by Heinz Kohler
I crawled underneath the wings, drained some fuel from each tank into my fuel tester, and happily noted the absence of water, which, being heavier than gasoline, would settle at the bottom of the tank and appear as bubbles in my tube. Thus a second lesson came to mind: One doesn’t want water mixed in with the gasoline, lest the engine sputter and stop; yet water can come from servicing the plane out of improperly filtered tanks (Charlie’s were okay) or from parking the plane with partially filled tanks on a humid day when water condenses out of the moist air on the inside walls (I would never do that). Water isn’t going to stop my engine on take-off, I thought, nor at any time during flight for that matter.
My eyes moved to the next two items on my checklist: Yes, my fuel sample was free of wasps and ants and other foreign materials. And, yes, the octane rating was 91/96, as evidenced by the color blue; one would be foolish to feed this engine with 80/87 red or 100/130 green or even the purple liquid that boasts a lean/rich anti-knock quality of 115/145.
I checked the tire pressure; I certainly didn’t want a flat on take-off or landing, followed by cart wheeling across the ground at 80 mph. And I said hello to the all-important pitot tube underneath the left wing. Away from the propeller slipstream, I knew, it sampled the impact pressure of the relative wind and brought to life three crucial instruments, measuring airspeed, altitude, and vertical velocity. Nobody would want to fly without them working properly; yet a little gnat building a nest in that tube could force one to do just that!
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Inside the cockpit, I checked the paper work. Everything was in its proper place: the airworthiness certificate, the radio station license, the manufacturer’s flight manual, the maintenance logs for airframe, engine, and radios, and, last but not least, my pilot’s license, medical certificate, and pilot’s logbook. I clipped the aeronautical charts to my knees and took a last look at my weight and balance calculus: As required for safety, the plane’s empty weight plus the day’s useful load–the combined weight of pilot, oil, fuel, and baggage–fell short of the maximum weight authorized for take-off, known as the gross weight. I thought about the dangers of excessive gross weight: a shallow climb or none at all; increased fuel consumption and, therefore, decreased range; increased engine wear and, therefore, greater likelihood of stoppage; faster touchdown and, therefore, longer landing roll; weakened airframe structure and, therefore, possible break-up in turbulence; decreased stability and controllability in flight, and a dangerously higher stalling speed. I wanted none of these. Likewise, I rechecked my balance computations; on this day, the plane’s center of gravity (CG), the point akin to the fulcrum of a balanced teeterboard at which the aircraft’s weight was effectively concentrated, was well within the limits specified in the flight manual. I knew: An excessively forward CG would increase the speed at which the plane stalls; a CG too far behind would make it impossible to recover from a stall.
I locked the cabin door, tested the ELT [emergency locator transmitter], and thought how funny it was that newscasters always referred to it as a black box–mine was yellow! I glanced at the circuit breakers, set the elevator trim for take-off, and moved the fuel selector to L. To counteract the plane’s annoying tendency to roll left because of my own weight in the left seat, I would burn off fuel from the left tank first. My checklist told me I was ready to start the engine. I set the hand brake and looked behind; no people or other planes about to be blown away by my prop. No one in front either; still, I opened the pilot’s window and, just as the FAA demanded, yelled “Clear!” Master switch ON, fuel pump ON. I pumped the throttle three times, pressed the starter button and moved the magneto switch to BOTH. The propeller was purring. Quite automatically, my eyes moved to the oil pressure gauge, then the oil temperature gauge; both were in the green; no oil starvation here, no excess engine heat. Equally automatically, my hands had turned on all the radios; it was time to call for my instrument clearance and read it back:
“November Eight Eight One Two Juliet is cleared to the destination airport via Zero Bravo Five direct Gardner, Victor Two Two Niner Hartford, Victor One Norfolk International; climb to maintain Eight Thousand, squawk One Two Eight Zero; on departure contact Boston Center on One Two Three Point Seven Five.”
“Read-back correct; clearance void if not off by Thirteen Thirty Zulu” was the response.
I had 15 minutes to get into the air.
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I looked at the windsock. The surface wind was practically calm, favoring runway 16. I taxied to the run-up area, watching a Cessna on the downwind leg and a Mooney on final approach. I set the transponder to 1280, one of the radios to 123.75, and one of the navigation units to 110.6, the Gardner VOR [a navigational beacon, known as a Very high frequency Omni-directional Range] to which I would navigate right after take-off. I listened to its Morse code ID, a distinct GDM. Looking up, I noticed little clouds race across the sun, driven by northerly winds aloft. I was counting on those winds; they would speed up my trip. With my feet on the brakes, I advanced the throttle to gain 1,800 RPM, switched the magnetos to Right, then Left, and back to Both; turned on the carburetor heat and watched the RPM drop just as it should (carburetor heat would deal with icing in clouds or during power-off glides); checked the alternate static source (it would save me from instrument failure if the vacuum pump failed), noted the Mooney leaving the runway and the Cessna over the threshold about to touch down. No other traffic in sight.
“November Eight Eight One Two Juliet taking Runway One Six at Turners Falls,” I said, while moving onto the threshold, setting the altimeter to 346 feet and the directional gyro to 160 degrees. Smoothly applying full power, I raced down the runway centerline, watched the speed build to 80 and lifted off at 13:23 Zulu [Greenwich Mean Time]. It would take about two hours and fifteen minutes to fly 420 nautical miles to Norfolk.
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With a heavy foot on the right rudder pedal to compensate for the left-turning engine torque during take-off, I climbed over the hills to the east and nudged the plane towards the Gardner VOR on a course of 112 degrees. To my left, the Connecticut River came into view, stretching northwards towards mysterious places where it was born and I saw New Hampshire’s Mount Monadnock, 3,165 feet high. Straight ahead, I noticed Orange Airport and, to my right, the giant Quabbin Reservoir, perfectly outlined with a white blanket of morning fog, but the green tops of some of the islands were beginning to peek through.
“Boston Center, November Eight Eight One Two Juliet airborne at Turners Falls, out of One Thousand, climbing to maintain Eight Thousand.”
“November Eight Eight One Two Juliet, Boston Center, ident.”
I pushed the small green button on my transponder and knew it would transmit a special position identification pulse (SPI) that would fill in the space between the two parallel lines representing my plane on the far-away radar scope and leave no doubt in the controller’s mind that the fat green rectangle then forming on his scope was me, then climbing through 1,780 feet.
“One Two Juliet, Boston Center, radar contact,” was the expected response.
“One Two Juliet,” I said.
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By the time I reached 8,000 feet and reduced the throttle to cruise power, I was on Victor Airway 229 steering 209 degrees towards the EAGRE intersection, which made me think of World War II when the current airway system was created and all the routes were called Victor in anticipation of Victory. The little green transponder light kept blinking at me and I should have been happy that Air Traffic Control was watching me, but my mind went elsewhere. I
thought of Mr. Eisler and how he had sent us out into the streets at night with green phosphorous buttons on our clothes to stamp out every last light that enemy pilots might see. The happy purr of my engine turned into something else as well. I heard the nerve-wracking hum of engines overhead my Spreewald train, droning like mosquitoes high up in the sky. And suddenly, dozens of lights flashed all around us. Parachutes, each sparkling with a thousand lights, i
t seemed, hung overhead, motionless. “Christmas trees, just Christmas trees,” the lieutenant had said. “Nobody’s going to get us.” I heard the sound of machine guns, saw an airplane veer off to the right, just missing the trees at the edge of the meadow. I felt blood trickle down my cheek; glass splinters lay in my lap. I saw the lieutenant slumped in his seat across from me. Dark blood poured from his mouth, slowly spreading over his chest, flowing over his medals, soaking his pants, the upholstered bench, dripping to the floor…
“Stop it!” I said to myself. I had another look at the Quabbin Reservoir, again on my right, where some of the fog had disappeared and I could then see the oval racetrack that once stood beside the village now submerged. And there was Worcester airport and beyond it the city to the left, Westover Air Force Base and Springfield on the right, Bradley International in clear view. The sky was brilliant blue. It was a CAVU day: ceilings and visibility unlimited; a pilot’s dream.
I slowly pulled the red knob of the mixture control and watched the EGT gauge. The exhaust gas temperature rose and rose; once it peaked, I slightly reversed the process and my fuel/air ratio was perfect for the trip. Mentally, I was in the midst of flight lesson #3: Ideally, for every pound of fuel entering the cylinder, there should be 15 pounds of air. At this chemically correct mixture, the cylinder temperature would be the hottest and all the fuel would be burned. But because air is less dense at higher altitudes, the 1:15 ratio can only be maintained by providing less fuel for a given volume of air at higher altitude, that is, by “leaning the mixture.” I knew: If the mixture was too rich, with too much fuel per unit of air, the temperature in the spark plug center electrode (and the exhaust gas) would be too low, spark plugs would foul with carbon and lead deposits and the electric current would flow through the deposits instead of jumping the gap to ignite the fuel/air charge. And if the mixture was too lean, with too little fuel per unit of air, the engine would run rough, cut out, even detonate–provide spontaneous explosions of unburned charge in the cylinders rather than a slow burn. Eventually, that would cause dished piston heads, collapsed valve heads, broken rings, erosion of valves, pistons, and cylinder heads, and sudden, complete engine failure. Correct leaning at higher altitudes was a crucial procedure.
It was time for Lesson #4, my knowledge of the magnetic compass. I accelerated the plane and noticed the compass turn to the north–the acceleration error. I decelerated the plane and the compass turned to the south–the deceleration error. I remembered the memory aid: ANDS = accelerate, north; decelerate, south. Mentally, I also reviewed the turn error: While turning east or west from a northerly heading, the compass would lag and show a much lesser turn. While turning east or west from a southerly heading, the compass would lead and show a much greater turn. But I couldn’t practice that; Boston Center would see me zigzagging across the sky; they wouldn’t like it. And I thought of all the other things that could make the compass lie to an unsuspecting pilot–metal objects nearby, radios turned on, turbulence, and strobe lights on–but my review came to an end.
“One Two Juliet, traffic two o’clock, below you, United Twenty-Five Heavy, climbing to maintain Seven Thousand,” Boston Center warned.
“Boston Center, One Two Juliet has the traffic,” I said, as the giant plane slid below me.
At Eagre, I changed course and steered 248 degrees towards the Hartford VOR, confirmed the Morse code HFD on frequency 114.9, and had a clear view of Long Island Sound.
“One Two Juliet, contact Boston Center now on One Three Two Point Three,” someone said.
“Boston Center, One Two Juliet maintaining Eight Thousand,” I replied.
Soon I was on Victor Airway 1, flying 211 degrees to the Madison VOR (frequency 110.4 and Morse code MAD), noting New Haven and Bridgeport on the right and then water underneath. I turned to 235 degrees and, thus, towards the Deer Park VOR (frequency 117.7 and code DPK).
“One Two Juliet, contact New York Center now on One Three Three Point Two,” someone said.
“New York Center, One Two Juliet maintaining Eight Thousand,” I replied.
“One Two Juliet, New York Center, radar contact.”
I was flying 258 degrees towards the Kennedy VOR (frequency 115.9 and code JFK) when I spotted a Concorde landing 8,000 feet below and then I watched the skyscrapers of Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty, a majestic sight. Even at 8,000 feet I could see hundreds of seagulls flying around the statue, landing on its crown, its outstretched arm, the torch held high. I imagined tourists feeding them, as Dieter and I had done way back in Berlin. That plane came out of nowhere! It flew low and fast along the canal and its wing tips almost touched the crowns of the linden trees. They had new green leaves, covered with a dusting of snow. I saw red-and-yellow tongues flickering along the wings, bullets stitching their way across the bridge. One plane, a burst of thunder, a single cry on Dieter’s lips. I saw his head, half gone, half turned into a bloody mess. I saw the flutter of his hand, his body jerk, snow turning red. There was no solid ground beneath my feet, I could not breathe, my mind was numb, my body turned to stone. I couldn’t move; my words, they wouldn’t come. I heard seagulls cry in rage…
“Stop it!” I said to myself. Continuing on Victor 1 and flying 221 degrees towards the DIXIE intersection, I crossed over the water from Long Island’s south shore, over land again, with the Atlantic on the left and Lakehurst on the right. That was the very spot, I knew, where Germany’s Zeppelin had burned during a thunderstorm in May of 1937, some 54 years ago. I remembered the book about the event that Mr. Barzel had given me–Cabin Boy Werner Franz–a reward for collecting all those newspapers during the war.
“One Two Juliet, traffic twelve o’clock, 500 feet above you, Boeing 747, opposite direction,” New York Center warned, but I couldn’t see anything for the life of me.
“New York Center, One Two Juliet negative on the traffic,” I said.
I reviewed the story of wake turbulence: In the air, all aircraft produce wing-tip vortices, invisible horizontal tornadoes that stretch back from each wingtip while in flight. The vortices slowly settle down towards the ground, but in large aircraft these compact, fast-spinning air masses are particularly violent and extend behind the plane for miles. I didn’t like the idea of flying underneath the path of one of these.
“One Two Juliet, clear of traffic,” New York Center said and just then I ran into light turbulence similar to that encountered in and near small cumulus clouds or in lower altitudes when surface winds exceed 15 knots or cold air travels over warmer ground.
I was passing the Coyle VOR (frequency 113.4 and code CYN) when I spied Philadelphia on the right and Atlantic City ahead of me on the left, and soon reached the LEEAH intersection above the waters of Delaware Bay. Silently, I gave thanks to the fact that I had escaped severe turbulence in my encounter with the larger plane. Such turbulence, I knew, was usually found in and near growing and mature thunderstorms, put aircraft momentarily out of control, threw passengers violently against seat belts, and tossed unsecured objects about. Indeed, I had heard stories of smaller aircraft encountering the wake of giant military planes and experiencing extreme turbulence, a category usually found in growing, severe thunderstorms and squall lines that are accompanied by large hailstones and continuous lightning and toss aircraft violently about, making them impossible to control and inflicting upon them structural damage with fatal consequences. But this, clearly, was my lucky day.
“One Two Juliet, contact Washington Center now on One Three Two Point Zero Five,” someone said.
“Washington Center, One Two Juliet maintaining Eight Thousand,” I replied.
“One Two Juliet, Washington Center, radar contact.”
Flying 213 degrees across the bay towards the Waterloo VOR (frequency 112.6 and code ATR), I noticed a thin, transparent, whitish cloud layer way above me. It looked like a veil, with pretty halos in spots; that was cirrostratus for sure. On the ground, to the right, I spotted Dover Air Force Base beyond the western coast a
nd Cape May to the left, proceeded 216 degrees towards the Salisbury VOR (frequency 111.2 and code SBY), and surveyed the Atlantic on my left and Chesapeake Bay to the right. It was filled with sailboats. Via JAMIE intersection in the middle of the bay and 196 degrees to the Cape Charles VOR (frequency 112.2 and code CCV), I left the Delaware Peninsula for the short 29-mile trip across the water, flying 209 degrees towards the Norfolk VOR (frequency 116.9 and code ORF). That’s when I abandoned my flight lessons, tuned a radio to 127.15, and listened to the ATIS.
“This is the Norfolk Automated Terminal Information Service. This advisory prepared at 15:00 Zulu. Current conditions 3,000 scattered, 18,000 overcast, visibility greater than 6, wind 240 degrees at 8. ILS/DME Runway 23 in use, altimeter setting 30.20. Caution: Flocks of birds in the vicinity of the airport.”
The advisory, I noted, was fairly trustworthy, being a mere 20 minutes old. Given the weather, there was no need to fly the instrument approach to Runway 23. For all practical purposes, I was already lined up with the 9,000 foot runway. The instrument landing system (ILS), consisting of localizer (lining me up with the runway centerline), glideslope indicator (providing me with a perfect line of descent to the runway threshold), and distance measuring equipment (DME) or three-light marker beacons (providing precise distance information from the airport along a predetermined course)–all these were equally unnecessary. Once I was below the scattered clouds, I would see the entire airport from 25 miles out; I could fly a much more rapid, visual approach.