No one laughed at the captain’s joke. They were all more concerned with the sloppy mess that was sticking to their wings. Though they couldn’t see it, they were nonetheless aware of its menacing presence. It was a building threat that was not going to go away.
Ice on a wing disrupts the otherwise smooth airflow. Too much ice can cause the wing to stall or, in other words, lose lift. When a wing stalls it drops toward the earth. If only one wing stalls while the other continues flying, the airplane can enter a spin. If a transport-sized aircraft inadvertently enters a spin, descending toward the ground while turning like a corkscrew, it would almost certainly end in catastrophe.
G.R., the oldest salt in the cockpit, finally said what everyone else was thinking, “If we don’t leave in the next few minutes, Charles, I cannot guarantee that the takeoff numbers I gave you will still be valid.”
By pure coincidence, the moment G.R. finished speaking the tower controller issued their clearance. “Clipper forty-two, Idlewild Tower, you are cleared for takeoff.”
“Clipper forty-two is cleared for takeoff. Thank you,” responded John.
The captain taxied onto the runway and then slowly advanced the throttles while holding the brakes firmly. After a brief pause, he reached over and pulled the main propeller adjustment lever back for a moment before returning it to the takeoff position. His actions, performed solely to ensure the propeller blades would be ice-free for their departure, caused a loud “swooshing” sound to be heard throughout the cabin.
Instinctively, Charles quickly glanced out his side window and then across the instrument panel. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he released the brakes and slowly pushed all four throttles forward until the horsepower gauge indicated two thousand. He then removed his hand from the throttles, allowing G.R. to manipulate the engine controls as he saw fit.
Their acceleration was slow. Other than the incredible howl and vibration generated by the engines, the cockpit was strangely quiet.
Charles pushed each rudder pedal as necessary to keep the airplane on the partially obscured runway centerline markings, but it was a constant battle. There was so much slush and snow on the runway, the big four-engine Douglas had trouble tracking straight ahead. The airplane slid left and right, almost as if the giant machine was unwilling to allow itself to be controlled. At times the captain sensed he was losing the fight, forcing him to struggle harder.
Thick gooey slush flew up from the runway and struck the windshield, partially blocking their view ahead. The wind, snow and driving rain constantly pounded against the airplane, making the takeoff even more challenging.
Realizing the airplane could use all the help it could get, G.R. reached down and closed the engine cowl flaps to prevent the engines from surging due to water ingestion. Doing so, G.R. knew, would also help cut down on the drag created by the small doors that are used to manage the temperatures inside the engine compartments. Since they normally took off with the cowl flaps open, G.R. had to monitor the engine temperatures closely. It took only a few seconds, but he noted the temperatures were already sprinting toward their respective redlines.
Charles struggled to keep the airplane going straight, but it felt like the airplane was gliding along on a sheet of ice. There was no way the airplane was ready to fly, and he began to wonder if it ever would be. The captain knew the end of the runway was rapidly approaching, but there was little else he could do.
John sat silently. He knew it was moments like these that were a copilot’s worst nightmare.
Forced by the location of his name on the seniority list, a copilot must bite his tongue and sit on his hands while he watches another man control his fate. On occasion the other man is less experienced and perhaps not quite as talented an aviator, but that is of no consequence. The copilot’s position demands that he walk a thin line. If he speaks up, he does so at his own peril. A raised voice will earn him little respect and a guaranteed difficult apprenticeship. If he remains silent, and does so at the wrong time, he dies.
John satisfied himself that there was nothing more he could do to help. He glanced out the front window and glimpsed the waves crashing on the rocks at the other end of the runway. There was very little time left. He started silently counting down from ten, figuring he would call for an abort when he got to zero, unless they were airborne or Charles decided that he had had enough and aborted the takeoff before that. As John subtracted the numbers in his mind he subconsciously sped-up the countdown, concluding that it might already be too late to stop.
“Five…four…three…” muttered John to himself.
Charles slowly pulled the nose of the DC6 skyward. The controls felt heavy. The nosewheel broke free, but the main wheels remained glued to the ground. Charles pulled harder, but it made no difference. It was as if the main wheels were stuck in concrete. The airplane refused to accelerate and would simply not leave the ground. Moments later, in a very calm and low pitched voice, Charles said, “Throttles to full forward, G.R. We’ll need maximum horsepower.”
G.R. complied without speaking. The flight engineer glanced at the airspeed indication and was stunned to see that they were not accelerating. He held his breath, knowing that it was already too late to stop. They were going, no matter what.
The silence in the cockpit was deafening. Everyone who could see out the front window watched with fearful apprehension as the end of the runway approached rapidly. Though they may have wanted to, no one spoke. They all knew that Charles was the best one to handle it, and they silently hoped he would be successful.
Three hundred feet before the runway dropped off into the sea, Charles finally managed to horse the aircraft free of the ground. The moment he did, the entire airframe began to tremble. It was a strange sensation for all on board, feeling the big Douglas wobbling like a top under their feet. It seemed like the airplane was unsure of whether or not it really wanted to fly.
In hopes of stealing just a few more knots, the straining captain reduced the pitch slightly. But since the airplane was only a few feet above the ground, there was practically no room to maneuver.
John glanced briefly out his side window. He could clearly see the white-capped waves crashing onto the rocks and the spray shooting skyward into the night. He quickly turned back and was horrified to see that their airspeed was stuck at one hundred and twenty-five knots and their altitude was slowly decreasing! It was not looking good. A voice inside told him to take the controls, but he fought the urge. He held his breath while the debate raged in his brain. John told himself to be ready. His fingers lightly caressed the control yoke, standing by, willing and able.
Charles had wisely delayed retracting the landing gear until the airplane was positively climbing, since it seemed likely that it might settle back onto the runway. But realizing the landing gear was hindering their performance, and since there was nothing beneath them except the frigid waters of Jamaica Bay, Charles decided to take a chance.
“Gear up,” ordered the Captain in a very calm voice that concealed his fear.
“Gear up,” replied John with a pitch in his voice that clearly gave away his feelings.
The airplane buffeted wildly and the nose began swinging to the left and right. They were moving forward, but not accelerating or climbing. The DC6 skimmed the wave-tops, seemingly suspended in time. With the exception of the roiling waves and foamy spray, the view through the windshield was a dark void. Near total darkness surrounded them.
John could not completely comprehend the eerie picture he was seeing through the front window. The whitecaps of an unforgiving sea, illuminated by two small tunnels of white light emanating from the DC6’s lights, seemed a contradiction of reality. It reminded him of a Hollywood movie. A motion picture that he desperately hoped the pilots lived through.
“G.R., give me a couple degrees of flaps,” ordered Captain Pratt.
G.R. reached down and extended the flaps three additional degrees as ordered. He knew by extending the flaps the capta
in was attempting to give the wings a little more surface area, thereby increasing their lifting capability.
“That ocean spray ought to help,” observed Charles.
John managed a very faint chuckle, not knowing if his captain was serious or not about the salt water melting the ice off the wings.
G.R. watched anxiously as the oil and cylinder head temperatures all entered the mid-range of their respective red arcs. He knew he had to open the cowl flaps and force cool air through the engine compartments soon. But opening them at such a critical moment would likely increase the drag on the airframe to an untenable amount. Since the overburdened airliner was clearly unable to accelerate, the added resistance would likely force the DC6 to slowly sink into the icy water beneath them. He held his breath, hoping the airplane would climb before the furnace-like temperatures inside the four engine compartments escalated out of control.
Charles and John were so preoccupied with trying to get the airplane to climb, neither noticed the red-lining temperatures.
The airplane continued to shudder, hanging precariously on the edge of a stall. It was clear that the four-engine Douglas was unhappy.
The DC6 was barely twenty feet above the water and Charles knew that he’d been backed into a corner. If he pushed just a little forward on the control yoke to reduce the pitch angle, the airplane would almost immediately strike the waves. Likewise, if he pulled back a little to climb, the airplane would undoubtedly stall and then crash into the water out of control. Either way, he knew he had to use a gentle touch or it would all be over in a New York minute.
Pilots and passengers alike could feel, and indeed hear, a thunderous rumbling sound as it passed through the nearly silent, yet deafeningly loud aircraft interior.
The airspeed needles advanced four knots and then fell six, all while the altimeters refused to cooperate and indicate a climb. The instrument ballet was a torturous thing for the pilots to endure.
Clearing his voice before he could speak, John softly muttered, “Speed’s up ten knots.”
“Keep both fingers crossed,” replied Charles.
“And toes,” added G.R.
Their wait was agonizing, but eventually the old reliable DC6 came through for them. The combination of extending the flaps and flying through the salty ocean spray, along with G.R.’s quick action with the cowl flaps, gave the airplane what it needed to fly.
The apprehension in the cockpit dissipated with each knot of airspeed and each additional foot of altitude the airplane achieved. When the airplane’s altimeter indicated one hundred feet, Charles said,
“Double check the frequency for the Islip beacon, John. I’m going direct.”
They made it.
Three
Earlier in the summer of 2002
“Jack, make sure you’re holding that socket wrench tight. We can’t allow any slack in these aileron cables,” shouted Bill Pratt from inside the small cockpit of his Cessna 150.
“OK, Grandpa,” replied Jack.
“Lucy, tell me again. How many degrees does the book say the ailerons should deflect up?” asked Bill.
“Oh, I lost the page,” said Lucy, sitting on a small ladder outside the airplane. “Hang on.”
“My hands are so big and this space is so tight, I keep banging my knuckles,” said Bill.
Getting their grandfather’s old Cessna back into the air was proving to be a difficult task. Much like its owner, N63626 had been in retirement for a long time. The dusty old two-seater had sat alone and in pieces in the back of the barn for years. The trio ended up spending much of the summer on the ground turning wrenches and polishing, but no one ever complained. The work became a catalyst that would eventually bind them together as airmen for the rest of their lives.
“Grandpa,” said Lucy as she scanned the pages of the aircraft maintenance manual. “I still don’t understand why you and your neighbor hate each other. Didn’t you say you guys used to be best friends?”
“We were indeed,” replied Bill, taking a moment to look his granddaughter in the eye. “But I don’t hate him, dear; I just think he’s a jerk. He definitely hates me though. I guess sometimes people allow life’s challenges to cloud their view. Mr. Tacker had a choice and he chose to be bitter.”
Lucy’s first few weeks at the farm were difficult and boring beyond belief. Just the thought of leaving New York for the rolling farmland of northeast Pennsylvania seemed, at first anyway, to be a death sentence. Lucy was fourteen, on the verge of womanhood, and had no desire whatsoever to leave all she knew behind simply to make her parents’ life a little less complicated. But in reality, Lucy had grown tired of the arguing and secretly welcomed the peace and quiet she found while living away from home. She never actually asked, but knew that her brother Jack, two years her junior, felt much the same.
There was much trepidation inside the two city dwellers when they first arrived. After all, as far as they were concerned their grandparents were ancient, probably born shortly after the last of the dinosaurs roamed the earth. Besides that, the tiny old people with white hair were practically strangers. But all that was in the past. The two siblings were happy now. They were at peace.
A small commotion sprang up outside the cockpit. Both Lucy and her grandfather could hear Jack giggling, and Bill could feel the aileron cables moving in his hand. “What’s going on out there?” he yelled.
Through the laughter, Jack replied, “It’s Emily; she’s biting my ankles.”
“Well, kick that stupid cat away. We have work to do.”
“OK, Grandpa, but Emily isn’t stupid. I think she’s smarter than me,” claimed Jack.
Both Lucy and her grandfather looked at each other and laughed. “You may be right,” said Bill with a smile.
When the laughter died down, Lucy asked, “What happened between you and Mr. Tacker?”
After a moment to gather his thoughts, Bill looked at his granddaughter and continued, “Well…”
Four
New York to London
“New York radar this is Idlewild tower. Clipper forty-two is at the airport boundary,” stated the Idlewild tower controller into the telephone line that was linked directly to the departure controller’s speaker, located twenty miles away.
“Clipper forty-two is radar contact. Frequency one two-two point four,” said the New York radar controller.
“Roger,” answered the tower controller. Then, keying his microphone to transmit over the radio, the Idlewild controller said, “Clipper forty-two, contact New York radar on one two-two decimal four.”
“Clipper forty-two, one two-two-four. Goodnight,” said John.
On the ground at the New York radar control facility located at the Newark, New Jersey airport, Roscoe Jones watched as Clipper forty-two’s primary radar target suddenly appeared off the end of runway two-two. He had no idea what flight forty-two’s altitude was, nor of the difficulties they’d encountered during their takeoff. The only thing he saw on his scope was a bright green dot that he knew was a Pan Am DC6 enroute to London Heathrow. He would rely on his memory regarding which dots represented which airplanes while they were under his control. On a narrow strip of green paper, Roscoe noted the flight’s proposed route and altitude.
Roscoe’s shift was nearly over and he hoped to get the Pan Am DC6 off his frequency as rapidly as possible. Though he didn’t much relish the idea of going home and dealing with a pregnant wife who was convinced that she was the size of a bus, he figured a few brews on the way there would take the edge off of his spouse’s hormones. He loved his wife deeply, but very much looked forward to the day when her familiar personality returned.
“New York radar, Clipper forty-two is off Idlewild,” stated John. “We’re proceeding to Islip and climbing to eight thousand.”
“Clipper forty-two, New York, radar contact. Report level at eight thousand,” ordered Roscoe.
“Roger wilco,” responded John, advising the controller that he would comply.
“Set climb power, G.R. The engines are yours,” advised Charles.
G.R. set the throttles to the recommended horsepower for climb and then slowly pulled aft on the master propeller pitch control lever, increasing the pitch on each of the four propellers. Next, using one finger per propeller, he fine tuned the prop pitch using four small toggle switches on the center pedestal. Once everything was stabilized, G.R. adjusted the four mixture levers to reduce the fuel consumption of the engines. The last thing the flight engineer did was to open the engine cowl flaps, reminding himself to close them once the engine temperatures were back in the green. If he forgot, when the airplane’s speed increased they would cause the entire airframe to shake and everyone in the cockpit would know that he’d screwed up.
With the most important tasks complete, G.R. stood and returned to his small panel where he could monitor the engines more precisely. Off and on during the course of the flight, G.R. would have to switch between his forward and aft positions in order to make any necessary adjustments.
Once things settled down, Asa stretched out on the lower bunk; the same one that he and Lars had been sitting on for takeoff. Lars, being lower on the totem pole, took the top bunk. They each drew a small curtain around their individual rest area to cut down on the noise and ambient light. The two would rest as best they could until it was time to give the more senior crew members a break.
Lars Larson had spent the previous four years as a DC3 mechanic. He worked hard, impressed the right people, and then managed to pull off a transfer into flight operations. Lars grew up in a very rough Providence, Rhode Island neighborhood--in a household that was often just a few dollars shy of being considered dirt poor. Lars’s father, an immigrant from Norway, served as first mate on the Jane and Irsla, an old wooden dragger that fished the waters off Block Island. Though Lars spoke Norwegian at home and near perfect English to his friends, to survive on the street he possessed the ability to forget there was an “R” in the alphabet. The selectively ignored letter caused his words to sound something like, “Paahking the caah,” when he spoke. He could turn his diction on and off at will, sounding like a thug one minute and a Harvard grad the next.
Sojourners of the Sky Page 3
