Big Earth

No great adventures appeared on my plate this past week, but then no episodes of stark terror grabbed my throat either. I'll slam the door on a deal like that.

I took some interesting pics, though. Take a look at this one (all these should expand if you double click on them):

If you were riding along in the footless halls of air and you happened to get bored with the movie that day—trust me, you would have—you might have looked down on western Nebraska and seen this strange colossal spider web.

Then, being the scientifically savvy individual you are, you would have thought, “Hey I know what that is!” Then you would look up, and see this:

What a sight! The atmosphere was alive with carbon footprints of a colossal nature. In actuality though, contrails are not carbon but water vapor. They form when hot engines pass through a cold humid atmosphere. Some years ago a conspiracy theory surfaced that alleged that contrails were actually caused by military flights spraying a chemical that made people sterile in order to reduce population growth. Ridiculous! But maybe we should keep the idea on the back burner.

I also snapped this photo of Ship Rock Mountain in northern New Mexico. It was so named by early pioneers who thought it looked like a square rigger. The Navajos considered it sacred. Geologically, it’s a volcanic neck, which is basically a volcano that wasn’t. It cooled before ever reaching the surface. Being the scientifically minded person you are, you would immediately know that the softer rocks around it eroded away to leave it sticking up 1,700 feet above the desert basin. The dike-like structures radiating out are exactly that, in geological terms, dikes: volcanic rock that found its way up through cracks caused by the main neck.

 
A geologist friend of mine, Rusty Ward, said it was a “rod flung through the crankcase of the world.” Perfect description! In addition to being a superb geologist Ward is also a master of the metaphor.

I just finished a mighty good page-turner: Palace Cobra, by Ed Rasimus. Want to know what it’s like to ride a Phantom to Hanoi? Read Rassimus. He won't dazzle you with what a hero he is; he'll just tell an important story that happened on his watch and he will do it with metapohors and color that Rusty Ward would nod approval at.

A Canyon Tour

I finished a busy 4-day trip that started Sunday morning. It had a lot of flying packed into it, but I didn’t go anywhere exciting except John Wayne-Orange County Airport, tucked back in the Los Angeles suburbs with a postage stamp masquerading as a runway. You need to make a firm landing to get stopped in less than a mile, and buddy I did. I hope I didn’t send anybody to the dentist to replace lost fillings. Lane (see last post) would have been proud of me. But one remarkable thing happened; I took the folks on a Grand Canyon tour.

We were passing near it and, seeing the weather was clear, I requested a “Canyon Tour” from the LAX Air Route Traffic Control Center (ARTCC). They knew what it meant. They cleared us to turn toward the Canyon, maneuver over it as desired, and then proceed direct to Needles. I got on the PA, apologized for pausing the movie, and advised them to grab their cameras.

We turned left and right, again and again the entire length of the canyon—a hundred miles or more. Even flight attendants flattened themselves against their tiny door windows. Tiny white puffy clouds lay scattered between us and the awesome sight that lay below. Even the mighty Colorado River, usually muddy, snaked thought the Canyon glowing and sparkling with a clear green tint. What a sight!

Every time I do the Canyon tour I remember my first one many years ago. Very different. It could have ruined my career—or worse.

It started with a simple radio call: “Buddha, you missed the turn point back there.”

I could see Buddha's jet ahead, but from a mile behind him it was easier to spot its shadow zipping across the flat Kaibab Plateau. “Keep quite and hang tight,” Buddha's voice crackled.

I checked my chart again. I was sure we had reached our northernmost point on the low level navigation training route and needed to head west. Buddha was up to something, and it wasn't like him to deviate from the game plan.

Found outside his hooch in Thailand sitting under a tree with his legs crossed and belly hanging out, somebody laughed and said he looked like Buddha, and so the name stuck. With his jutting jaw, linebacker neck, cocky swagger, and a fresh combat tour under his belt, Buddha was a model fighter pilot. His name was a fixture on the monthly Top Gun board, and his skills as a flight lead were respected across the base.

But his time was approaching for his obligatory desk job. Back then the USAF couldn't help but ground its best pilots; couldn't stand seeing them mature into capable, dependable combat leaders. Buddha was heading for an ROTC unit to become a teacher of college kids, and after that, possibly a return to a flying assignment, but no promises.

Yet Buddha would not leave his cockpit kicking and screaming; he would depart leaving a single colossal mark of disobedience, which would remain known only to himself and a certain wingman who was expected to hang tight and keep his mouth shut.

Clipping along at 475 knots, by the time I figured out Buddha's destination, we were there. We were so low on the flat plateau I couldn't see the gouge in the Earth ahead of us but knew it was there. I thought maybe he planned to fly over the Canyon, perhaps buzz it from rim to rim, maybe zoom up high and roll inverted, looking up at it through the top of his canopy. Yeah, I thought, that's what Buddha planned. That would be a kick. I got ready to pull back on the stick for rocket zoom.

Suddenly, his wings snapped 135 degrees right and Buddha flew down into the Kaibab Plateau—gone in a flash. I swallowed hard, felt my adrenalin pick up to about the pressure of the A-7's hydraulic system, 3,000 psi, and in a few heartbeats I was across the rim looking at the Vishnu Schist a mile below. I snapped my wings almost inverted and followed Buddha into the Earth's butt crack.

The canyon's tight bends forced us up over the rim a few times, but we plunged back into it and followed its sinuous kinks, our senses buzzing, eyeballs dancing left and right, riding rip-roaring sky fighting machines not designed for underground work, fiery death only seconds on each side of us. As suddenly as it came it was over when Buddha pulled back on his stick and left the Canyon shrinking beneath his tail, and somewhere behind him—I'm sure he hoped—a wingman still hanging tight.

Buddha left a mark on the world—a mark in the mind and the memory, the best place for marks, the only appropriate place sometimes. We were among the few who had flown through the Grand Canyon, flew fast and made a hell of a lot of noise doing it. Had our tour become known to the powers-that-be, that would have been our last flight, and if done today it would probably get us into the federal penitentiary.

Buddha hung up his G-suit and helmet and went to his school room to teach frat rats air power doctrine, and after that he quit and got into computers. Now, when I look down at the Canyon from 31,000 feet, it's Buddha I remember—Buddha and his trust in me to keep my mouth shut and hang tight.

When we reached the west end of the Canyon we proceeded direct to Needles and I thanked the ARTCC for their cooperation. I told the passengers the tour was at no extra charge. The movie went back on. Many of them lingered near the cockpit after the flight to tell me what a fantastic view they had. I just smiled and remembered Buddha.

His other call sign is Larry Mills and he’s somewhere in the Dallas area. I hope some day he discovers this post.

Lane's Prang

I guy I sat next to on the commute home yesterday asked me about the worst landing I ever had. I dodged the question, telling him I was a product of Vance Air Force Base where bad landings are not tolerated. But, in case you're wondering the same thing, here is a memoir from a couple of years ago:

My First Officer, a kid named Lane—can’t remember his first name—was a tanned, robust-looking lad who wore designer sunglasses and smiled with a chin-jutting aviator’s grin that made him look experienced beyond his years. Lane didn’t have military experience. He had “come up through the ranks,” had earned his way here through commercial aviation’s back alleys. As with most young pilots with that background, I found him highly competent and dependable but still not quite fully savvy to the crazy, unexpected stuff that happens; things not in the books.

Yet he was smooth on the controls. I liked that about Lane. I liked it too much. I got complacent. I was slumped back in my seat yawning that day.

Oh, that day.

We rolled out on final approach for runway 16 Left at Denver. It was a pleasant early summer morning, not too hot. The wind shear that commonly stalks Denver in the summer was off duty. Being the “non-flying pilot” or NFP in United parlance, I slumped in my seat and pondered my lunch selection. We had an hour and a half wait before leaving for San Francisco.

Lane had the ILS needles “wired” and his airspeed was perfect. He handled the controls like he was giving them a well deserved, caressing massage. I had seen Lane perform and was perfectly confident in him.

After the gear was down and the flaps set I read the Final Descent Checklist, then slumped back. I glanced out to the left window and watched farms rushing by, yawned and wondered if I might try a taco salad when we got to the terminal. I saw the radio altimeter click down through 1,000 feet and made my mandatory call-out. “One thousand feet. Instruments cross checked.”

Lane responded as required, “Runway One Six Left in sight. Cleared to land.”

I yawned again and thought the mesquite grilled chicken sandwich might be better. Then I heard a recorded voice come through our speakers. “Fifty feet.” The jet was reminding us, as it always did, that the earth was very, very near. Lane was doing well, over the threshold at 40 feet, just as he should be.

I first noticed the trouble just as the voice said, “Thirty feet.” An empty feeling rushed into my gut, like the bottom of the plane was falling out. My eyes verified it. 

The runway started to leap up at us. It felt as if there was no more air under our wings, like we had suddenly flown into a vacuum. I looked at the throttles. 

Lane should be shoving them forward to give us a burst of thrust and speed, but he wasn’t. I knew we were going to cause serious damage if we let the nose wheel strike the ground at that angle and descent rate. 

So did Lane. He hauled back on the yoke, but with no energy available to complete the flare the Boeing only swapped ends and sank even faster. I stiffened. I was about to be served a generous ration of hell for lunch.

As if being dropped from a crane 20 feet above the ground, the 115,000 pound jet slammed onto the concrete with an impact that shook the airframe like it had been hit with a colossal sledge hammer, accompanied by a vicious booming sound, like the gear struts were being driven through the wings. Before my hands could find the yoke we were airborne again, nose high, stalling. The right wing dipped and Lane cut the yoke left while trying to reduce the pitch. 

The jet sluggishly rolled left, nose high, descending again. I yelled, “THE ENGINE! WATCH THE ENGINE!” 

Lane knew what I meant. The 737’s engines hang so low that a bank angle over nine degrees will cause them to strike the ground. He jerked the yoke right and the wings slugged that direction just before we struck the runway again.

The second impact was as violent as the first. I sat strapped inside a chamber of horrors watching the horizon rock left and right, wheels slamming against concrete shaking the panels, blurring our view of the runway ahead, the noise drowning out our curses.

Again we bounced but only slightly, and finally it was over. Lane steered us onto the high-speed exit ramp and motioned for me to take over. I looked at him. His tan had faded into a ghostly sheen. He breathed heavily through clenched teeth. I took the controls and saw an uncommon sight, my right hand shaking on the throttles.

“Dude,” I said. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”

I told him to call the cabin to see if the “rubber jungle” was out. Sometimes a hard landing will cause the passenger oxygen masks to deploy from the ceiling. 
Somebody who once saw that happen likened the dangling masks to jungle vines and so dubbed the bizarre sight. Lane picked up the interphone handset and called back. He asked if the masks were down. 

They weren’t. He asked the forward flight attendant if every one was okay. I heard him say, “I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry.”

At the gate we shut the engines down and sat, staring out the windshield, hearing people shuffle off. “You want to open the door?” Lane finally asked. I did not. I didn’t want to face those people. What would I do? Point at Lane and say, “He did it”?

“No. We’ve got to talk.”

Lane reviewed the terrible twenty seconds but seemed not to remember much. We talked about what we could or should have done. I asked him if he got the empty gut feeling just before the sink started, as I did. 

He said he thought so, but I wondered. I told him, “Next time, Power! Power! Power!” He nodded, his head hanging low, embarrassed and scared.

“Shake it off,” I said. “I’ve seen you fly. You’re a good pilot. It won’t happen again.”

He nodded.

I told him to go out and inspect the engine nacelles to make sure they weren’t damaged, and I called maintenance for an airframe inspection. Thanks to the sturdy designs of the Boeing Aircraft and Storm Door Manufacturing Company, they found no damage.

The next day we were back on final approach to 16L at Denver, Lane at the controls again. It was another good day. I knew Lane would be watching to see if I was close with my hands ready to take the controls. I wanted to do just that, but I decided not to. If I truly believed what I had told him the previous day about my having confidence in him, then I had to show it. I slumped back in my seat.

“Fifty feet,” the jet’s voice told us. “Thirty…ten.” Lane flared nicely. We hovered inches above the runway, the airspeed steadily decaying. We felt a gentle plop behind us, the main wheels touching. He flew the nose down. Another soft plop. He pulled the reversers into idle but didn’t use any reverse thrust. No need. We had plenty of runway and our turn-off was down toward the end. As the Boeing slowed we heard the high-pitched whine of the rotating nosewheels getting softer and softer, as they spun down. Lane took the high speed exit and motioned for me to take over.

I took over and said, “You kissed and made up with that runway, I see.”

He laughed. His tan and his confidence back, Lane became his perky self again, in the days ahead recounting and laughing at his punishing landing. “Take that, Runway! Pow! And that! And That! That’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget!”

And that, was the worst landing I ever sat through.

Rite of Passage

Nothing of importance happened this last trip, and in this business that’s “mission accomplished.” Unless you regard nothing of importance as getting 200 souls across the continent in 5 hours while they sleep, eat and watch movies. Of course I’m sure some of them bitched about it. For your amusement I took a few pics and a video along the way (below).

This trip, both ways from JFK to LAX, was United’s “Premium Service.” For that they’ve got a few 757s rigged up for mostly first class seats, with only a few coach seats in the back. The cost is high because these flights are built for high dollar travelers, and many times big Hollywood names take it. But none this time.

Big names? Let’s see. Over the years I remember: Neil Armstrong (Wouldn’t speak to us.) Bill Murray (Dressed like a slouch but left 1st Class to go back and clown around with the people in coach.) Barry Bonds (Treated the crew as if they didn’t exist.) Bob Newhart (Came up and asked me to turn on channel 9 for him. Ch. 9 is our air traffic control feed to the passengers. We’re the only airline that does it, but it’s at the captain’s discretion.) Al Gore (It was right after the 2000 election and he wasn’t in the best of moods.) Several rock stars I had never heard of, and a Munchkin from the Wizard of Oz. She was tiny and old, but bubbly and nice. In case you're wondering, the crew usually never asks for autographs. That’s bad form.

I also had Chuck Yeager, and that begs a story. We running very late from Denver to Chicago. So late, I had the power pulled back to save fuel. A flight attendant came up to bring us drinks and said, “Oh, by the way, there’s, like, an astronaut, or something back there.” I looked at the manifest. C. Yeager was listed in first class, seat 1B. My jumpseat pilot said he needed to go back to the lavatory. He would see if that was the Chuck of fame. I wondered if Yeager would live down to his reputation of being a jerk.

Twenty minutes later the jumpseater came back. “It’s him,” he said. “I chatted with him a long time. He’s really concerned about missing his connection to Washington.” When I heard that, I pushed the engines up and accelerated so quickly it pushed us back into our seats. I sent back a business card and a photo of Rusty and me in our Yak. It came back with a nice salutation on it, written with a shaky hand due to either old age or a few shots of mule kick. Both, I concluded.

After we landed the jumpseater opened the cockpit door quickly. Usually the first class people are gone when that door finally gets opened after shut-down checklists. But this time we wanted to know if the Great Yeager would bother to speak to us bottom feeders.

He came up smiling and shook our hands. He looked at me and said, “Alan, you didn’t have to push up the power like that and burn all that fuel just for me!” I said, “Yes we did, sir.”All three of us were ex-USAF pilots. We saluted him and he returned it, grinning.

We had crossed through a Rite of Passage. Chuck had recognized us as his peers. He was the best passenger I ever had.York.

Mecca! Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Cult followers of sport aviation will soon be descending upon it.












End of the road west. The Pacific, just a few blocks from the layover hotel. Remind me to tell you about "The Indian," the hotel's van driver...until the fight.

Redondo Beach. Great layover. The hotel rents bicycles.

Earnest Gann named a book after this awe-inspiring sight: Islands in the Sky. You've read it, right? These are the Big Bear Mountains, east of Los Angeles.

Sandy Hook Beach, on approach to JFK.

Below, First Officer Dean Krupa brings us in to New York.

Blue Water Aviators

I got that warm fuzzy feeling when I saw Honolulu show up on my schedule, and with most of the country still in the throws of a waning winter, Hawaii beamed at me. I beamed back.

I'm qualified to fly the Hawaii routes even thought I haven't done it as a working crew member in about 12 years, so I was hoping to get paired with a First Officer (F/O) who was more familiar. My F/O turned out to be an old friend, Brian Olsen, whom I had flown with on the pig jet (the 737). Almost immediately Brian said, “I've never flown to Hawaii, so you'll have to teach me the ropes!” Hooah.

On the way to Los Angeles we studied the manuals and charts like kids cramming for exams, and the next morning we set out west-by-southwest with 220 eager, pale-skinned vacationers and about 18,000 gallons of Exxon’s special reserve kerosene. Taking off out of LAX, you're “feet wet” in about 60 seconds and before you level off there’s nothing but blue water all directions. So there we were heading toward a few rocks in the middle of the Pacific, checking and double-checking to make sure we didn’t screw this up and go swimming. The California-to-Hawaii tracks are considered the world’s most remote over-water routes, meaning there are no en-route alternate airfields to seek refuge on if something of a sobering nature goes amiss. That “something” generally falls into three categories: cargo fire,engine failure, and depressurization.

If you lose an engine the jet will “drift down” to its maximum single engine altitude (the low 20-thousands) where the remaining engine consumes more fuel to reach land than both engines running at economy two-engine altitude. If you make a bad divert decision you could find yourself limping toward shore with fumes in the tanks. A depressurization event will force you even lower, to 10,000 feet, where the engines will guzzle your fuel like a boozer gulping the last of his bottle. All flights are planned with enough fuel to make land under both of these circumstances, but you've got to decide correctly about whether to turn back or keep going. In Ernest Gann’s days (read Fate is the Hunter) they called the decision point the “point of no return.” Sounds troubling. Today we use “equal time point” as the decision point.

We managed to establish ourselves on the proper track, and were encouraged to see that we were following the contrails of a jet ahead of us, a thousand feet higher. We couldn't get lost now, could we? But then we overtook him. Passing him I saw that it was a silver jet with a big red and blue AA logo (Alcoholics Anonymous?) on the tail, and we got worried again; those guys couldn’t possibly know their way outside of Texas.

Soon it was time to play the Halfway-to-Hawaii game. Brian got on the PA and gave the passengers information such as true airspeed, winds, and distance. They figure where the halfway point is, write it down and pass their guess to the flight attendants. Upon reaching the halfway point we announce the winner, who gets a bottle of Champaign. The passengers love the game so much the company put it in the operations manual and now require us to play it.

Five hours after takeoff we saw the big island off the port bow (don’t you love it when I talk Navy?). We knew then we would not miss the rocks, run out of gas and swim this day. Soon after, we saw Oahu, confirmed the Japanese were not attacking, and landed in that legendary island paradise. I was truly glad to be back there again. I love the feel of that air on your skin, and the scent of those warm salty Pacific breezes.  
Hawaii is an elixir. It isolates you from your cares and troubles.

A few years ago, knowing of the elixir’s power and wanting to share it with the family, Ellie and I decided to host a family vacation to Hawaii. We called the boys over for Sunday dinner and announced the plans. Could they go? “Is the Pope Catholic?” was their unanimous acclaim, and then “You payin’?” Scott leaned over to me and asked in a low tone, “Can Kelly go?” Kelly was his girl friend. I saw $$ signs  flashing. But I just couldn't say no.

That trip was a resounding success and we decided to do it again a couple of years later. It was another Sunday dinner, and this time our new daughter-in-law, Kelly was there. After discussing the plans, which this time included the guys paying more of their expenses, Brad leaned over to me with a smirk on his face and whispered in a low voice, “Can Rebecca go?” I was expecting it this time. Another fine trip ensued and we got to know Rebecca well. Both times we stayed in military beach cabins—a great perk fetched by 23 years guarding the Stars and Stripes.

A couple of years after the second trip we were sitting around the Sunday dinner table with Kelly and our newest daughter-in-law, Rebecca, reminiscing about the great Hawaii trips. 

The subject of a third trip came up. I looked at Rusty, wondering if he too would lean toward me for a low-toned question. Rusty was 10 years behind the older two, still in his teens. I suggested we wait a while longer for the next one.

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A great Hawaiian past-time: waiting for a table.

Into the Deep South

Last Sunday night I headed south—way south. This was the last in a long sequence of qualification rides that occur after 767 transition school. First there was domestic operational evaluation, then the Europe route qual, which qualified me for the Hawaii routes, and now the final one, South America. Now I can take a 767 anywhere United operates them without a check airman to nursmaid me along. It’s a good feeling.

 
We left Dulles at 9:45pm with about 200 people and 60 tons of fuel, skirted offshore of the Carolinas and lost sight of the U.S. abeam Jacksonville. As night fell we saw Nassau swim out of the dark Caribbean, then Cuba, and Jamaica. By then it was my rest period and I went back to the first class seat they reserved for us and snoozed. Three hours later, Bill, my check airman woke me up and took the rest seat. Coffee in hand, I went up to the flight and got back in the left seat. Stu, our first officer was minding the store in the right seat.

I looked down and saw a few ghostly shadows below us in the Amazon valley but no lights—no sign of life for hundreds of miles. Up ahead on the horizon we saw flashes of lightning. I had been warned about the “dry cell” thunderstorms that occur nightly along the equator. They don’t show up on radar well, so you revert back to the way St. Exupery watched for them. You turn down the cockpit lights and use the moon as your lantern.

As we searched for a gap in the storms, we knew could not deviate west under any circumstances; the Andes lie over there not far, reaching to within 8,000 feet of our flight level. 

No sweat, you say? If we got over them and lost an engine we would drift down into them in a matter of minutes. That would ruin a beautiful airplane.

Then Stu recognized a voice. It was a buddy on United flight 846. They had found their way through the storms. They told us to head east about 100 miles. Stu got permission from Amazonica Control and I cut toward the gap. Stu asked where they had eaten. “Café El Establo. Great steaks.” That was for us.

As we got closer the squall line treated us to dazzling light show and as we neared the gap we saw the lights of flight 846 coming out of the gap straight at us. I turned on my landing lights and then his appeared. He lit up like a super nova. Then he flashed underneath us heading north to where we left—Washington Dulles. We were flight 847 and we were headed to whence he came—Buenos Aires. Night after tomorrow, we would be flight 846 headed home.

The day broke over northern Argentina and we headed down the Parana River valley crossing hundreds of miles of neat farmlands. Bill came back up and Stu moved to the jump seat. The runway came into sight at Ezeiza airport and after 10 ½ hours I put the ’67 down, doing a fairly good job despite my eyes feeling like they had been polished with sandpaper.

On the way in to town it struck me that for the first time in my career, though I had made many long flights, this was the first time I had traveled so far (5,175 miles) and could have done it in my car. No oceans crossed. This comes into perspective when you consider the same distance west from Washington puts you at Midway Island.

I found BA to be an agreeable city. It was busy with traffic and pedestrians. It was colorful and laced with European architecture. Few of the locals spoke English but all were friendly. It was a pleasant stay and two nights later, with bellies full of Patagonian beef, we headed back north under a beaming moon, threaded the dry cells which were faithfully discharging their duty of guarding the equator, met flight 847 over the Amazon, and watched the dawn appear over the Chesapeake. It was a great trip, made better with the company of a good crew.

The Argentine "Pink House" where Evita Perone threw money down to the masses

Cafe La Bieola, said to be owned by Robert Duvall

Bill comes back up before landing back at Dulles. He signed me off.

Cody's Story

Here’s a compelling letter I got from a man who knew Cody Wanken. If you missed that post, have a look at it before you read this. Also read Jenny’s comment on her friendship with Cody.

Mr. Cockrell,

My name is Brian Sutter. I am writing you to say thank you for posting your touching words in your blog that you titled, "Stand Down, Marine." I just read it aloud to my girlfriend and struggled through it, fighting back tears. You see, I knew LCpl Cody Wanken very well.

I was there with Cody's family that cold, drizzly day on the tarmac at Des Moines International Airport. I am also a former United States Marine.
Cody was like a little brother to me. I met him 15 years ago when I began hanging around with his older brother, Andy. Over the years, I was fortunate enough to spend a lot of time with Cody and his family. Andy and I became best friends and I got to watch Cody excel in baseball and football in his youth.

Cody was 8 years old when I joined the Marine Corps and went off to boot camp in San Diego, CA. Even back then, all he wanted to be was a Marine. Years later, after I was discharged, he never wavered. Cody could have done anything with his life. He would have been great at anything, but it seems that being a Marine was his destiny, it was his dream.

I never worried about him surviving the rigorous training that is required to join the elite ranks of the U.S. Marine Corps. Cody was tough, confident and strong enough to take on the task. He is exactly what you want out of a Marine. He was also a natural leader, had a huge heart and just had a way with people. He always walked around with a huge smile on his face. He was that way his entire twenty years. Just thinking about him now brings a big smile to my face. He had that effect on everybody and obviously still does to this day.

Cody was very proud of being a Marine and we are all very proud of him. He understood the risks. He had no illusions. Cody was wounded in Iraq last September by an enemy round that did extreme damage to his jaw, ear and eye on his left side. He endured several surgeries and more pain than I can ever imagine, but still he never wavered. He would never allow all of us to see or know how much pain he was in. 

Whether it was talking to him on the phone or in person, he still had that fire and that big smile. He didn't want our pity. He was determined to recover and inspired all of us that knew him. He wanted to rejoin his unit. He wanted to continue serving his country. I had the honor of bringing him home from the airport after that first round of surgeries last fall. Andy and I got to be there when Cody and his father, Rick, came down the escalator near the baggage claim at Des Moines International Airport. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. He got to spend over a month with us here in Iowa while he was recovering. It was great to have him around again, and we thought the worst was behind us.

Cody Wanken died in his sleep on April 2, 2008. Andy had spoken to him the night before on the phone and he said it just sounded like the same old Cody. They laughed and joked around. They made plans for the future, they said their "I love you's" and said goodbye as usual. Words cannot describe what we all felt when we heard the news on the 2nd. I heard it from Andy and just started sobbing. It was and still is so unbelievable.

I had the honor of accompanying Rick, Sue and the rest of his family to the airport again. This time we brought him home for good. His pain is over and he no longer has to fight. He can rest easy now.

Thank you so much for writing those words in your blog. It means so much to us all to help put that day into words. Sometimes it takes someone on the outside looking in to describe something that well. I cannot describe what I felt that day; it is all just a series of images in my mind that I will never forget. You also took the time to pay tribute with your words to someone we all love and miss so much.

I don't know why I gave you all this information. I guess I thought you should know a little bit about LCpl Cody Wanken and what he meant to all of us. It's the least I can do since you took the time to share your thoughts with the world on your blog.

Thank you for honoring Cody.


Semper Fidelis,

Brian Sutter
Cpl USMC
1997 - 2001

April 13, 2008 8:35 PM

Stand down, Marine.

I just finished a rather stressful 4-day domestic trip, but I can't tell you why it was thus—some stories are best left in the hangar. Otherwise, it was an uneventful trip to some dull cities that were clad in even duller weather, that made me wish I was back home among sunny skies and dogwood blossoms. But a profound thing happened.

When I got to the United operations center at the Des Moines airport Tuesday afternoon my plane had not yet arrived but was due in 10 minutes. As I was reviewing the flight plan and weather for Chicago the station manager told me there might be a delay getting off the gate. The plane was bringing in a Marine casualty. The Marines intended to take their time recovering their dead.

I went out and waited against the wall under the loading bridge to get out of the cold rain. A hearst sat to the side, as did a couple of vans with Marines in them. A bag handler told me the Marines had requested that all bags be unloaded before the coffin, and after that only Marines be allowed in the cargo hold. At a distance, near the far edge of the ramp, other vehicles waited with police escort.

I watched the 757 turn in and glide to a stop, its nose bobbing down as the captain applied the brakes and compressed the nose strut. I don't know why but I always enjoy watching that. I couldn't help but think what an enormous and supremely beautiful airplane it is from such a close ground view. The hearst drivers must have thought so too; they were standing beside their vehicle pointing, gesturing, jabbering—irreverently it seemed, beside the Marines standing at solemn attention.

I moved closer when the last bag was removed and the Marines lined up, four on each side of the belt loader. Then I saw an amazing spectacle. Two high ranking Marines, a colonel and a gunnery sergeant, walked up the loader and got into the filthy cargo hold, got on their hands and knees and draped the flag over the coffin of Lance Corporal Cody Wanken. I was instantly convinced that, had the Commandant of the Marine Corps been there, he would have done that dirty job himself. These people are of a different breed.

The two had difficulty manhandling the coffin onto the belt loader and two United rampers scrambled up to assist. Finally down it came, slowly, on the belt. I heard the gunnery sergeant yell, "Present Arms!" and saw the sharp salutes go up. Instinctively, so did mine. As the coffin arrived in front of the honor guard they lowered their salutes, very slowly, and took the handles. The dazzling red white and blue draped coffin and the brassy Marines' dress uniforms made a compelling contrast with the colorless airport shrouded with low hanging clouds and depressing drizzle.

As they carefully placed the coffin in the hearst I saw the gathering in the distance. TV cameras were pointed our way. Several people were crying. One young man was convulsing with great sobs. Three people stood out in front of the crowd, a man and a woman with another person standing behind them holding an umbrella over them. The man hovered over the woman, clutching her. He stood tall, wearing everyday clothes and a ball cap. The woman was holding a handkerchief to her face. I wondered what they were thinking. Were they proud, angry, or just numbed? And I wondered what it would be like to stand in their place watching one of my sons being taken off that aircraft.

What I was watching was a sight that had been repeated at the Des Moines airport and many other others across the land for scores of years. The only change was the people and the planes. And there’s no end to these ceremonies in sight, but don’t take that as a commentary on the war. It’s just an observation on the world we live in, and those before us, and those to come. It’s an affirmation of the fundamental truth that freedom is never free.

It didn't seem right for me to photograph what I saw, as I was standing very close. I found this picture of a similar ceremony on the internet.

While I was searching for the above picture, I found this one. If this dead soldier could see, this is what his last sight of his mother would be.

When in Rome...

Imagine going to (arguably) the most picturesque city in the world—Rome. Imagine further that, in preparation for your trip, you carefully laid your camera out beside your bag so as to not forget it.

You dork. You should know you must put it IN your bag.

By now you know I have no pics of Rome, but since some people think I'm a word wizard I'll risk blaspheming Rome by trying to describe it. Yet before I do that there is one more logistical nightmare to tell of. Shortly after arrival I set out with the bunkie to go to the Vatican. (The “bunkie” is the third pilot, or relief pilot, that goes along on flights greater than eight hours.) The bunkie knew Rome pretty well and yelled to me as we boarded a crowded subway train, “Watch your wallet here!”

By now you know my wallet was being picked even as the bunkie was warning me. Fortunately the thief was a compassionate one, and simply threw my wallet onto the train floor after he plied his stealthy trade. He even left me two ten Euro bills. He also left my debit card, surely hoping that I—his low hanging fruit—would suck up to the ATM again.

But visit the Vatican, I did, and was truly awed by the marvelous architecture, history and art honoring the birth and life of our Savior and the saints that followed Him. I particularly enjoyed the long trek to the Sistine Chapel. The walk takes you through long, winding corridors and chambers that are loaded with sculpture, frescos, tapestries, and endless murals, until you finally reach the chapel and look up and see Michelangelo’s awesome paintings on the ceiling. 

They won't let you take flash photography in there (why should I care?) but some people did. There were so many crowded in the chapel, the Vatican police could never find the ones who flashed. Thousands of people looked up murmuring, and the guards “sshh-ed” and it got quite, but then the murmurs rose again, and again the “sshh.” And finally we flowed out of the chapel, like a piece of flotsam in a flooding river, to let the endless currents of people come in behind. Old Mick had the right idea; you've got to look up to see Creation's greatest masterpieces.

The long ride from the airport into Rome is a treat itself. You see the clean, crisp countryside—rolling green hills contrasted with clear blue sky, studded with neat red farm houses and barns. You see right away that you are in a land of vivid color and wish you had a camera. Getting closer to the city you start to see ruins. Rome is replete with ruins from the old empire, and as you ride through a modern, bustling city you pass awesome stands of two-thousand year old ruins in various states of decay. But you don't get a sense of neglect and deterioration. Not at all. The ruins are clean, ringed in moats of green grass, interlaced with manicured arboretums and bounded with strange magnificent pine trees that go straight up, bare as telephones, before blossoming out like great umbrellas. I always knew Rome was an architectural wonder, but I never imagined that it would be so laced with the natural beauty of grasses, shrubs and trees. 

Oh, for a camera.

And then came a huge thrill. Just as our van was approaching our hotel we rounded a corner and there, close as the wingspan of the jet we brought in, was the Colleseum, rounded, columned and tall, rising toward the sky, more magnificent that any modern day sports arena because you knew it was two thousand years old. Riding around it to the hotel several of the crew remarked as to how you could almost hear the shouts of the ancient crowds inside there. 

Absolutely awesome.

The modern structures were eye-pleasing as well. The apartment buildings were finished in stucco and painted with subtle earth tomes and pastels of off-yellow, pale pink, ocher, burnt orange, and dozens of colors I can't name, yet none were gaudy. They all blended with the city and its greenery, and at the street level many of them hosted sidewalk cafes. Romans love to drink their dark, rich coffees and deep red wines at little round tables in the sunshine. We joined in with them that evening and found ourselves sitting beside a table of newly graduated Auburn chicks. They were working as nannies!

Don't ever ask me again to describe Rome. I'm not good enough. I'll sin again if I try. Just make sure I take my camera, and kick my empennage if you have to.

Into the Terminator

There’s hardly a more profound time in any pilot’s cockpit than those rare moments just before sunrise or just after sunset while in a high cruise and he/she sees…the “terminator.” No, it’s not a giant scary specter of Arnold Schwarzenegger. But it is awe-inspiring.

To astronauts in orbit the terminator is simply the dividing line between daylight and darkness on the Earth’s surface. Awesome as that must look, the terminator appears quite different to the airline pilot, or passenger who watches for it and knows what to expect.

For us the terminator is the shadow of the Earth’s horizon as it is projected against a morning or evening skyscape. The part of the sky still bathed in daylight is blue, the rest black. 

Flying toward the terminator you watch it climb high in your windshield until you are suddenly in darkness. But here’s the real treat: if you are high enough and the sky is clear enough, you can see the Earth’s curvature in the terminator’s shape. It’s a sight that will still the tongue if it happens to be wagging, and will mesmerize the eyes and heart.

I once called a flight attendant up to see it. She came into the cockpit prattling about meaningless minutiae and suddenly froze when she looked ahead and saw it. As I explained what it was, I saw the woman had lost her ability to speak. She just stared with her jaw hanging low.

Here’s a pic of the terminator last Thursday night over Kansas as we flew west. The camera didn’t catch the curvature. But you can, if you’ll watch for it on your rides through the high stratosphere.

The next day a long delay in the holding pad in Denver drove me to open the flight deck door and invite people up to the front office. We can do that with the engines shut down, captain’s discretion. 

Two young sisters frolicked up and began asking questions so advanced I thought I was in an oral examination. I left the cockpit so that Randy, my F/O, could answer them. 

Randy is a retired Navy Hornet driver. He also flew A-7s, so we got along great.

Randy and I earned our pay that day. The weather in Philadelphia was forecast to be lousy. The airline had planned for plenty of extra fuel to account for various possibilities, but Randy advised me to add an extra thousand pounds (150 gallons or so). I asked why. The flight plan seemed to provide for enough. Randy winked and said, “It’s Philly.” I said sure. I crossed out the fuel load on the flight plan and wrote in a new load, 1,000 pounds higher. The total may have been 49,000 pounds, if I remember.

Randy was right on. We held for almost an hour outside Philly and when they finally let us go in the winds at the field picked up to over 50 knots. I broke off the approach and we held again. We told Philly Approach Control if the winds didn’t lessen to below 40 knots in 10 minutes we were bolting for Baltimore. They came down to 35 and we slipped in without a problem. If Randy hadn’t suggested that extra thousand back on the ground in Denver we would have surely diverted.

Randy ain’t bad…for a Navy puke.

AC out.

Give me a break!
Isn't it obvious that my
window is open?!












No that isn't a missile we just launched. It's a 737 1,000 feet under us, which we are overtaking.