Sojourners of the Sky

by Clayton Taylor

  Slightly wet and shivering, John rubbed his hands together as he climbed the airstairs placed against the forward entry door on the left side of the airplane. At a height of just over six feet, the brown-haired, one hundred and ninety pound copilot had to duck his head as he passed through the forward entryway. The warm air struck his face the moment he entered the cabin, helping to take the edge off the chill he felt. John brushed the water droplets from his finely tailored dark jacket, unconsciously willing his hand to apply a little less pressure as it passed over the three gold stripes on his sleeve. He would have removed his white cap, but to do so in the presence of passengers was not allowed.

  John glanced toward the rear of the airplane and noticed all fifty-four coach seats were full. It also appeared as though every one of the sixteen first class seats, located in the rear of the aircraft, were also occupied. He could see his captain in the back of the airplane speaking with a couple of their “high-end” passengers and decided that it would be best to keep a low profile and proceed directly to the cockpit. As the copilot turned to his left he bumped into Kelly Brennen, their Purser for the flight. Kelly would be in charge of the cabin.

  Without the company mandated heels, Kelly stood five-five and was quite meticulous about her curly red hair. Her light-colored, freckled skin had made her the target of ridicule as a young girl. But as an adult, Kelly figured out how to apply just the right amount of makeup to accentuate the good looks she’d been born with. Though the childhood teasing had indeed left her scarred, she learned to deal with her problems by building walls and taking control. She was only twenty-four years old, but secretly lived in fear that her domineering personality, a part of her that she seemed unable to quell, meant she would likely end up a spinster.

  “Hi, Kelly. I didn’t get to meet the other two stewardesses this afternoon at the briefing. They aren’t running late are they?” asked John.

  “Hi, Mr. Tacker, they’ll be along in a minute. Our supervisor had a couple of issues with their uniforms and fingernails,” replied Kelly, rolling her eyes. She had flown with John on one other occasion, and if the passengers were not within earshot she would have called him by his first name.

  “I didn’t get a look at the crew list. Who else are we flying with?” queried John.

  “Liesel Vantall and Sue Gruber,” said Kelly.

  John perked up when he heard Liesel would be on board. He’d flown with her a few times and considered her to be one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met. Unfortunately, other than saying hello and goodbye, he’d never had the courage to speak with her. But in spite of the fact that his mouth refused to operate, his eyes could hardly look away whenever Liesel was in the vicinity.

  “You’ve met the rest of the cockpit crew then?” asked John.

  “Oh yes, I have,” she said. “Lars is new. I’ve never flown with him, but the others have been around a while.”

  “Yeah, this is Lars’s first trip, but don’t be concerned. We also have G.R. to help keep an eye on things,” noted John.

  “I know all about G.R., but thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to tell the other stewardesses that he’ll be on the prowl,” said Kelly as she turned to walk back into the cabin.

  With a smile and a wink, John turned toward the main office. Once in the cockpit he turned to squeeze past Ed Vito, their navigator for the flight, who was sitting at a small table on the right side of the cockpit. “Ed, me boy, how’s life in the big city?” asked John with a happy grin.

  Speaking with a deep Italian accent that he couldn’t hide even if he wanted to, Ed replied, “Everything is-ah pretty good, John. Thank you so much for asking.”

  The Vito family moved to the lower east side of Manhattan when Ed was just a boy. They opened an Italian restaurant that became the talk of the city after only six months in business. Of course, there were the occasional whispers that the mob was involved. Certainly the Vito family seemed to have plenty of money, more than any single restaurant could generate.

  Even Ed didn’t seem to need the money he earned at Pan Am. With dark hair and dark eyes, Ed was thirty, slim and single. And regardless of where he was going, he always dressed to the nines, unless of course he was required to be in uniform. He wore his hair slicked back and seemed to know everyone with an Italian last name.

  One personal quirk of Ed’s was that he never left the house with less than a couple of grand in his pocket. This at a time when that amount of money would be more than enough to make a sizeable down payment on a two bedroom house in an upscale neighborhood. When asked about it, Ed would reply, “Hey, you never know when you’re gonna see something you want to buy.” And as if words weren’t enough, Ed would often use his hands to accentuate what he was trying to say.

  “Hello, G.R.,” said John, as he slipped past the flight engineer who was sitting at a very small panel a few feet forward of Ed Vito’s station.

  “Hello, John,” replied G.R., without bothering to look up from his work.

  “G.R., the stews are on to you, so you might want to check the passenger list for any single women you can harass. And I’d appreciate it if you would give Liesel a wide berth. I’m very much hoping to get to know her better,” said John.

  Gary Grey, or, G.R., was the senior flight engineer on board. Though not a pilot, and with no interest whatsoever in becoming one, there was literally nothing he didn’t know about the DC6.

  All Pan Am pilots considered a good flight engineer to be worth his weight in gold. Indeed, Pan Am flight engineers earned the equivalent of eighty-five percent of captain pay--a fact that irritated copilots to no end.

  G.R.’s job would be to manage, and repair if necessary, all of the aircraft systems. It was a demanding job, which was why Pan Am scheduled two flight engineers for their lengthy all-nighter across the Atlantic Ocean to London Heathrow.

  “You can have Liesel, John. I’m not interested. Those German girls are great looking, but they end up getting fat from eating all those potatoes,” stated G.R., while keeping his eyes on the switches and knobs he was setting on his panel.

  G.R was closing in on fifty, but he didn’t look it, and more importantly he didn’t feel like it. With biceps threatening to tear through the seams in his shirt, deep blue eyes and only a hint of gray hair, G.R. used all that he had to get what he wanted. If ever there was a man who used his small head to do his thinking, it was G.R. Of course, that mindset only kicked in when he wasn’t busy fulfilling his role as a highly respected flight engineer.

  John turned to look at Lars, sitting on one of the two bunks adjacent to the engineer station. Holding the position of junior flight engineer, this would be Lars’s first trip on the DC6 and he was intently watching his superior’s actions.

  “Lars, did you spot the nick on one of the prop blades on the number two engine?” asked John.

  Without looking away from G.R.’s hand action, Lars replied, “Sure did, John. It’s within specs. It’s also in the ship’s log.”

  “Very well,” said John.

  John noticed the other copilot for the flight was already sitting in the left seat, actively preparing that side of the cockpit in anticipation of their captain’s arrival. Watching the young man busily check and set the various switches and knobs, John asked, “Asa, would you like to sit in the right seat for landing tonight?”

  Asa looked at the more senior copilot, and with a surprised voice asked, “What?”

  Normal policy at Pan Am dictated that the senior copilot sit in the left seat whenever the captain was on break. He also sat in the right seat during takeoff and landing. The junior pilot usually didn’t have any choice in the matter. He was only there to give the other pilots the benefit of a nap. If the captain didn’t feel like flying that day, and the senior copilot was willing to give up the chance to perform a takeoff or landing himself, then only a fool would decline the offer. Having been on the job less than three months, Asa wasn’t sure he’d heard the more senior copilot correctly.


  “Based on the weather, I think Charles is going to make the takeoff, but he might give up the landing. If you want to sit in the right seat just in case, it’s yours,” said John as he maneuvered himself into the right front seat.

  “Uh, yeah, that would be sharp,” responded Asa.

  The minute John was situated in his seat, he, like Asa, set about pre-positioning all of the switches and handles to prepare the aircraft for flight. Their goal was to have everything ready before the captain set foot in the cockpit.

  Captain Charles Pratt entered the cockpit twenty minutes prior to departure. At five-foot-eight, one hundred and forty pounds, with sandy brown hair and blue eyes, the captain appeared to be nothing more than strictly average. He had no scars, no tattoos---nothing whatsoever that might distinguish him from any man one might meet on any street in any city in America. However, what did distinguish Charles from most others was the transformation he went through whenever he sat in the left seat of a DC6. There were very few pilots on the Pan Am seniority list that commanded the same level of respect as Captain Pratt. His aeronautical knowledge, experience and sheer talent at piloting a four-engine airplane across an ocean was almost legendary at Pan American Airways. Outside the cockpit, however, Charles was meek, frequently unsure of himself, and more often than not, completely without backbone. He’d made captain in his late thirties, which wasn’t unheard of, and lived happily with his wife on a small ten-acre farm in a quaint hamlet just outside of Scranton, Pennsylvania.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Charles, in a much deeper voice than one might expect coming from a man of his limited stature.

  Each man present acknowledged the greeting while continuing to work, except for Asa, who immediately slid his seat back in order to vacate his captain’s rightful place.

  “Any discrepancies I should be made aware of?” asked Captain Pratt.

  “No, sir. Everything is ship-shape,” said G.R., while paging through an aircraft performance manual.

  “Looks like a clean airplane, Charles,” added John.

  “Very well, gentlemen,” said Charles. “G.R., it appears as though we will have a full airplane this evening. And judging by the weather, I think we might want to subtract five knots from V-one. And while we’re at it, let’s add five knots to our rotation and V-two speeds. Do you concur with that?”

  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 st
ruck 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.”