Page #6 Tales of an Old Aviator...The Big Chill

Post by **avcanada** » Fri Feb 20, 2004 3:06 pm

Author Tales of an Old Aviator...The Big Chill
Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-08-15 18:12
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Did you blokes think old Duke croaked ?

Well I just did chemo #9 of twelve ....

Just before the chemo I got a call from my mate down at Lake Chelan in Washington State.
He has two Hiller turbine helicopters and a Sickorsky 58 (piston powered)... shit its big.
He made me fly it for thirty minutes...
Story coming up ...
But tonight the missus and I are going out on the piss .....

Shit life's good.

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fotoflyer

Joined: May 05, 2003
Posts: 131 Posted: 2003-08-15 18:26
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Thankfully there is at least one really great thread on this forum - everytime I see the 'tales of an old aviator' pop up again it makes my day.
Good to see you living life to the full; enjoy your piss!
FF

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-08-16 15:02
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It was to be just another day of formation spraying.. It was normal to be awakened before dawn and stumble for breakfast. That is the way it happened in camp. I was not in camp.

I was in the closest cheap motel with the tower radio operator.
I was awakened by the distant growl of TBM Avengers taking off. Shit! The first team was getting airborne and I was AWOL... And I was the leader of Brandy Team too. I screeched off to the base in the rental car and skidded to a halt in front of a group of anxious pilots and engineers.

I was, at that moment, as popular as a pork chop in a synagogue.

I grabbed the leather jacket off one engineer and boots off another and clambered up into the cockpit of the Avenger which had already been warmed up while they tried to reveal my whereabouts.. I quickly learned that my radio didn't work so I motioned to #2 to take the lead and I would formate as #2. He got the message and taxiied into the pits for a load of poison.

Now here was the procedure which was tried and proven over the years. We would carry full wing tanks and about fifty gallons in the belly tank. We would take off on the left wing tank and fly to the block where, upon lining up the two Cessnas on the line, we would then at the command of the leader switch tanks to right wing so that we didn't have to worry about fuel for the next hour at fifty feet. Here I was taxiing into position of #2 ... No radio.

I had gotten used to being the leader where I navigated to the block at 170knots and maybe five hundred feet. We stayed low so we could more easily see the pointer aircraft against the sky. The other guys stayed in formation.

Now I struggled with keeping perfect formation because if you didn't, the #3 position became more difficult to fly. I watched the leaders spray nozzles as this would be my cue to turn my booms on. I noticed we were slightly descending to fifty feet and throttling back to spray speed....
Perfect... I am holding position well...I glance over my shoulder at #3 and get the thumbs up.

Down the line .. Booms on and we are spraying.. After a few lines I was really comfortable as #2. The turns at the end of the line required that we change sides in order to avoid drift caused by wind. Also, the steep turn had to be above the leaders slipstream....... Those who ventured there, perished. This required that you pay attention. And pay attention I did.. I was pulling hard to stay close to the leader.. my helmet heavy with the g forces. I am about to slide into position when the engine quit dead .. A couple of gulps and DEAD. ... I rolled the wings level and fumbled for the fuel lever and boost pump ... TOO LATE! ... Speed decreasing fast ... 50 feet...I poke the nose towards the trees when a winding road appears .. I poked it under some power lines and crashed heavilly onto the road wheels up. The impact drove me forward into my harness as the banshee tearing, screeching sound of 17,000 lbs of TBM hurtled down the road on its keel, reminding me of the missed radio call : "Brandy team, right wing tank GO"

The rudder was useless now as the TBM veered left and took out a wooden power pole, which tore the wingtip off and slowed the airplane down and it lurched drunkenly to a stop in a ditch with the prop blades neatly curled up around the huge cowl.

It was only eight seconds ago that I had a job.

The other two teammates circled lazilly above to make sure I was OK. I waved them off .. I wanted to be alone.

I walked to a nearby farm house ... On the way I kicked horse turds.

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Cat Driver

Joined: Feb 15, 2003
Posts: 1194 Posted: 2003-08-16 17:45
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Hey Duke:

You forgot to tell us what the guy you spent the night with in the Motel thought.

CD

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Skytruck

Joined: Jun 07, 2003
Posts: 32
From: yyj
Posted: 2003-08-17 23:50
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Stay well man

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co-joe

Joined: Jun 12, 2003
Posts: 893
From: a town by the lake
Posted: 2003-08-18 20:36
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Ahhhh kicking road apples. Oh the fond memories...

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DIK & DOG

Joined: Apr 06, 2003
Posts: 3 Posted: 2003-08-18 23:53
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#1 was in 64. A course ahead of me doing a solo low level nav in a T-33. Full military funeral in his home town. Slow march and all the pomp had a tremendous impression on us all and drove home the reality of the business. #2, a few months later, was my very initial C-120 instructor who hit power lines crop spraying. Never did keep a record but the number is always too high.

My better half also shares good memories of "Eric" and his father in Moose Winooski's back in 98. She too wishes you all the best Duke.

[ This Message was edited by: DIK & DOG on 2003-08-18 23:56 ]

[ This Message was edited by: DIK & DOG on 2003-08-18 23:57 ]

[ This Message was edited by: DIK & DOG on 2003-08-19 00:03 ]

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-08-25 16:51
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It was time to go Walkabout.

The old lady and I needed space and a mate of mine came to the rescue.

"Jump in ya car and come down to Brewster WA and fly my S58 helicopter to Chelan WA, about thirty minutes away" says The Reverend Baker.
He got that name after a court case where he pulled out the bible and went into a rant.... I think he was trying to plead insanity.
Anyhow, I put the top down in the Allente and headed to the border armed with my Aussie Passport and Immigrant papers. Every immigrant has to have a visa now ... except Aussies... we are on a waiver... war in Iraq I 'spose.
"Welcome to our country," says the border chap.
Four hours up over the Washington Pass and through to the US Okanagen... and Brewster.
Cherry season ... Mexicans everywhere .. and bloody hot too.
The S58 is an intimidating machine with the cockpit way up high under the rotors. There must be room for fifteen in the cabin I guess. On wheels too... I had never taxiied a helicopter on wheels before but I climbed up the toe hold steps into the cockpit with the reverend. He started the big Wright 1820 radial. Well hell!, that scared the sh*t outta me with all the whirring and clangin and grunting she belched into life and sat thumping away as more cylinders kicked in. She idled like nine Harleys.
MMMMMmmmmm. Wright 1820... I have had four engine failures on the 1820 ... and here I am riding only one.
Oh well! No guts, no glory. The rotors slowly turned.. verry slowly till she warmed up and the clutch is engaged. She rocks gently from side to side and with the sliding windows open an inrush of hot exhaust air mixes with the hot Chelan air ... I sweat as I peer at the gauges. We taxy out like a drunken sailor and, after checking mags we lift off. Tons of power as she snarls away and I am surprised how light the controls are.
We cruised above the orchards at abou 120 knots and now there was no hurry. An eight hour drive for thirty minutes in a chopper classic ... worth every minute.
We approaced a small landing area in the middle of an orchard ... you see the contract calls for a helicopter to be on standby to blow water off cherries after a rain storm. (Rain causes uneven cooling as they dry and they split)
I was surprised that, upon lowering the collective, it didn't want to come down fast like smaller helicopters. But it did manage to give me a chill one more time... on short final and entering translation, it shudders like a dog just out of the river.... I thought it was "settling with power" which is similar to plummeting. Not good.
But it turns out that is a quirk of the '58.
In the bar with all my helicopter friends I drive them nuts with my thirty minutes of fame stretched out like it was two hours... they usually tell me to "Piss off"!
A few jugs of beer has a promise of the next test flight in a Bell 214..... Three thousand ponies.... straight up I wanna go.
Except there is a vertical airspeed restriction... true!!! It goes up so fast it can blow out the top eyebrow windows.
True!!!!!

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-09-17 17:33
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I was awakened by dread.
I dreaded the thought of facing the firing squad again .... chemo #11 of twelve.
A chemical carpet bombing ...I hope I am still around when they perfect some form of precision bombing for cancer.
Reprieve .... aaaah!
The doc phoned and said my white blood cells didn't recover enough from the last chemo... another week off. Heavenly!
It must have been all that sailing, fishing, crabbing on the yacht with the Missus and the grandkids .... beer, wine and a godess of a wife.
Fourteen crabs in one set ... threw back the females ... downed eight.

I have found a way to enrich my life based not on longevity, but on inspiration.

And it is this that I will share with my fellow aviators.

The Genuine Draft is soaking in .... fingers poised above the key board......

More to follow ....

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Cat Driver

Joined: Feb 15, 2003
Posts: 1194 Posted: 2003-09-17 17:45
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Duke, don't forget to come over to finish your flying lessons before you croak.

Hang in there mate and all the best.

.

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-09-17 19:32
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I was heading for Baimuru, on the South coast of Papua New Guinea. I was out of Goroka, in the highlands. Goroka was paradise for sure .... The Bena Bena River ran close by as it meandered down the valley which was 5000 feet above sea level.
Even the airport was beautiful as the wild tropical highland flowers bathed us in a sweet scent.
Ninety percent of the population still wore traditional dress ... arse grass skirts, bone in the nose and carrying spears and bows. Strange arrows though.... no flights on the shaft.. But holy mackerel, they sure went straight.
Baimuru, on the other hand, lacked the beauty but certainly had a perverse charm.
More on that later.
I fly out of the valley towards Karimui, an airstrip carved into the side of a volcano ... very familiar to me ...I buy coffee there and stock the trade store.
The mountain range ahead jags up to ten thousand feet so I stoke the Cessna 182 and get a measily nineteen inches of boost.,.. I have to make it through the pass.
The load is light .... some fresh bread and vegies for the owners of the "hotel"
Fresh bread ... sure smells nice ...I rip into the bag and feast.
The weather is always nice here ... up until two PM every day that is ...and then the massive cumulous clouds boil upwards... up to fifty thousand .. the passes become clogged and you are pooched.
AAAAHHH! The warm sun in the cockpit ... fresh air vent howling... fresh bread.
Through the pass and the thick jungle slopes plummet down onto the the jewel of Papua...Lake Kutubu... a plateau a couple of thousand feet above sea level. Then jagged limestone pinnicles stab upward through the jungle... menacing sight.
The Continental drones away... Thank God!
Descending now towards the flat South coast.
Shit! An overcast ahead ... better duck under.I wander off heading as I dodge rags hanging in the last of the hills. Low, I fly now... sometimes heavy rain... looks lighter over there, so I go over there. Three, maybe four hundred feet... forty five minutes to go, a green inpenetrable canopy. Any rivers that would be an aid to navigation are overgrown with canopy ... nothing... I am alone.
There are natives down there ... somewhere .
They would be running through the jungle, scuffing up their feet ...killing supper.
Crocidiles everywhere down there.. in the many swamps buzzing with mosquitos.
The wild beauty offers little solace.... the Continental drones on.....
Around a few more heavy rain showers...sometimes East... sometimes West.
I am heading for a dot on the coast ...poor vis..nose pressed up against the glass.
Anxious ... that's what I am. Up ahead ... the coast .. whew! I have the coast.
Upon arrival at the coast, there is no Baimuru .
Do I turn left or right... back over the swamps, did I favour left of course ... or right..Dunno!
I turn right and fly East.... searching.
Decision time... fuel .. how much? Fifteen minutes East means retracing flightpath and then maybe fifteen minutes West. Thirty minutes more to what? A maybe ... maybe Baimuru ... maybe not.
A cold chill in the hot, steamy cockpit.
I look down at my chances in the swampy, croc infested jungle.
I will never make this mistake again.
On future flights, I swear I will make a POSITIVE ERROR and intentionally fly either too far East , or West ... it doesn't matter.
At least when I get to the coast I will know which way to turn.
POSITIVE ERROR!
But then you young'uns have GPS ... and they never fail.
The Continental droned on.

I found Baimuru , luckilly... on the fourth sweep... back and forth.

Now the adventure really starts.

More to follow.....

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-09-28 15:40
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I am awakening my postings ... or as I should say, salvaging it from the archives .
For you Boomer.... enjoy.

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-10-01 17:28
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The airstrip at Baimuru had a bog at one end, then a hump and a bog at the other end. I had to taxi to the only dry part on the road connecting the airstrip to the hotel .... on the banks of the river. The airplane couldn't be parked under a tree, they were too low ... a steamy green carpet ... hot ...oppresive.

Yet I was always happy to land there.

I had just flown one and a half hours over some of the most inhospitable landscape on the planet ... in a Cessna 182.
And it was downhill. Goroka was a mile above sea level, then up through the cloud choked pass at ten thousand feet then cruise descending to Lake Kutubu and down onto the flat, tangled delta jungle. Here the rivers slithered out from under the jungle canopy and fattened out into wide meandering rivers teaming with fish , snakes and crocodiles. Reddish brown in colour, these rivers met the coast in a sea of mud.
They came by the hundreds. An oily black sea of natives squeeling as they ran towards the airplane ... and the prop stopped just in time. Hundreds of pearly white smiles as wide as the Baimuru river against the black background .. wide eyed .. clear eyed.
Even so, half were sick. Malaria , dysentry, berri-berri.
Thin, hobbling... most running. Their tight, curly hair formed orbs around the happy faces.
The Kindam approached. Kindam , in their language meant crab.
He was a white chap. He was a survivor of polio and his left hand was clawlike and he walked sideways with a limp.
The only other white person was Mutt and they were partners in the hotel on the muddy banks of the Baimuru.
But the people never came .... not one.Ever.
A few of the picininnis were light colored so obviosly Mutt and the crab enjoyed some horizontal refreshment.
These were sick but peaceful people. Only two rivers over is the mighty Fly River system. Only two years prior to my being here, cannibalism was against the law . It was these Fly River tribesmen that had eaten Rockerfeller, the rich American adventurer.
From a distance, the hotel looked inviting. Palm trees , lots of green grass ... and upriver, the grass huts.
We walk closer, kids jostling for a chance to see the sky God who flew the Balus.
There were no windows. The holes for the windows were all different sizes. It was hand built using cement and chicken wire then drowned in white paint. The plastering job on the outside looked like it was done by a drunk, one armed painter with the crabs.
It did meet the approval of the spiders, bats and snakes.
We went into the crab's office .. or living quarters .. or workshop ..what ever it was .. it fulfilled many roles.
The porters laid down the fresh bread and veggies I had brought and were shooed away by Mutt shouting "Raus .. Raus"
"Fred should be here with the barge in the morning." I was told. I shiverd in the sweaty stinking heat. "Shit!" thinks I. I hope they don't ask me to stay.
"Crikey! That means you'll be staying the night" offers Mutt. He motioned to the slab attatched to the wall upon which was a World War One matress covered with a mystery substance .. that moved!
"Fred says he has heaps of Barramundi for you .. heaps. And skins too." They were excited as to the prospect of a healthy commission.
I explained that the croc skins would have to wait. I couldn't have them onboard with the fish. I had made that mistake before. But the cooks at the high end Bird of Paradise Hotel , tucked away in the highlands had passed off my fish as some sort of croc wafted Barra Delight.
The crab had already dragged his bum leg off in the direction towards the grass huts in order to procure tonights entertainment.
It did not look good.

[ This Message was edited by: Duke Elegant on 2003-10-01 17:36 ]

[ This Message was edited by: Duke Elegant on 2003-10-01 17:37 ]

[ This Message was edited by: Duke Elegant on 2003-10-01 17:38 ]

[ This Message was edited by: Duke Elegant on 2003-10-01 17:39 ]

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-10-01 20:39
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I had to figure a way to flee.

A vignette played in my mind ... The Crab, Mutt and I , lathered in sweat, writhing and pounding away with three emaciated jungle princesses to the tune of their only eight track ..... another nightmare ... Frank Sinatra.

My khaki shirt hung heavilly with sweat as we negotiated the terms of a refrigeration storage fee for the tons of fish that would be shuttled to the highland resorts until their freezers were full and then I had to scheme a load of something else.
Luckilly, this time I had about four loads of croc skins to be flown to the North coast of New Guinea. Here's how it works.

Fred, an unknown Swiss wierdo had a barge with four big outboards that plied the delta area for fish, crabs and crocs. He towed three punts behind, each with an outboard, that were used after dark for croc hunting. Three in a boat they would go along the banks with a huge spotlight ... into the darkest of dark you can imagine. The eyes light up like two flashlights ... but you don't have a clue how big it is. On the south coast, there is a size limit and I think it was thirty inches across the tender belly .. armour to armour. On the North coast, there was no limit. Perfect for a businessman like myself.
How did you know how big he is? You don't .. they all look the same in the sights.
Fred caught Barrimundi in nets. He would get really pissed off when a sawshark would get caught in the net and the beast thrashed about with the huge saw and ruined his net. He would bring them close to the surface and shoot them with a 303 and cast them adrift. Later, I experimented with selling the shark meat to the native fish shops that were identified by the swirling balls of flies.
On landing in Goroka, the ATC would often say, "Clear to land, flies are moderate today."
I excused myself from the negotiations to clear my mind. Flee ... I have to flee. I walked to the bank of the river surrounded by thirty coy, giggling children all dashing hithertoo.

I couldn't believe the good fortune that burst upon my predicament.

[ This Message was edited by: Duke Elegant on 2003-10-02 15:23 ]

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Maverick

Joined: Oct 11, 2002
Posts: 41
From: CYVK and/or CYYC
Posted: 2003-10-02 00:02
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Duke,

Whenever I come on this board and see your posts, I read them no matter what I am doing......damm homework...oh well!

Hope everthing is going well and that you stull have some time to go sailing!

-check your PM's
_________________
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The Liberal Party is a bunch of Deratives of Acceleration. So there. I want to scare ppl on the path at the end of 13 in CAH3.

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Cowboy McLoskey

Joined: Sep 24, 2003
Posts: 128 Posted: 2003-10-02 14:51
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Duke,

I just happened upon your wonderfull stories and was glued to this thing till I read them all. You really should write a book. Think of all the flighties you could get with the bucks you'd get from that!!

You defineatly have the gift of being able to put your stories in writing and I'm sure that there are many more to come. I'll be looking forward to seeing them.

I wish you the best and hope all things work out for you.

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-10-02 16:20
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I looked downstream, towards the sea that, in the distance, shimmered in the dank humidity. I walked past the posts upon which the huge sawsharks were bled prior to filleting. If this wasn't done correctly the product stunk of ammonia and spoiled any other cargo aboard. A pile of croc skins soaked in formaldahide and some were rolled up ready for the market on the North Coast.
I saw a shimmering shape rounding the point ... couldn't be! Gadzooks! It was ... it was Fred on the barge and he was a day early. I immediately started playing stupid games with the kids ... I was outa here!
But wait ... my mind flashed back to the 10,000 foot pass ... It was after 1400hrs. The cumulous would be starting to plug all the holes ... you could usually watch the tops boiling upwards into the blue. Then at 1600hrs , the 50,000 foot monsters would drop their guts in tropical downpours. We were usually breasted up to the bar at this point as flying was usually over for the day.
I had to weigh the safety issue . If I got to the pass late and I had to come back, it would be dark. Black is black in the tropics and Baimuru was hard enough to find in the daytime.
I made the safest choice ... I would go flying ... the alternative was frightening.... Frank Sinatra , the Crab , Mutt ... I wasn't prepared to pay that price.
It took an hour for the barge to motor upstream and soon it docked with an accompanying merriment hithertoo unimagined. The nine boys on the barge waved frantically at their equally boistrious family ashore.
A tall, gaunt scary figure towered and glowered over all around ... Fred. Dressed in jungle fatigues, thick heavilly rimmed glasses and army boots, he barked orders in pidgin, a language that I still can speak today. He said nothing to me. He never did.
The Crab came down and we inspected the hold. Four thousand pounds of whole Barramundi. And maybe four loads of croc skins. A weeks flying at least. A full load (delete "load" .. insert "overload" ) was quickly portered to the Cessna parked on the track and packed in with a tribesman holding up the tail till I climbed in .The nearest weigh scales were in Port Morsby, two hundred miles away... Oh well!.. I hurredly started the engine with one hand whilst holding the door open to try to deflect some air. I taxied through the mud, still holding the door as I fiddled with the HF to pass my flight plan to Port Moresby. It was full radio reporting in this country .. you didn't take off till you had contact and passed a plan. The HF crackled acknowledgement. I taxied to the bog , closed the door and opened the throttle. Bloody hot! Sweating .. eyes stinging... the aircraft went nowhere .. nearly down to the axles. I sawed back and forth on the elevator to lighten the nosewheel and it inched forward ... roaring .. lurching. It inched out of the bog and by the time I arrived at the hump I had a good five knots. I dragged this measilly five knots to the top and slowly accelerated downhill .. towards the other bog. HOT! Steamy! I sweated. The fresh air vent (delete "fresh" insert "stink") .. well it moaned and sucked and rattled .. it did bugger all. A final tug just before the bog and it sagged into the air ...and went nowhere .. the rough stinking air swatted me forever down. Wow! Thinks I. Am I now at the pinnicle of my three year old aviation career?
It was uphill, all the way.
Lake Kutubu , the jewel of New Guinea was visible ahead. It was backdropped by a menacing black giant with a green tinge indicating heavy rain. I could see through the Eastern fringe .. so I flew there.

I thinks ... things should start to get interesting ... right about now. Crack!!!! Lightning ... turbulence.. the airplane bucks and wallows .. the vent hissing, then sucking. I am flying into rising ground.
We were low level experts in the Army. so I angle off the slope so I am not at ninety degrees .. so I can fall off .. I have somewhere to go. I struggle up.. around another limestone pinnicle.... only five thousand ... mountains ahead ... five thousand to go. The Continental drones on.

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Cat Driver

Joined: Feb 15, 2003
Posts: 1194 Posted: 2003-10-02 17:28
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Hey Duke......

Ever thought about re writing some of the Pilot Decision Making stuff for TC?

Jeeses you sure have a way with words...

When are you coming over so I can give you some more flying lessons?

Cat Driver

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ADIRU

Joined: Oct 03, 2003
Posts: 13
From: Calgary
Posted: 2003-10-03 01:02
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Duke,

You have quite a way with words. We're waiting patiently for the next chapter.

Best of luck.

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Griffon's Friend

Joined: Oct 03, 2003
Posts: 55
From: Another place
Posted: 2003-10-03 16:53
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Dear Mr. Duke...

Thanks for the stories. You're absolutely right, aviation does have a soul! And you're doing a fantastic job of passing that soul on to a lot of folks here.

I'm an "engineer". I once flew... ran out of money, had to stop. So now I just fix airplanes. Great big bloody flying mammoths and some littler beasts... They all have a soul. Some of 'em have part of my soul... and yours... and #1, through #62... and more. Tales like you've been telling here, when committed to print, help keep that soul alive for all the up-and-comers... Even those young-uns weaned on GPS can learn a bunch from your stories.

Good luck with your cancer, and thanks also for the line "Honour is a man's gift to himself". I love it.

Cheers,
GF

PS. Ya had me in tears with the story of the impromptu flypast at the old guy's funeral... I wish like hell someone would do that for me when I croak.

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-10-05 12:24
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Up! Five thousand more feet I needed.
I look at the throttle .. it's in against the panel. Kilo Romeo Bravo spent most of her life with with the knob all the way in .. nineteen inches.. not a lot to claw one's way up to ten thousand.
I see the pass .. ahead and higher. The dark green bags of thunder are rolling down each side ... maybe I need ten minutes .. will it be to late? What then? The Continental drones on ....
Shite! I'm overdue on my HF half houly position report. The HF chatters and screaches with static .. sunspot activity ..I hear Indosesian voices too. The border is only a hundred miles or so.
I am outside the two minute grace period.
I even think I hear screaming people ... shit! This is a lonely place.
A break in the screaming .. so I blurt out my position with an ETA Goroka .. an hour away yet .. yet the Continental drones on... and on ..
I decide to abandon the pass it's choked .. on the bottom jaw .. green jungle .. on the top ... heavy green/black bags of water. I circle up through a hole ..I now need thirteen thousand , my eyes darting always .. to the Horizon Indicator. Back outside the walls of the vortex seem closer now Circling tighter .. Hate that .. rate of climb thereby diminishes.... poof! In and out of cloud now ... at least the screaming stopped .. wierd.
Up to the blue hole.
Conjour up a pleasant thought .. I must. Because I don't like this. I am alone ..the Continental ..
I think of one week ago.
If the Continental had quit anytime over the last year, I would be dead.
My partner and I owned this small company, Chimbu Traders and we knew it was time to move up to an Aztec. We had found one in Paradise.

There was a Garden of Eden called Aiyura. Neat as a pin , an orderly mission station. It had a perfectly mown grass strip. They had about four planes and the Aztec was too small for them. Forty thousand ... with a spare engine too. Turbocharged too!
They were the Sumner Institute of Linguistics and their mission was to translate the seven hundred tribal languages into English and vice versa. Their vegetable gardens were a thing of beauty as was their small coffee plantation.
We had the cash. "Come pick it up Tuesday" smiles the amiable chief pilot, Doug Hunt from Canada.
I had also agreed to give up the regristration to them .. after all it was VH-SIL
I smile as I fantasize ..turbos .. my God!
Two engines .. YEEEEHAAA! The Continental droned upwards. I pop out the top into the blue and cruise to Goroka. Ah! The glory...
Over there.. what's that airplane I see .. an F27 looks like ..it comes closer .. close.. then peels away. He is IFR to Goroka.
I could see faces pressed up against the glass.. could be a friend, Captain Skinny Hawkins .. of Fatty Hawkins .. who knows.. nothing was said. I was at fourteen thousand ....this would come back to haunt me.
I landed uphill at Goroka and quickly got taxi clearance back down to Bena Bena plantation where the cargo would be unloaded and put into our walk in freezer.. Whew! Hot work.
I jumped eagerly into the Toyota four-by and went to hoist a few "Golden Throat Charmers" with my mates ...at the Bird of Paradise Hotel.
They were ashen faced .. all with a hollow look as I burst upon the scene ready to babble out my tales of Daring Doo.

The silence was deafening .........

[ This Message was edited by: Duke Elegant on 2003-10-05 12:29 ]

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-10-05 12:51
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They were mostly pilots , some coffee buyers, a plantation owner or two. There was a hostie too. Heidi , my german girlfriend.
She had big tits.
She was here for the special event .. to pick up my Aztec on Tuesday.
Nobody moved ... some stared into their drinks.
Someone had gone in. But who? This was happening with monotonous regularity .. my mind raced through my mental inventory of pilots ..
The Chief Pilot from Territory Airlines approached .. Brian McCook was uncharacteristically dignified.
"It's bad Duke...." he paused ...".VH-SIL went in today ... all seven onboard ..."
I didn't need to know who the pilot was ...Doug Hunt , the Canadian.
An icy chill shot up my spine.
The boys started to talk softly ...
It was with horror, that I let the story soak in.

"Most of us heard it Duke , on the HF."
" SIL was at ten thousand , climbing out over Nadzab , the wing caught fire ... Doug tried frantically to get to ground before the wing burned off .. His call on HF was backgrounded by the natives screaming in the back .. the wing burned off."

People screaming ... HF .. . back at the pass ... I had heard a nightmare.

[ This Message was edited by: Duke Elegant on 2003-10-05 13:04 ]

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-10-05 13:01
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A few years later
Chilliwack ... abreast the coffee bar at the airport.
A young chap called Harold was a pilot for Pacific Western Airlines prior to it being Canadian. We talked ... mainly me ... he mainly listened.
I related the story of the Aztec VH-SIL.
It had subsequently been determined that the SIL engineer had only hand tightened the injector lines to the engine. In the C model Aztec, the red hot turbos are on the bottom of the engine. Right under a fuel leak.

Harold was silent but I saw something stir. He quietly asked me to stay right where I was as he went to retrieve a church newsletter.
In it was a letter written by the engineer from SIL.
Can you imagine how he felt? ... can you imagine what he wrote? Can you imagine how I felt? Can you imagine ...............................................

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-10-06 10:21
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You only get one life

This I know

I'm gonna get my licks in now

Before I go.

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Griffon's Friend

Joined: Oct 03, 2003
Posts: 55
From: Another place
Posted: 2003-10-06 10:30
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I recall reading a story written by a mechanic who had been responsible for the death of a friend.. (I don't remember how many were on board)... Similar thing, light twin, fuel line on one engine was left hand tight after some work. The guy was in complete agony and knew he'd feel that misery for the rest of his life. There'd only be one way to escape that life-long torture, and even then, would it be cowardice to take that 'out'? Or justice?

Maybe that's one very small consolation for pilots who screw up and people die... usually you won't be around to have to live with it. Sometimes, the mechanic who screwed up goes too (ie, Nationair DC-8 in Jeddha), but not often enough.
I don't think I could live with it... I think I'd need a labotomy, or a bullet.

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-10-06 12:02
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I just looked in my log book....

Doug Hunt was #13. Eleven of those prior to Doug were military pilots.

Also, the log indeed shows a week of flying Kilo Romeo Bravo carrying fish, sharkmeat and croc skins from Baimuru to the highlands and beyond to the North coast which was laced with sandy beaches and coral reefs. Unlike the muddy Gulf of Papua region upon which Baimuru sat in the oppressive humidity.

I was twenty five and I had nineteen hundred hours.

The mystery of the F27 coming close to me over the pass near Lake Kutubu was about to reveal itself.

I bummed a ride to Lae on the coast in the sixth seat of a Beech Baron. At the last minute, I crawled in through the baggage door. The four pax were Chimbu's on their way to a Tribal Council meeting , most of which ended up with at least one of them leaking badly if they went by truck where they could carry weapons. The government flew them for free if they left weapons behind. Good plan.

Upon arrival I flashed up the Alfa Romeo and made my way to the Trans Australia Airline facility, nestled in trees back from the beach. The crews lived in louvered Dongas which housed four, each with their own room and they shared a common bathroom. A pool surrounded by lustful tropical flowers was draped with gorgeous bronzed Air Hostesses , as they were called then. They gathered their things , the bar was coming alive ......

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-10-06 12:59
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Credence Clearwater Revival , Moody Blues ... the tunes were good...
I always wore my khaki army shirt that had holes where my wings were , holes where my rank was pinned... longish hair ..I meant to be set apart.
They were all airline types and little more structured than I. They flew F27 Fokkers and DC3's. Most were on six month postings from Australia but the check/training pilots were here permanently with their families.

Charm was the viscous grease with which I oiled my social life. Sure, they had some tales. I, on the other hand, had my balls hanging out over the jungle, a fertile place for tales of daring do.

I was caught up in the slipstream of the dare.

Hmmmm. I gazes about the room, already forming into small groups. My Heidi is conspicuous by her absense.

Fatty Hawkins is already entertaining some new shiellas , from Australia. If they should let their guard down , the Duke will be on them. Heidi has a month to go ..It is time to conduct interviews.

I slide between the two ... divide and conquer, I always say.
"Hey Fatty!" is my opening line,"was that you checking me out over the pass near Kutubu?"

I gaze left and downward , to the cleavage born out of a little boddice number, and right, to see two little puppies noses gently pressing through a short little cotton number.

But Fatty is agitated as he grabs my arm and spirits me to a quiet corner.
"While you were in the highlands this past week Captain Seiko, that cheap little c**t, he violated you." Fatty is mad. "and Skinny was his F/O .. and Skinny couldn't do any thing about it. We all tried hinting to you on HF .. where the hell were you?"
I had missed all this .. I was up the Angoram River in a motorized log canoe .. we were looking for an Agiba, a skull rack.
"You see, Sieko was IFR and asked Madang Flight Service if they had any traffic for him. They said no so he squeeled on you. "I have a C182 at fourteen thousand , hang on a shake and I'll veer left and get his registration" Fatty relates this story as he glances furtively to the other corner .. and there he is, Capt Sieko, a check Captain who peddled cheap watches to his suborinates.. and hogged the flying.
Hell ! I was at fourteen thousand feet saving my arse.
The first urge is to bound across the room and grab the little prick by the throat ...I had to do this with aplomb and alacrity. I thinks ..and thinks ... it comes to me.
I walk slowly towards Seiko .. greeting people ... affirming my popularity ..Seiko is pontificating at some young sweat, fresh up from Australia. His eyes dart at me .. ratlike. Cornered ...
"Oh how you vex me so!" says I in a stuffy Elizabethian voice, smiling at those gathering around for the kill.
"I fail to recall , sir , when it was that a briefing prior to any formation flying was conducted. It is required , you know , by law , sir." He is stultified. I smirk for I am an asshole. There is some giggling amid a few guffaws as he scurries away.

The paperwork was stopped.

A love affair was about to blossom ...next.

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Dockjock

Joined: Oct 18, 2001
Posts: 298
From: TBA
Posted: 2003-10-06 15:43
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Duke, you're great.

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Sammy

Joined: Sep 30, 2003
Posts: 37 Posted: 2003-10-07 13:18
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DUKE

Some great "Tales".
Keep 'em coming...some are priceless.
Sammy

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Duke Elegant

Joined: Nov 28, 2002
Posts: 264 Posted: 2003-10-08 13:08
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Yes. A love affair was indeed about to blossom.

You see I was with my girlfriend , Heidi, a luciously endowed Germanicly blonde hostie. We lazed on the beach at Surfers Paradise , and on a surfboard, I dazzled nobody .. I was outdone by the expert youths of the day. I had a huge wad. Of cash that is.

At night, I showed her no mercy.

We walked into the well lit hangar right by the paint shop. It was love at first sight.

There she sat ... the buxom little Aztec ... prop spinners protruding slightly upwards ..and forward like ... well you know ...
The masking tape was being removed and the new stripes were crisp and oil free for the short term. Our company name, CHIMBU TRADERS LTD was in small letters above the door.

I had bought her over the phone... From her madam. She was an old Bush Pilot Airways plane and had been ridden hard and put away wet.

But I wiped her ... lots. I wiped the oozing lubricants from her skin ... and from the cracks....
But she had some cellulite .. she wasn't perfect ... hail dimples ...
She had been gone over by a good bush engineer as I had requested.

I paid the money for my old whore in a new dress.