Christmas, 1972

There comes a season in a guy’s youth that finds a niche and lingers on in his aging mind and body. It resides there, warm and sweet, lying like a purring cat that you don't pay much attention to, yet are aware it's there, and once in a while you glance at it and nod.

For me it was December 1972.

A week-long Christmas break approached. Soon all the jets at our base would go quiet. Icicles would grow long from their wings and noses, and we, who rode them daily, made plans to head home. “Who is going near Memphis?” I heard a guy say during the commotion of student pilots closing books and gathering gear. I told him I was going through there. He would be welcome to ride.

Three days later we made our way east across I-40 alternately driving and snoozing. There wasn’t much talk. We both were mentally exhausted. Willie loved to crack jokes about my car. In fact, he never saw a chain he didn't try to jerk. I had bought a new Chevrolet Vega (don’t laugh). Being a Corvette man—although he didn’t have one yet—he had asked to see what was under the hood. I popped it and he howled, “Someone stole half of your engine!”

I dropped Willie off in Memphis in the kind of deep cold dark that only December can manufacture and then started south on I-55. By the time I turned east on US 82, my eyes were shutting down. Cold fog and mist streamed by the Vega as I yawned and tried to think about what I was going to tell my mother about who I had met. I didn’t relish answering her inevitable questions about my personal life outside of her purview. Maybe I would just say nothing.

The depressing night wore on and my gas needle fell low. I didn’t want to run out of gas at that time of night in rural Mississippi, so I perked when a “Sinclair Dino” sign came into view. I pulled into the pump. The station was old and run down, the front festooned with huge tobacco and soft drink adds. An old, bundled-up, stooped-over fellow began to fill my tank. I was thankful of the Vega’s tiny gas tank and soon the fill-up was done. I followed the man inside and saw a pot-belly stove near the counter. I heard its hissing, felt its warmth. I paid the man and he gave me a paper cup of coffee with my change. As I turned toward the door I heard him say, “Come to the fire and sit a while.” I paused and peered at the stove again. I thought about the two and a half hours left in my drive. I uttered no-thanks, and went out into the freezing gloom without softening that fellow's loneliness and maybe having my own life enriched from him. Not lingering by that fire with that old soul has been a nagging regret.

Three days at home was a good respite but hardly relaxing. I had to make the rounds. Nobody talked about the war, although it was all over the news. It had heated up again. A huge air campaign was underway over North Viet Nam—Operation Linebacker II. Although I was moving in a pipeline that ended at that war, strangely I paid no attention to it. I had had fallen in love with two mistresses in the past few months, a woman named Eleanor and a plane named Talon. My mind never really came home.

With my brief visit over I left home without so much as a word to my mother about Eleanor. She would have wanted to know that. She certainly did have a right to know. I guess I was afraid the relationship would break up and I didn’t want to have to tell her that.

Willie was packed and waiting when I stopped to get him in Memphis. He was as anxious to get back as I was. We hit I-40 west and resumed the drive/snooze routine without much talk. At one gas stop he came out of the station and threw a handful of objects into the car. He howled like a hyena as they scattered and fell, some sliding into crevasses. I picked one up. It was a condom. I searched the car for days to get them all out.

Just inside Oklahoma we stopped again for gas and decided to get a bite at an adjacent restaurant. As I parked the Vega I saw blue lights behind me. I told Willie I would join up with him in the restaurant. The officer said I had failed to stop when I came out of the gas station. I told him I didn’t see a stop sign. As he jotted on his ticket pad he said there was a law in Oklahoma that says you’ve got to stop when joining a main highway, sign or no sign. I admitted my ignorance of the law and apologized. He then paused and looked at the base sticker on my car. “Are you in the military?” he asked. I told him we were in Air Force pilot training and were headed back to the base after Christmas break. He lowered his ticket pad. The look on his face puzzled me. It wasn’t one of respect, as a veteran might get today from a law officer, but one of sympathy. People were profoundly tired of the Viet Nam war, and he seemed one of them. He finally said, “Well, I guess ya’ll have got enough to worry about.” He wished us well and left. Willie was astounded when I told him.

We checked back in at the base that night and suited up the next morning to start the final weeks of training. Linebacker II roared back after taking Christmas day off and the slaughter 10,000 miles away resumed. We paid it no mind.

A few days before graduation, when all the flying and academic work was finished, a great party erupted and we vented off colossal amounts of pressure in a little known room in the basement of the officer’s club called the ‘stag bar.’ No women allowed. Expect for certain invited ones. Since I was now about to get issued both wings and a wife in the same week, squadrons of bottles and glasses were shoved front of me and great slaps of congratulations descended on my back. The same songs got played continuously on the juke box, mainly "Witchy Woman" and (ironically) "Love Train." Hearing them this day takes me back to that stag bar.

Suddenly a shout went up followed by hoots and whistles. I turned and saw my classmate Phil had gone onto the stage, joined the dancer and was having a hootin’ good time, as were we all. In the wee hours the party died out and I started toward my dorm. Somebody in the darkness was staggering alongside. It was Willie. “Which way is it?” he slurred. I couldn't answer because I had no idea where I was. There was a lot of grass under us, so it could have been the parade field. A few yards later we were crawling and that’s the last I remember of that night.

A couple of days later our mothers or wives pinned our wings on us on that parade field. My mother got the honor for that with Eleanor at her side, but she wasn’t too happy about being kept in the dark during my Christmas visit.

With a suddenness that struck me with a sense of loss, our close-knit class spilt up and went all directions to pick up new jobs in USAF cockpits. The war had ended right after Christmas. Linebacker II was a bloody blow to our adversaries and caused them to seek a settlement. None of our class would ever see combat in Viet Nam, although many of us went there in the aftermath to cover the retreat. But that did not guarantee there would be no casualties. Two years later Phil died in a corn field in northeast Michigan along with his C-130 crew. A few years after that Willie, call sign Thunderbird Two, met death in the desert north of Las Vegas. Neither of the crashes were the result of pilot error.

And so I remember Christmas 1972, and the rest of that winter because of a string of little things, that started with a missed opportunity at a stove, all of which portended things to come—profound things. Good things and sad things. Things that began in a season. 

That Damn Dream

It's been a long stretch of days off since I last set the brakes on a 767 at gate E-18 at Houston in July 2014. Hence I thought I might fire Decision Height back up to let my followers know what has been going on.

I've been busier than a retired man ought to be. My time is split among my growing cadre of grandkids, our church, our boat, the travel trailer trips, and of course, the Fightin' Skeeter, my Van's RV-6. Then toss in disaster relief mission trips, home repair/improvement projects, trying to finish up two books and flying a few trips as a Citation jet co-pilot. But first I should tell you about the dreams because they more or less explain the most common question I get these days. "Do you miss it?"

The dreams all share a common thread. United crew scheduling calls, asks me if I’m doing well and offers me a nice four day international trip. They say they have found a small loophole in the FAA’s age 65 retirement rules that would allow me to come back every now and then, at my convenience of course. I tell them I can work it in. But I'm needed right away and so I throw some things into the Travelpro. Next I find myself in one or more of the following scenarios.

• I am getting off my commuter flight at the airport and I have forgotten my uniform.
• I am looking at a departure board to find my gate but can’t because I didn’t jot down my assigned flight number.
• I can't use the destination city to find my gate because I forgot it. 
• I am at the door to Flight Operations but can’t remember the security code.
• I am at the flight planning computer in operations but can’t remember the log-in password.
• I am with a group of pilots at a flight planning table and they're sore that I have come back to hog more flying.
• I am hurrying along the concourse to my flight but not wearing my pants.
• I am hopelessly confused where my gate is and the pressure is on to get an “on-time” departure.
• I never make it to the cockpit.   

Mind you, the dreams are always a preposterous blend of two or more of these calamities.You would think maybe just once I could get in the jet and take off, or at least taxi it. Not happening. Strangely, after these decades since I retired from military flying I have dreams about that too, and in them I am recalled to active duty but never get the satisfaction of getting into a C-141 or an A-7 cockpit. I always just show up at the base and lose my way. This is cruel. But this is retirement.

So, yeah, I do miss it. I miss the sunsets, sunrises, the aurora and the satisfaying feel of the jolt when the wheels plop down after a 10 hour all-nighter. But mostly I miss the fine guys and gals I flew with. I follow them on their Facebook pages. I love the photos they take and the stories they tell. One of them (subject of “The BlueMoment”) frequently takes me to lunch or out fishing and I get all the scoop on what’s cooking at Uncle U’s.

I have a few stories to share with you in the coming weeks. I’ll tell you about “Decision Height,” the book, still in development. (Only about half the material in it comes from this blog. The rest is new.) I’ll tell you about the greatest flight of my life in the RV-6. You’ll hear about my attempt to pass-ride on United and how it became another commuting nightmare with gigantic rations of deja vu. And I’ll tell you the sorrowful story of how I almost lost my life two years ago in a mid-air collision. (The other person did.)

If you are new to Decision Height I encourage you to browse the archives listed on the right sidebar. To keep your experience the best it can be I don't allow ads or clickbait. Please share the link to Decision Height on your other media. The platform will helpful to me in the coming months when Decision Height (the book) is launched.

 

 

Proud of Uncle U.

 Click the wings for an eye-wetting story.

 

New Horizons

My last flight with United happened over a month ago. Why have I waited so long to write about it? Am I too wistful about it to face the blank page? Does it hurt to recall it? Am I reluctant to sever my link with that era in my life?

Nah. I’ve just been too busy. First there was a long family weekend event. (Weekend: I know what that is now.) Then there was a week at AirVenture at Oshkosh. (I flew a nice CJ-6 warbird up there at the invitation of its owner.) And after that I suffered the hellish anxiety of a low and slow Cessna 182 flight from Arizona to Alaska, then hung out in Alaska for 10 days. This retirement thing is tough. But about that last flight…

Nothing profound happened. My wife and two of the three sons (you’ll recall the third one, Rusty, accompanied me to Buenos Aires on my next-to-last flight) went along with reserved coach seats. We had a great 50 hour layover in Frankfurt. We took a Rhine River cruise one day and a train to Heidelberg the next day to see the castle. We also hung out with the crew in the local restaurants and watering holes around the layover hotel. As a bonus, we witnessed the pandemonium in the streets after the Germans won the world cup. That experience alone was unforgettable.

The guys insisted I fly both legs, and so on the return flight to Houston I was at the controls for the last time. Curiously, the arrival and landing seemed more challenging than usual. So very much was happening on the radio and on the weather scene that I was a bit behind the aircraft. Maybe it was because I was so used to arrivals at 5am when nothing much is happening. Maybe I was just tired or had decided to retire before completing the flight.

Thunderstorms were popping up everywhere and the radio with both Houston Center and Approach Control was hopping busy. Our STAR (Standard Arrival Route) was changed three times and our arrival runway also three times. STAR charts and approach charts were flying out of our kit bags, only to be cast aside as quickly as they were gotten set up, and replaced by others. Instructions and clearances flowed in through our headsets at a pace that allowed no day-dreaming or nostalgic reflections. We were simply busy as hell.

When finally we were established on ILS final to runway 27 I tried to relax and just make a good landing. I was ready for it to all be over. As we passed the outer marker and switched to tower we learned that an emergency aircraft was breathing down our tail. The tower wanted us to keep the speed up as long as possible. Great. Now, on my last flight I’m risking a go-around for not getting slowed. The F/O shook his head and said, “Sorry, Boss. With that emergency you’ll probably not get a water salute.” I grunted something to the effect that I was too tired to care.

I wanted the last landing to be a good one, but it was a so-so one—not smooth. I didn’t care; we were down and I could relax. The tower congratulated me on retirement and asked us to exit the runway ASAP.  As we did I saw legions of emergency vehicles sweep past us. We never did find out what the emergency was about.

But the confusion and busywork were not over. The emergency had caused taxi routes to change from normal and we goofed up our instructions. I made a wrong turn and only after making it did I realize that the fire department had left one truck for me! The ground controller, sounding exasperated, re-cleared us to the new way that I had inadvertently chosen, while telling us that the fire truck was expecting us on the other route. I thought, Okay, Klutz, they are trying to honor your retirement and you’re making it difficult for them. I expected that truck to give up its chase for us and join its peers out at the emergency site.

But, low and behold, the truck gunned its engine, wheeled around, reversed its course and raced ahead of us toward gate E-18, our assigned gate. As I made the last turn to line up with the gate I heard the truck chief say on ground control frequency, “Sorry Captain, due to the emergency we can only give you half a salute.” I muttered a thank you. About 50 feet from the stopping point we went IFR in heavy rain and had to use wipers.

I set the brakes and ordered the engines shut down for the last time, got slapped on the back by my two co-pilots, handed my coat and hat and ushered to the door. Did they want me out of there that soon? No, they knew the passengers wanted to congratulate me, and so I let them. I got lots of handshakes, a lot of thank you’s for a great landing (those were polite lies), and even a few hugs. Then it was done.

I stopped by the flight office, turned in my company I-Pad and ID badge, took one sweeping look around the place and headed to the home-bound gate to meet the rest of the family. For the first time in 25 years I had a one-way positive space ticket in my hand to Huntsville, Alabama. This was one commute flight I would not get bumped from.

Decision Height has nearly half million hits since it started. I don’t know how many of those were full reads, or just touch-and-goes, and I don’t know how many people regularly follow it. Over the years I have crossed paths with total strangers who read it and have been privileged to meet with others whom I knew were regular followers. I have judiciously kept the profiteers out of it. If I’ve done anything right, it’s been protecting you, the reader, from the annoyance and indignity of commercial ads.

Thanks and best wishes to all of you. I enjoy hearing from you either by e-mail or the blog’s comment bar. Keep the RSS feed open. I’ll think about whether to continue to post to Decision Height or start something with a new direction and twist. I should finally be getting some time to ponder those things, since I am starting a rather long stretch of days off.

Tailwinds and fair skies.

 

The last crossing

Last Atlantic sunrise from as seen from the front office

Grandson Hayes sees us off

After 42 years suffering me, Eleanor still can make a jumpseat look good

Scott & Brad on the Rhine

Did I bomb this thing once?

The breakdown is: 4800 military, 5000 general aviation, 12,700 airline.

 Planning to add more to the logbook

Nothing by Chance

 

You dedicated devotees of classical aviation literature recognized my title, stolen from Richard Bach. Bach and I diverge on the question of what or who constitutes higher authority. (I’m talking way, way high.) But we agree that what happens to us happens not by chance, but by design. And the events surrounding my last days at the airline validate that belief—at least to me.

I was awarded a line for July, my last month. Such a surprise. Just as I'm making my way to the exit the seniority list is beginning to flow in the right direction. No matter. At least now, though, I will have had some control over how that exit transpired. The company remained cold; there would be no assistance in getting me into a decent retirement trip. It was all up to me. 

My final trip in my schedule would be Sao Paulo—not a good one. It is all-night flying, a relatively short layover, and visas were required of my accompanying family members. I decided that if I had to do that, it would be just a “fade away” trip. No fanfare. The family would stay home. But if only I could trade the Sao Paulo trip for the Frankfurt trip. That would be the ticket—a 50 hour (2 night) layover that returned in the daytime. And no visa required. I set about researching which captains had that trip in their schedules the week I needed the trade.

I took my list to the flight office seeking phone numbers. Verboten! Can’t give them out they said. But the secretary would dial the numbers for me. Okay. She dialed the first number. I got a voice message. I left a humble plea asking the recipient to trade me his Frankfurt trip for my Sao Paulo trip so that I could get my family along on a grand retirement finale.

Then on to the second captain. I got an answer. “Is this Captain XXX?” I asked. There was a hesitation. I thought I had gotten a bogus number. Then a drawn out, “Yeeeeessssss.” It sounded like a line out of a Pink Panther movie, as if the guy thought I was an IRS auditor or something. I gave him my speech. He said July was also his last month and he had all Frankfurt trips and didn’t want to trade any of them away. I bade him a happy retirement and his only response was a click of the phone line going off.

The third call got another voice mail. I had high hopes for the fourth call because I knew the guy personally. He had always been a very likeable person and all the co-pilots loved flying with him. He said he was very happy to hear from me and congratulated me on my retirement. I got pumped up. Frankfurt, here we come! Then surprise and disappointment. “Alan,” he said, “I hate, hate, hate, hate… (there were at least 6-8 ‘hates’)…going to Sao Paulo. I really don’t want to do that unless you can’t find anyone else. Call me back if you can’t.” I thanked him and resolved to not ever call him back. (Besides, Sao Paulo isn’t at all a bad layover.)

The fifth call yielded another voice mail and the sixth got a guy on the golf course, who flat turned me down. He was busy with his game. None of the guys I left voice messages with bothered to call back, except the last one.

I thanked the secretary for letting me use the company phone and went to the lounge to nap and ponder. (I had a late departure for London). Half an hour later my phone rang and it was the last guy I called, Captain Eric Brown. I didn’t know him. His opening remark was, “I would be honored to trade with you for your retirement flight.”

And so Eric and I set in motion the protocol for a private pilot-to-pilot trip trade, done via computer inputs. The result came back: Unable trade: Illegalities. I called the crew desk and asked them why. They didn’t know. I asked them to manually put the trade through. The terse reply: “We can’t do that.” I asked to speak to a supervisor and got the exact same verbiage.

The next day I called the chief pilot’s office. As expected he was not in and I got an underling. The underling scratched his head over my predicament, said from what he could see it was a legal trade, and he would place a call to someone else to see what the problem was. At this point I had abandoned hope and told the family that Frankfurt would probably not materialize.

Two days later I checked my schedule and the Sao Paulo trip was gone. In its place, Frankfurt. I called Eric. He had already found out what happened. One of the first officers scheduled on the Frankfurt trip was over age 60. The computer’s logic rejected the trade because the FAA does not allow two guys over aged 60 in the cockpit together. At least that’s what I, and most everybody else thought. But the head guy in scheduling knew that the FAA’s rule was intended for normal scheduling purposes. In other words, the FAA does not want the airline to routinely schedule two over-sixties together. Last minute adjustments that go contrary to the rule are okay. So the trade went through. I told the family we were going. The secretary that lent me her phone fell to work setting up the arrangements to get my wife and two of the three sons positive space tickets and reserve a second hotel room. She was great.

After all this transpired I asked some first officers if they had ever flown with Eric, and what he was like. Several had. They praised him highly—a great captain, they all said. Eric restored my confidence in my peers. I think there are many more like him than not.

So, was I too critical of the company a couple of posts back when I wrote about its cold-as-steel apathy toward what is regarded as an airline pilot’s most important trip? No. I don’t think so. They do only what is required of them by agrement with the pilot's union, although they do produce a nifty retirement trip brochure telling what they can/can’t do for the trip. The last sentence in the brochure offers a hint that there is at least some human spirit and wit left in the behemoth corporation: “You only get one retirement trip per career.”

Next time, the trip, and parting thoughts.

p.s.: Rusty made it back from Buenos Aires a day after I had to leave him down there.

Sunrise over the Andes. 

Wow, let's take some pictures.

Ouch, get the blast shields out.

 From my last 757 trip last month: my last flight over the Rockies