aircraft farewell. We stayed in Jodhpur for two days, and then on January 19th flew D.C.3—KJ874 to New Delhi.
To my regret, this was the last time I flew with the Royal Air force.
The next two and a half months I spent at Patna, playing tennis, reading and studying my correspondence courses. Life had become extremely boring until early in April I was told to report with my crew to Bombay.
We traveled to Bombay by train and on arrival I was told we were to fly a Beechcraft twin —engine Expeditor to Germany. I became alive again and, with my navigator, began to plan the route we would fly. We were due to leave on the following Monday but, alas, on the Saturday I came down once more with malaria and was taken in a coma to military hospital.
Two weeks later and still weak after the malarial bout, I was released from hospital. Then I received the bad news. There were no more aircraft to fly to Europe. I left three days later for England on the Capetown Castle. After spending the next 18 days at sea and only being used to traveling great distances by air in a few hours, I was bored stiff and began to think the journey would never end.
Subsequently I was discharged from the R.A.F. and on the November 11, I set sail for Canada, arriving in Halifax on November 18, 1946
My discharge from the Royal Air Force took place at Uxbridge on the outskirts of London. I was told I was Class "A" Reserve and would be one of the first to be recalled if they needed me. I was given six months leave with full pay, told I could return to the R.A.F. within the six —month time frame if I did not like being a civilian.
I was offered a short term commission for five years at my present rank which meant at the age of 28 —1/2 years, the Air Force could dispense with my services and no hope of enough time in the R.A.F. to qualify for a pension. My reply was that I might consider a permanent commission but this was turned down.
In 1954 I became a reserve instructor in the Royal Canadian Air Force flying out of Vancouver Airport. The aircraft I flew was the de Haviland Chipmunk, a small two—seat, fully aerobatic aircraft. After hours spent flying the D.C.3, the Chipmunk felt like a toy in my hands. Anyway it was lots of fun doing aerobatics again and I was soon to receive my commercial license with an endorsement that I was qualified to fly a D.C.3. This endorsement I kept on my pilot's license until the year of 1994 when, due to ill health I voluntarily gave up my license.
For a number of years I flew for pleasure in a twin—engine Piper Apache, a single—engine Grumman American and a single—engine Cessna 172. But, alas, they were not the beloved D.C.3, with which I had such a long romance.
And a parting word:
She was part of me and I was part of her, and together we became as one. When I demanded the almost impossible of her she never murmured.
And when I pushed the envelope close to the edge—she would let me know it was time to ease off just a little.
D.C.3., wherever you are now, I would like to tell you my love for you is still as strong as ever. I thank you for letting me be one of your pilots.
Alan Hemingway. For further information on Burma Veterans, see The Burna Star.
From Flight Instructor to Air Canada in Five years
I walked into the Langley Flying School at the end of 1997—you know that feeling—sometimes you just walk in and feel at home at a place. Well, it became my home for me and my dog Otis for the next few years—Dave Parry taught me my Instructor Rating, and with this my outlook on flying changed. Dave’s enthusiasm was very contagious and I truly enjoyed instructing—I have always loved flying and I found that my true love for flying, given the right tools, was easily translated to my students. I lucked out in my timing as well, because the Senior Instructor at the time, Sheldon Pohl (now at WestJet), pretty soon spread his wings, and his departure made me a very busy instructor very quickly. I have countless and unforgettable moments from this period—the many First Solo Flights I supervised, the trips for the famous Chilliwack pie, and I especially remember getting stranded in a foggy Abbotsford with Tom Larkin (now Flight Instructor)—man, did we have a good laugh. I continued flight instruction until 2002; the aviation industry was very slow back then, but there was a time when I realized it was time to seek new horizons.
I ended up working at Canadian Western Airlines (CWA) out of Vancouver, where I flew nice scheduled flights from Vancouver to Vancouver Island and the Queen Charlotte Island, as well as inland B.C. Over time, I worked my way from a Cessna 401 First Officer to Chief Pilot of Part 703 flight operations, flying the turboprop Fairchild Metroliner. It meant long days with hard work. The learning curve was steep and unforgiving. Unfortunately I learned more about the toughness of the business and the company went belly up despite our hard work.
After CWA I joined Voyageur Airways (North Bay), and the steep learning curve continued. At Voyageur, I started as a First Officer on the King Air and ended as a Captain on the Dash-7. During this time, I flew medivac flights all over eastern Canada, all day and all night. Hot summer days, super cold winter nights waaaay up north. I also flew charters all over North America, including all kinds of government ministers and our current Prime Minister Harper. Perhaps the most exciting flying I did with Voyageur was my chance to fly the world’s largest survey machine—the Dash-7-EM; this meant riding the radar altimeter over terrain maintaining a constant 200’ AGL, within a tolerance of 50 meters up/down and left/right—failure to do so would ruin the data—hey this is much less than one dot on an ILS approach. My flying life entailed living in mining camps all over the North, well past the tree line.
If I thought flying Dash-7-EM over Canada at 200’ AGL was exciting, you wouldn’t believe my experiences flying in Africa. In total, I did two tours for the United Nations on the Dash-7, flying troops in and out of hot zones— how can I begin to explain. Controllers trying to send us down to 8000’ through 14000’ mountains—just the tip of the iceberg of the problems of flying in Africa, and contrary to popular belief, clear blue skies do not prevail over the desert and in the central rain forests of Africa. Instead, there is high terrain, extreme thunderstorms, extreme heat, unfriendly airspace—let me just say, you become much more then a pilot working in Africa where you can experience anything you can imagine.
While the flying has been great, I must say that the toughest part for me was being away from home for two months at a time. In this past year I’ve missed every birthday, Christmas, New-Years, Easter, anniversaries, Canada day—I was actually home for my own birthday once, but got called out 15 minutes past midnight on a medivac flight. Needless to say, it has not been glamorous for my dear wife, Tara, and our two young kids, Conner and Evalyne—in my view, they are the ones that truly deserve my move to Air Canada—far more so then me.
For those of you who are getting started in professional flying, it is important to know that getting to where I am now—looking forward to my prospects with Air Canada—comes with serious commitment and some serious sacrifices—more than just unloading 3500 lbs. of cargo at plus 40° C temperatures, with just two of you in white shirts—more than removing a 75 lb. battery from a King Air in the dark, in minus 45° C temperatures (wind chill of -65° C) to ensure your engines will start when the ambulance arrives and the severely injured patient will survive the medivac transfer for medical care—or more than planning your meals around the 10 bucks you have left to live off for the rest of the week. The secret to my success—no doubt—is that I have enjoyed every step of the way and learned from my mistakes. I never had to hop into an aircraft and didn’t like flying it. You still can’t wipe the smirk off my face when I pop out of a cloud, on top into the sunshine or on the bottom lined up with a runway. Some experiences can’t be bought.
Yet, do I have any regrets? No way! I would do it all over again because—as all professional pilots know—it is the absolute best job in the world. The flying bug is in your blood and you can’t help it. I still want to open the cockpit door and tell my passengers: “Can you believe I’m getting paid for this?!!”
Keep up the fight for YOUR dreams.
Nick van Empel,
Air Canada
The Old Guy from the West Side
By Lloyd Anderson Brooks
Into my office he walked quite ordinarily, envelope in hand. “I got this letter from Transport,” he said, “and I thought you could help.” He was an old guy from the West-side Hangars, and Transport Canada wanted a practical hearing test. “Not a problem,” I said, “just a quick flight out of the zone and back.” He was different, I thought—he wasn’t nervous, his voice was calm and purposeful, and he had a certain familiarity in his eyes—clearly, he was not a foreigner to a flight school. Normally, guys who walk in are just a little uneasy, appearing somewhat awkward, and hesitant. This guy, perhaps in his seventies, was perfectly comfortable; he clearly knew what a flying school is and what a flight instructor does.
Our conversation was brief and efficient. We discussed the process—the exercises and the report. At one point he asked what airplane we would use. “Well,” I asked, “what do you fly?” “Oh, well, I got a homebuilt on the west side,” he said. “That’ll be fine,” I said. We booked the appointment for the next week, and I told him to just taxi over. He smiled—“That’s good, see you then.”
It was blue in colour, and at first appeared quite plain. It was when we climbed in that I first became aware of the details—a combination of wood and tin, perfect cut and fit, and perfectly varnished to expose the grain. The paint on the panel was detailed, tightly housing the instruments, all polished with dedication and care. Clearly, this aircraft had been the object of love over many, many years.
We sorted out the intercom and he brought the engine to life—she purred for him. We talked as we taxied. He was a flight instructor during the war. His brief description was shrouded with modesty—something that perhaps came naturally with his age. But I knew instantly the real meaning of his achievement—he had led his generation into the air in preparation for the greatest struggle of the 20th Century, trying in suppress terror and instil confidence so as to pass on the skills required to survive in a hostile sky. As the engine roared and the prop pulled the airframe gracefully into the air—above the traffic below, above the trees—he transitioned agelessly into the familiar world that he has known for perhaps fifty-odd years. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his eyes, and the love they expressed for this launch, with the earth falling away as it has so many times in his past. He was a master of the stick and pedals, connected as one by his left hand to the airframe, with gentleness and precision. As he guided the ship up and away, I thought of the thousands of takeoffs he must have done in his life, of the days when he, as a young man, prepared his students for the peril ahead. Surely he must have known that many of his students would not survive the conflict overseas; he must have known that he had precious little time to expose them to the hazardous corners of flight—let alone the more ominous risks of combative flying.
When it was over, he managed to keep his licence—there was never any doubt that he was a master pilot. Later, when I periodically saw him takeoff or land, I would pause and reflect—for me, he was a hero from a whole generation packed with heroic men and women. Then, only two or three years later, he departed the airport for the last time, never to return. He and his beautiful flying machine went missing. His friends did all they could, organizing search flights when the weather cleared, but it was no use. He was gone. When I got the news, I remember gazing out onto the quiet runway shrouded in the soft light of a winter afternoon, pondering his achievements during his lifetime of flying—his leading of his generation into the air, at a time when all had to be brave.
South American Flying Adventure
By Hans Sturn
By Ryan van Haren
I just took some time to read Tim's story about the path he has taken to the right seat of a Beechcraft 1900D.
I have known Tim since we both started at Langley Flying School at about the same time, and I have to say that Tim has
worked very hard to get where he is today and has earned every minute of his flight time.
Just like Tim, many of us have worked ground positions in order to earn a place in the airplane. Reading Tim's
story made me reflect on how flying can be something that can come full circle in a very profound way. Let me
explain!
Langley Flying School is like a family, people come and go but at the end of the day everybody knows where
home is. I began my training about 8 years ago around the same time as Tim Sawatzky, Ryan Gahan, Cullen
Worth, Sean Larkin, Feras Aboulhsn, Ben Orlowski and Ed Hugget. At that time we were all students who didn't
really know much about each other. But over the past 8 years all of these individuals as well as myself have grown
as pilots and as individuals and I would be comfortable saying that in some small way each person has had an
influence on the others. This is what a family is, it is being able to know who you can count on and knowing
that even after someone has passed on that they are still in the collective memory of the family unit. This is what
Langley Flying School is to me.
As we worked our way into whatever airplane we are currently flying for a living, at some point many of us worked together on the ramp throwing bags or endured -30° snowstorms while shovelling a desolate ramp. But all this hard work pays off and it all comes full circle. I realized this back in December when I arrived in the Maldives and low and behold my new roommate, co-worker, and former instructor, Dave Woollam, was waiting for me at the airport.
This experience made me appreciate my LFS family.
In closing, I am excited to be starting a new job in Vancouver where I know that the familiar voices of Tim, Sean, Ryan, Ben and occasionally Feras will be heard on the radio on arrival and departure from Vancouver International.
Hearing all these familiar voices will remind every one of us where we came from and where our individual goals will take us, with the comfort of knowing that your LFS family may be in a different airplane but they are still flying in the same sky.
A Pilot's Journey—From Student to First Officer
By Tim Sawatzky
I first walked through the doors of Langley Flying School in September, 2000 in order to attend the Private Pilot groundschool. Four months and three training flights later, I was finished the groundschool and broke, so my training had to go on hold until I graduated high school. A year later, I again attended the groundschool and started my flight training on Sept 10, 2001, one day before aviation would change forever.
I soloed in December and by August, 2002 I had my private pilot licence. It took me eleven months to complete because I was determined to pay for flying as I went—not easy on a minimum wage job. Also during those eleven months I landed a job on the ramp at Vancouver International Airport with Jet Eagle Transfer out of the South Terminal. This proved invaluable, not only for meeting other aviation professionals, but also getting to work around big shiny aircraft everyday.
In September, 2002, I took off a year to be a part of a Church-based leadership program, and by September, 2003, I was back in the cockpit with former Flight Instructor Dave Wollam (now a Twin Otter Captain) on our way to Mexico and back for a time-building adventure. That November I made a career-changing decision when I joined Central Mountain Air as a ramp agent at the main terminal, YVR. This job allowed me to work around even bigger aircraft and more excitement, but more importantly I began networking within the company and working hard towards landing a flying job.
By November, 2004, I had my commercial pilot licence, and had completed Langley Flying School’s Multi-Crew SOP course with Captain Gordon Wilson, which provided a valuable learning transition towards multi-crew operations. In the spring of 2005 I completed my multi-engine rating and initial IFR, as well as another time-building solo trip to Manitoba and back. One month later I wrote the IATRA exam to qualify myself as a second crew member, and began collecting reference letters from captains at work to push for a pilot interview.
On September 14, 2005 I flew to Smithers, BC for a pilot interview and joined CMA’s Low Time Pilot Pool, a seniority-based program to allow hard working, low time pilots a chance to jump start their flying career in a multi-turbine aircraft as a First Officer. Sixteen months and many cold, rainy days on the ramp later, I was sitting in an initial groundschool for the Beechcraft 1900D. In February 2007 I was flight trained on the aircraft, which gave me seven hours to handle the aircraft for an entire IFR renewal and PPC ride, complete with V1 (decision speed) engine failures. Despite the steep learning curve and pressure, I made the cut and began line-indoctrination in March, which was 50 hours of on the job training. Upon completion of line-indoc I received a permanent first officer’s line based out of YVR, where I currently am enjoying every day I get to go to work.
Commanding the controls of a 17,000 lb.airplane as we streak down the runway at over 200 km/h towards V1 is so exhilarating. So is cruising at FL 250 over top of the weather, grounding at speed over 300 knots. And there is nothing like setting down the mains and pulling the props into full reverse, feeling your body hang forward in the harness as the aircraft decelerates.
The road I chose to get to a flying career is one of many. The only thing common about all of them is the requirement for a passion for flying, and a willingness to work hard to get there. I worked for over five years on the ramp before I wore a pilot uniform to work. But looking back, I would do it all again. As I work towards my career goal as a captain on a jet aircraft, I know the best is yet to come, but so far the journey has been a very exciting and rewarding one. A special thanks to my Flight Instructor Dave Woollam for helping me pursue my dream.
By Brian Worth
We settled at altitude and were suspended, at twilight, as if on glass, with no sense of
motion. The brilliant red horizon muted to orange, which melted to soft yellow; then green before darkening overhead through blue to purple and finally to black strewn with
glistening points of stars and planets. Venus, strong and brilliant on the western horizon,
beckoned us on and a full moon, low to the south, bathed our wings and propeller arcs
with a soft white light.
We had emerged from the maelstrom of an Arctic blizzard and the four engines droned in
the background. Everyone’s ‘house keeping chores’ were complete. The controllers were
satisfied, command had been notified, our navigator was comfortable within his skin and
Red, the flight engineer, was assured that all systems aboard were operating within
parameters. Our routine was set.
“Some classical music on radio two,” whispered the navigator and the Blue Danube
Waltz flooded my headset. For a minute I was transported; in another world, and then a
thought. I unplugged the autopilot, applied gentle backpressure on the yolk and let go.
The aircraft’s nose rose slowly above the horizon, the speed bled off, lift on the wing
decreased, the nose fell gently below the horizon, speed built up, lift increased and the
nose arced slowly to the stars. There we were, cradled in a sinuous wave, on a
palette of colour, adrift on the sensuous Blue Danube.
No one spoke.
By Brian Worth
So far it had gone well, I had completed 3 touch-and-go’s and five traps and was holding
in the Delta. The radio crackles in my helmet, ’Signal Charlie!’ Our authority to enter the
landing pattern on the carrier.
‘Tail hook down,’ I order as the four aircraft departed the Delta descending to 500 feet
flying parallel to the ship, offset slightly to starboard, aircraft clean as the formation
slowed to 110 knots. We were number two. Sneaked a quick peek at the ship steaming
into wind with 35 knot of wind over the deck. Clear blue sky with a few white caps.
Ideal! Still awfully damn small.
The bow disappears behind my left engine nacelle as ‘Lead’ breaks left, start the timing-
15 seconds
‘Okay, break now,’ prompts Jack.
Forty-five degrees of bank through ninety degrees then ease to thirty, gear and flaps
down, mixture rich, emergency hatches open. Descend to 350 feet, speed 95 knots,
aircraft trimmed hands-off. Roll out on reverse course. The ship is now steaming towards
me on the left. All set up.
“Shit, she’s comin’ fast!’
‘Yup, 35 knots wind up your ass,’ says Jack, ‘you’ll have to start your turn after your
wing goes past the island or you’ll be too long on final. Got ‘nother guy on
yer ass 15 seconds back. They’ll wave you off if you’re too long in the groove.
‘Start yer turn now!’
Twenty degrees of bank, level turn, pitch full fine.
“Landing check complete, “ assures Jack as he turns off the anti-collision lights.
Check speed, coming back to 90 knots. Reference that with Safe Flight Indicator on my
glare-shield in front of my eyes. Crosschecks okay so forget the airspeed, fly the SFI.
Look for ‘The Meatball’.
‘Lookin’ good, little tight maybe, ease up the turn slightly, get across the wake, eh,’ Jack
coaches.
I shift my ass in the seat and shake my throttle hand to loosen it. Don’t squeeze the
throttles. Nerves!
Speed 93 knots, too high, raise the nose and trim off the pressure. There, a solid 90 knots,
‘Lookin’ good!’ I assured myself, ‘Okay, Boy Wonder, now keep ‘er comin’.’
‘Got the ball, Jack!’ Shows on glide path, speeds good, now look for the line-up.
Jack is on the radio,“ 95, props, ball, Worth, 95”
“Roger Ball,” crackles Paddles.
Good, across the wake, rolling out of the turn right in the groove. Nailed line up, twenty
seconds to touchdown.
Ball’s going a little low; add power, not too much, back on glide path. Meatball’s sliding
a tad high, ease off the power. Stabilize, stabilize…
Drifting a little left, not much, there, caught it!
Wham! Hit the deck!
Full power! Ahh, the arrester gear shudders us to a halt.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Can’t see anything outside my windscreens but ocean.
I’ve hooked the sixth and last arrestor wire a little to the left of the centre line and now
clearly realized why it was called ‘the ‘Jesus Christ’ Wire’!’
‘Power off, power off!’ Jack yells.
‘Oh, yeah.’
Jack brings the flaps up, starts the wings folding. Hook was still down though, have to
use it and the arrestor wire to pull us back far enough from the deck edge to allow a turn
to clear the landing area.
Pulled back, doesn’t seem far enough!
‘Hook up!’ Hard right brake, full power, look for the marshaller, crossed the safety line.
‘Wham!’ the aircraft behind us thunders onto the deck, engines roar to full power
then abruptly back to idle.
Flight Deck Chief directs us up to parking in the bow. Give us the signal to
cut the engines. Mixture idle cut-off, magneto switches off, dress number 1 prop.
It’s never silent on a carrier but I enjoy about 5 seconds of solitude as the ship
gently pitches and rolls, a hint of salt spray drifts down through the open overhead hatch.
It hadn’t been pretty but now at last I can call myself a carrier pilot.
Jack snaps me out of my reverie,‘C’mon, let’s get our asses to de-briefing.’
Content:
That Licence to Learn, by Zenon Garnett
High Flight, by Gillespie Magee
A Christmas Story, by Captain Ken Buchholtz
Be Still Thy Soul, by Sydney Preston
I'm the Co-pilot, by Bill Wickland
"Love of Flying", by Alan Hemmingway
From Flight Instructor to Air Canada in Five years, by Nick van Empel
The Old Guy from the West Side, by Lloyd Anderson Brooks
South American Flying Adventure, by Hans Sturn
Flying Full Circle, by Ryan Van Haren
A Pilot's Journey—From Student to First Officer, by Tim Sawatzky