Sojourners of the Sky (3 page)

G.R. nodded. “Yes indeed, Charles. I couldn’t agree more.”

Captain Pratt was referring to two very important airspeed markers that pilots use to aid in the decision making process during takeoff. If a malfunction were to crop up during the takeoff roll prior to reaching the first velocity milestone, known as V1, then the pilot is required to abort the takeoff. V2 represents the speed a pilot flies on climb-out if an engine should fail. Due to the slippery conditions on the field, the captain wanted to adjust the book-derived numbers for added safety.

“Captain,” said Ed Vito, “I’ve been plugging the numbers into our flight plan and based on the forecast winds aloft, it looks like our enroute time this evening will be ten hours and forty-six minutes.”

“Very good, Ed. Thank you,” said Captain Pratt. Then, after skimming through a handful of papers in flight forty-two’s document folder, he added, “I’m not sure if you men have had an opportunity to look over the briefing sheet from customer service, but please make note: sitting in first class this evening we have Richard and Sandra Creter of Creter Tool and Die Corporation, headquartered right here on Long Island. We also have Harold and Vanessa Chartoff of Chartoff Ford. In case you were not aware, they own a number of auto dealerships in the tri-state area. Now, it’s not on the sheet here, but I was recently informed that Ms. Jayne Mansfield might also be joining us,” announced Captain Pratt. He paused after the last name and looked around the cockpit to see if his crew was paying attention.

Each person was busily performing his preflight tasks and only partly listening to their captain. They’d each heard the name of the popular and voluptuous actress, but only G.R. looked up with widened eyes and said, “OK, men, stand back and give me some room.” His words brought smiles and laughter from the other cockpit crew members, including Captain Pratt.

An older man, smelling of oil and gasoline, walked into the cockpit and handed G.R. a piece of paper. Listed on the soggy and wrinkled document were the fuel, cargo and passenger numbers written in pencil. The aging ramp worker heard the men laughing when he entered and wondered if he was the joke. He said nothing and hurriedly left the cockpit, feeling a little uncomfortable and somewhat angry. It wasn’t the first time pilots made fun of him and laughed behind his back.

“Looks like they’re all set outside, gentlemen,” advised the Captain. “G.R., whenever you’re ready.”

Having moved from his panel to a small fold-down seat located between the two pilots, G.R. read the before start checklist. Each responded to the various items that G.R. called out. When the checklist was complete, Captain Pratt turned his speaker volume up so everyone could hear the mechanic standing outside the aircraft.

“Cleared to start, G.R.” advised the Captain.

“Starting number three,” responded G.R. as he activated the starter for the number three engine, located inboard on the right wing.

Over the speaker they could hear the mechanic announce “rotation,” followed by, “sixteen blades,” indicating how many revolutions the propeller had made. G.R. then activated the ignition and advanced the mixture control, allowing fuel to flow into the engine. He waited a few seconds before slightly increasing the electrical current flowing to the spark plugs, creating a slightly hotter spark to help ignite the fuel.

“Good start on three,” announced the mechanic.

G.R. then started the number two engine, followed by number four and then one. While the pilots waited for the oil temperatures to rise into the green arc, indicating it was safe to advance the power for taxi, G.R. computed the aircraft gross weight and center of gravity. Then, moving quickly, the senior engineer consulted two separate manuals to determine the takeoff speeds and power settings. It was a very busy five minutes.

When G.R. was finished, he double-checked his work and then announced, “We weigh just a hair under one hundred and seven thousand pounds. V-one is one hundred and fifteen knots and our rotation and V-two speeds are the same at one hundred and twenty-three knots. Now Charles, those numbers include your requested changes. The book says to use two thousand-three hundred horsepower for takeoff and eighteen hundred for the climb. That should give us a climb speed of one hundred and forty knots. Our cruise speed tonight will be one hundred and eighty-eight knots. And, uh, that’s assuming we use the Pan Am recommended eleven hundred horsepower for cruise.”

As the engineer spoke, both Charles and John memorized the speeds and power settings they would use for takeoff, climb and cruise. Neither wrote anything down.

After receiving a simple nod from his captain, John called for the taxi clearance. “Idlewild ground, Clipper forty-two is at parking spot eight, ready for taxi.”

“Clipper forty-two,” advised the controller, “follow the TWA Constellation approaching from your right; taxi to runway two-two. There is amendment to your clearance. After takeoff, proceed direct to the Islip non-directional beacon, then direct to the Nantucket VOR, and then as per your flight plan.”

As John acknowledged the clearance, Ed Vito made a note on the flight plan regarding the changes to their routing.

Using differential power from the four engines, as well as a small steering wheel located near his left knee, the captain taxied the aircraft toward the runway. As he worked, John set up the radios they would need for departure and responded to each of the checklist items G.R. called out. G.R., while reading the checklist, also ran a quick diagnostic on the engines using an oscilloscope mounted inside his small engineer’s panel.

The intensity of the rain increased and began to mix with a very wet snow. They could clearly hear the “plopping” sound the rain/snow mixture made as it struck the windshield. Each man in the cockpit knew they had to hurry before the slushy mix built up too much, creating a situation where the wing could become un-flyable. But Captain Pratt refused to rush. He’d known too many aviators in his career who had allowed themselves to be rushed only to regret it later, or who’d died regretting it.

Located immediately aft of the captain’s seat, resting on a metal rack that ran from floor to ceiling, there was a stack of communication and navigation radios. Situated behind all of those vacuum tube-filled metal boxes was a set of bunk beds. The area was both hot and noisy, and an aviator would have to be very tired in order to sleep there. But since all of the passenger seats were full, both Asa and Lars sat on the lower bunk in preparation for takeoff.

Neither Captain Pratt nor First Officer Tacker could see the wings from the cockpit, but both could plainly see the snow building on the windshield in front of them. Though nothing was said aloud, the aviators knew that their time was running out. If they didn’t launch soon they would be forced to return to the parking area and deice, which would undoubtedly create a host of problems and delays.

Both Charles and John watched as the TWA Constellation ahead of them took off. The sleek, beautiful four-engine airplane with a triple-forked tail roared like a beast when its master applied takeoff power. It rolled and rolled and rolled, seemingly using a great deal of runway before finally struggling into the air.

The two DC6 pilots peered through a small clear spot in their snow-covered windshield, wondering silently what was going on inside the cockpit of the Connie. They could tell the airplane was grasping for each foot as it climbed very slowly into the darkened clouds. The eerie sight prompted Charles to say, “That Connie is a beautiful airplane, but I hated flying it as a copilot. The darn thing was the most persnickety airplane I’ve ever flown. It’s very underpowered. And I swear an engine would quit if you just looked at it funny.”

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.