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A
Memo to Myself
The
conditions, here in my air-conditioned office
are very pleasant. The temperature is a
comfortable sixty-five degrees. There is a
stream of cool air caressing the back of my
head. I relax in my leather seat and look
through the window some five feet in front of
me. I notice the clear blue sky with not a cloud
in sight. The conditions outside my office are
non-survivable. There is neither air to breathe
nor is there enough warmth to sustain life at
thirty-three thousand feet. If the window some
two feet to the left were to fail in some
catastrophic fashion, I would be pushed out into
those hostile conditions by the air pressure
inside. It would be a force capable of tearing
me from my seat despite the four nylon straps
that restrain me.
To my right, across the office, my assistant
scribbles industriously on a clipboard. He seems
totally unaware of the potential for the sudden
termination of our existence. He shows complete
trust in the engineers who designed and
constructed this machine. This aircraft is a
practically flawless example of the complete
marriage of man and mechanism. Although neither
of us is physically controlling this
contraption, the electronic genius which is the
autopilot is capable of detecting and rectifying
minuscule deviations from the parameters which I
have set into it.
Behind us there are almost two hundred and forty
women, men and children. They are trusting
souls, confident in my ability as captain and
commander of this aircraft. They do not have to
know that I have logged over fourteen thousand
flying hours, of which some six thousand have
been spent in command of large jet aircraft such
as this. They do not have to know that my First
Officer has logged over five thousand hours and
will very soon be a captain. They must only know
that there is a competent, fully trained crew in
charge of this aircraft. The degree of
competence is irrelevant. There are no
‘aces’ these days. If a pilot is not quite
up to standard, he will not fly until he can
demonstrate the required ability. Therefore, my
own fourteen thousand hours are of no more
significance than the five thousand of my
companion. At least, not until something goes
wrong.
Some twenty years ago, I was a First Officer on
a Trans Oceanic flight. Our destination was
England and we had departed from Boston in a
Lockheed Tristar. My captain was a vastly
experienced man who had served with BOAC before
they merged with BEA to form British Airways.
Grey haired and rather taciturn, he believed
that the function of a First Officer was to fill
in forms, adjust the air conditioning and
operate the radios. If the captain wished to
visit the toilet, the First Officer was allowed
to keep a watch on the progress of the flight
whilst the great man attended to the call of
nature. For some reason, he had grown to trust
me and I was allowed to carry out a few of the
duties that he would normally guard jealously as
his own prerogative. I had been permitted to
land the big aircraft on several occasions and
conversation flowed freely although our
respective roles of master and apprentice
remained a matter of strict observance. On that
February morning, we had !
just taken off from Logan Airport and both the
captain and I were busily engaged in the after
take-off checks. All was proceeding normally and
we appeared to be in good shape for the long
transatlantic crossing. Neither of us was
prepared for the flock of migrating Barnacle
Geese flying just ahead of us and at exactly our
height. Because of the nose-high attitude of the
aircraft, we did not even see them. The first
indication that we were sharing our airspace
with others was announced by multiple thumps as
several of the big birds smashed into the
aircraft. Simultaneously, the right engine
started to wind down. The flight deck was a
flurry of well-organised activity as we shut
down the failed engine and commenced damage
assessment. A Tristar is more than capable of
flying with one of its three engines inoperative
although any form of asymmetry must be treated
with great respect. We had no option other than
to initiate a return to Boston. As the captain
made the announcement to our passengers, the
centre engine, mounted at the rear of the
aircraft also started to exhibit signs of
extreme distress and joined its fellow in
silence.
A
Tristar is a large, heavy aircraft. Even at low
speeds, it requires a very large amount of
square miles to turn through one hundred and
eighty degrees. With two engines inoperative,
any steep turn will cause a loss of height. On
this occasion, just off the ground and with the
landing gear still extended we were paupers in
both speed and altitude. There was little doubt
in my mind that we were bound to descend
gracefully into the cold grey waters of the
Atlantic. Every item in the performance graphs
confirmed that this would be the case.
However,
the performance graphs had not taken into
account the astounding abilities of Captain Jack
Postel, formerly of BOAC. Had the designers of
the aircraft been aware of Postel’s incredible
airmanship, they might have modified their
somewhat gloomy prognostication. I do not know
exactly which gods Jack had summoned, or exactly
how he managed to turn the aircraft back towards
Boston and still keep us clear of the ground. We
did not even have time to retract the landing
gear that was robbing us of speed and height,
height that we could ill afford to spare.
The
normally well organised flight deck was a
shambles of warning lights, bells and power
levers out of position. I sweated profusely as I
tried to restore some order whilst my commander
willed the wounded aircraft to remain airborne.
I could see his lips moving as he cursed the
devils that seemed determined to force us down.
He was flying the aircraft on an extremely fine
line between stalling in the turn and keeping
the turn tight enough to get us pointing back
the way we had come. I was obliged to rub my
hands on my clothes to remove the dampness and I
was increasingly aware of the smell of my own
fear. This was the insidious kind of fear that
takes a short period of time to build. The sort
of fear that slowly strangles the victim. It is
not the sudden scare that releases adrenaline
and permits superhuman feats of strength.
With the last remaining engine bellowing at full
power, Postel heaved the reluctant beast towards
Logan’s runway. I realised that we were too
low and that we were going to crash into the
ground well short of the runway threshold. We
were also too fast. To reduce speed would rob us
of even more of our already scarce altitude.
Jack’s options were grievously limited. I was
taking little part in the proceedings but
managed to warn the passengers to prepare for a
possible forced landing. The runway seemed a
long way ahead and still we were losing precious
height. When it seemed that we were about to hit
the ground and still about half a mile from the
runway threshold, Postel called for full flap.
As the flaps extended, he pulled the nose of the
aircraft up and by sheer willpower made the
lumbering beast gain a few feet. Almost
instantly, the stall warners started baying like
hungry wolves. Jack pushed the nose back down
and to my immense relief, the runway threshold
flashe!
d below us.
The
touchdown was untidy and because of our
excessive speed we burst a few tyres but thanks
to Postel’s incredible airmanship, we were
safe. Over his many thousand hours of flying in
every conceivable situation, his feel for flying
machines had transformed a non-survivable
situation into a safe landing.
I
maintain, however that there are no ‘aces’.
Experience is of little value. A pilot is good
enough or he is no good at all. Just
occasionally, I have been known to be mistaken. |
