“Navy 4-9-7-5-0, cleared for take off,” came the voice over the radio. The pilot responded, “Roger, 7-5-0.” With that throttles were thrust forward and as the props picked up r.p.m.s the C- 45 began to lurch against the brakes. Within seconds we were rolling down the runway of NAS Mayport. Surprisingly quickly, the bird loaded with fuel and four passengers and a crew of two lifted off. We had “wheels in the well” at 0700; right on schedule. It was Saturday, May 29…a long weekend. We circled and headed north.
LCDR Tim Grier, fuels officer in FDR, made it known in the
wardroom several weeks earlier that he was taking a training flight north to
central Pennsylvania over the Memorial Day weekend and was looking for
passengers. More importantly, he needed an observer to fly in the right seat.
Turns out the observer did not have to be flight qualified, but did have to be
an officer with an 1100 designator…eligible for command. It did not matter that
one of the passengers on the manifest was a supply commander headed for Athens,
Georgia. He did not fit the bill, nor did the other three, all chief petty
officers; one also headed to Athens and the other two to Philadelphia. Each was
beginning a week’s leave and would not be coming back with the plane on the
return trip. Tim needed an officer eligible for “command at sea” to fly up and back with him. Time was
getting close and he was feeling desperate or the trip would have to be
cancelled. Then, he asked me if I was interested in flying along…me, a
relatively new J.G. sporting an 1105 (albeit reserve) designator. I fit the
bill.
I reported aboard the Rosie 18 months earlier, a new Ensign
(then) fresh out of OCS and ten weeks at Damage Control School in Philly. Tim
and I had reported aboard about the same time and we crossed paths several
times in those first few days aboard, but being such a boot I kept to myself
and other JOs while I learned my way around the ship. I was also cautious in
the wardroom with all those gold and silver maple leaves flashing around. I was
especially cautious of officers sporting gold wings. I kept out of their
way….at first. But it didn’t take long for conversations at mealtime and in day-to-day
work situations to become familiar with others of higher rank, even those
working in other departments. After all, we would soon have six weeks at Gitmo
and a nine-month Med Cruise in common.
Tim knew I was from Pennsylvania, that I was recently
married and that my new wife was finishing up her senior year at college in
central PA. He had the feeling I might have some interest in taking a quick
trip north with him. He was right. That is how I found myself flying in the
right seat of a sweet, if not clunky, Navy Beech King Air that May morning.
The sound of the engines drowned out any chance to talk
legibly unless you wore a headset and talked into the boom mike. There wasn’t
much technically for me to do except keep my eyes peeled for sea gulls and
other flying objects in and around our flight path. I could do that.
After we were comfortably aloft, Tim got my attention and
pointed down to an open box of cigars on the deck of the aircraft between our
seats. “Swisher-sweets,” he said. “Help yourself. I don’t smoke ‘em, I chew ‘em
when I fly.” Wanting to look every bit the swashbuckler co-pilot, I dug in. Tim
was wearing his khaki uniform with leather flight jacket adorned with patches.
I, on the other hand, was wearing my khaki foul weather jacket with
“Engineering Dept. CVA-42” stenciled in black letters on the back. I felt as
though I was cast in a “Terry and the Pirates” movie. Life was good and we flew
on for about an hour.
Out of the blue, both engines began to sputter and the plane
nosed over. I quickly glanced at Tim and he had that “Aw shit” look on his
face. He made a few adjustments and threw a big toggle switch on the dashboard
in front of me. Over the headset he hollered, “There is a thing between our
seats that looks like a bicycle pump. Grab it and pump like hell.” I did what I
was told and in no time the plane’s engines began to sound normal and it
renewed its droning.
By this time Tim was laughing. And within seconds the supply
commander we were ferrying in back stuck his head through the curtains
separating the passenger compartment from the cockpit. “What the hell
happened,” he mouthed (you couldn’t hear him.) Tim smiled and gave him a
thumbs-up sign.
Over the headset Tim told me that the plane had two small
nose tanks, one on either side, which are typically burned off first to help
keep the plane trimmed. Well, he had forgotten to switch the tanks after about
45 minutes of flight and the fuel pump lost suction. The little pump that I
worked so hard at for those 10 or 15 seconds was the auxiliary fuel pump, which
got things going again after Tim realized the problem and switched tanks. I
could now join in the laughter.
We proceeded to land in Athens at the Navy Supply
headquarters and disembarked two passengers. We took off quickly and headed NE
towards Philly. “I bet the Commander won’t ever want to fly with me again,” he
laughed after we were again airborne. We chewed on a couple more sugar coated
cigars and by noon we were approaching our next stop, NAS Willow Grove. Tim
explained that we had to stop here for fuel and to re-file our flight plan for
Altoona. “Really,” he said, “We will land right in Tyrone. I have to file for a
larger airport since the strip at Tyrone, technically, isn’t long enough for
this airplane.” What? I wondered to myself. Now, I had every confidence in Tim.
My life was in his hands wasn’t it? He had explained to me back when we were
sealing the deal to make this trip that he had learned to fly in Tyrone when he
was a teenager. He knew the air currents and the mountains around there like
the back of his hand. But this was the first time that he had told me that this
Beech King Air might be a bit big for the runway there. Oh well what the heck,
I thought.
Tyrone is just about half way across Pennsylvania. It is nestled
in the Appalachian chain of mountains not far from State College where Penn
State is located and where I spent my four years in college. It was a paper
mill town and had a major (then) highway running through it. I had been through
there many times. Tim grew up there as a member of the Grier family that owned
and operated a private girls’ school. I had actually sung at Grier School with
the Penn State Glee Club four years before. Game for an adventure, my wife
agreed to meet me there for the weekend. She was coming east from Indiana, PA
about 60 miles away. We flew on.
When we got to the outskirts of Tyrone, Tim came on the
intercom and said, “We will buzz the school so they know we are coming. When
they hear the plane, they will drive over to the airstrip to pick us up.” He
went on, “The last time I buzzed this place I was in an F-3 Demon. I went
vertical, stroked the afterburner and got in trouble with the FAA,” laughing
with every word.
Now, at this part of the story, I am not sure what is true
and what he embellished. But I do know that as we saw the school off in the
distance Tim began a big descending circle. We flew lower and lower. Just then a loud buzzer sounded…loud
enough for me to hear it plainly above the noise of the engines. He pulled up. “That
was the ground clearance warning that goes off if you don’t have the gear
down,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. We headed for the runway on the edge
of town.
“I think our weight is going to be OK to get in here and get
stopped,” he said, again over the intercom. “If this gear is too mushy we may
bounce when we touch down. If that happens, we will head to Altoona. I’ll give
it one shot.” We lined up with the runway and headed down. “There’s my dad’s
car,” he shouted. From the other direction I could also see a familiar car
approaching the airport. It was my wife in my turquoise ’63 Fairlane. All we
had to do was land, which we did…no problem. As we taxied to the end of the
strip Tim added one quick rejoinder, “I hope we have enough wind tomorrow to take
off.” By this time I did not care. There was my wife of four months whom I had
not seen for at least 10 weeks sitting in the parking lot. I had my mind on
other things.
The visit went too quickly, of course, and it was time for
Navy 4-9-7-5-0 to return to Mayport. Tim taxied the twin Beech to the end of
the runway, ran up the engines and popped the brakes. We started down the
runway while I still had his words in the back of my mind: might we be too
heavy to get off? As it turned out we popped into the air about ¾ of the way
down the runway, over the trees and headed east toward Harrisburg and Bolling
Air Force Base where we would refuel.
From the banks of the Susquehanna River we headed to the
Atlantic Coast and straight south. Tim let me take the yoke for a period of
time while he stretched his legs. By 1600 we were landing at NAS Mayport and
taxied to the gate. Tim had called ahead for a car from the ship to meet us,
which seemed to be only a few hundred yards away.
When we came aboard the forward brow and reported our return
to the ship, the OOD, a wardroom friend, informed us that while we were gone
there was a disturbance in the Caribbean area and we were rounding up the crew
for an emergency get underway at high tide the next morning. “Mr. Lutz, they
are lighting off the boilers. The Chief Engineer called the Quarter Deck to
have us tell you on your return, that he wants you in Main Engines control at
once. You have the next watch.”
We were back and reality again set in. Oh well, it was fun
while it lasted.
No comments:
Post a Comment