I’ve dedicated my entire life to being a pilot. Now, with regret, I see my life’s work sailing off into the distance. I’m not sure if I can swim fast enough to get back onboard.
This experience will change my life and my career; I knew it after the first pitch-down. The body response I experienced during the dives, and after, was enormous. I feel an overwhelming sense of loss. I don’t fight it; I’m alone in my room and I allow my body to rack me with this convulsive sobbing until it subsides. I accept this as part of my recovery, but I’m sad to have been thrown over a threshold into unknown territory; I’ve been catapulted into an emotional No Man’s Land.
Throughout my flying career, and especially while flying in the navy, I worked hard to master the art of compartmentalisation, but I’m concerned this event may be too large to jam into any of my existing compartments. In that hotel room, my memory is like a videotape on constant replay, and I’m finding it hard to stop, to pause or suppress its content.
I force myself to take a few deep breaths and try to settle down, but for the first time in my adult life I feel derailed and confronted by something that may be outside of my experience to cope with. I retreat to the shower again, to cool down my body, to try to wash away my anger and camouflage my tears. This is not me, but maybe it’s the new me.
19.
Early the next day, Captain Phil Paterson calls me. He’s in Perth to assume a support role for us, and he suggests breakfast. Great idea, but I have nothing to wear. I borrow a t-shirt from John, stencilled with ‘In Dog Years I’d Be Dead’, it matches my blue uniform trousers but it’s a bit too small.
‘Looking quite fetching in your tight t-shirt and matching uniform trousers, Kev,’ Phil dryly observes.
‘Yeah, well, John needs to go to the gym more and buy some bigger shirts for moments like these. You should also know that I am “commando” . . . my underwear is in no state for use and these trousers are a bit itchy without a layer protecting my bits.’
My two colleagues razz me about my outfit all the way to the café.
The first order of business is to update Phil on the events of the previous day, including the difficulties at Learmonth and getting the crew proper medical care here in Perth.
We then learn about our schedule for the next twenty-four hours.
We’ll depart Perth tomorrow for Sydney, but first we must be medically cleared to travel as passengers. We’re to attend Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital for a medical examination. Secondly, our luggage from Singapore will be flown down on the inbound Qantas flight and delivered to the hotel. Third, permission is given for the three of us to purchase essential clothing and toiletries at company expense.
On the way, we stop to buy some appropriate clothing. Thankfully, at the hospital the staff are expecting us, and we’re led into a triage area. I’m questioned by a doctor about physical injuries and confirm I don’t have any.
‘How are you feeling, Captain?’
‘Like I’ve been run over by a bus.’
‘Are you physically injured?’
‘No, but I had a huge body response after the aircraft injured everyone on my flight, and this morning too. I got a good look at the Indian Ocean yesterday and that wasn’t very pleasant.’
He nods gravely in understanding and mentions a term I will hear for years to come: post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). He’s just making an assessment for fitness to travel, not to offer treatment, so he concludes my examination and annotates the ‘injury’ section of his medical release with ‘PTSD’.
PTSD . . . What the hell?
I don’t know much about PTSD. I knew it was called by other names like shell-shock, battle fatigue and combat fatigue, but now my event has invited me into this club. I am aware of adrenalin response through my military experience but this is very different. In the light of the doctor’s assessment, I see that a lot of things are connected: extreme body response, near-death experience, the trauma of witnessing injuries, good champagne tasting like copper, and fight-or-flight chemicals. A four-letter acronym that will have so much more associated with it in the years to come.
We depart the hospital with our clearance to travel and return to the hotel. I learn that some of my crew are departing Perth later in the day for their homes; some in Brisbane and Melbourne, one in Singapore, and my three cabin crew from Auckland. Those three were worried they’d have to operate as crew members directly after this event but, fortunately, they’re returning home as passengers. I head down to their hotel and try to see them before their departures.
This bomb-burst of the crew departing for home seems wrong but it’s typical, in some ways, of the airline business. This is the way most trips finish because everyone is keen to return home. This isn’t a typical trip, though. I show a strong face, but privately I’m sad and concerned as we exchange our goodbyes.
Adam Lloyd, the Airbus assistant fleet manager in Sydney, calls. He isn’t a pilot, and his role is to manage the abundance of administrative issues that confront a pilot in the course of their employment. I’ve known him for many years; he’s truly a compassionate man. Now he’s offering assistance.
We discuss, again, the events of the previous day and he listens closely to my recollection. As a matter of course, my daughter is listed as my emergency contact, and Adam shares his unsuccessful attempts to contact her and provide information. I inform him that she’s overseas on holiday, returning in a week or so.
‘Does she want to come back early?’ he asks. He knows how close we are; I used to take her on trips with me when she was younger.
I know in my heart that, right now, I want her to be physically closer to me than Europe.
‘Yes, please help her to come home,’ I tell Adam.
Qantas flights from Europe are routinely full, and staff travel opportunities are almost non-existent because of a shortage of seats and low standby priority. Anything he can do to help is appreciated. When he says to leave it with him, I know he’ll do everything he can.
*
After another disturbed night’s sleep, my morning starts as it did the day before. I endure a tsunami of emotion and don’t fight the tears and grief enveloping me. I’m becoming very concerned with the recurring body response. Is it permanent? Why can’t I control it? Is every day going to start like this? I know the flight was a near-death event, but hey, every night carrier landing is like that.
But I’m beginning to accept that this is different – that I really don’t have anything in my toolbox of life experience to help me manage this. My body armour has been perforated, and I’m facing a rising feeling of helplessness and frustration. I will fight as best I can and force myself to be patient, hopeful that this wave will eventually pass over me.
*
Ross, Kimberly and I are scheduled to travel back to Sydney as passengers. At Perth Airport, some of the Qantas ground staff recognise me. A small group of them huddle around, offering their concerns for my health and recovery. Naturally, they want to hear a firsthand account of the flight and the emergency. I answer truthfully by saying it was computer-generated but that the exact causes will be found in the investigation. Concern is etched on their faces.
At the departure gate, my crew members and I aren’t expecting to see an Airbus A330 connected to the aerobridge, but there it is. I can’t believe we’re going home in the same type of aircraft as VH-QPA. It appears the Airbus fleet is still flying.
The prospect of getting on this plane is too much for Kimberly. We try to console her, to negotiate a compromise to allay her fears, but it’s difficult. Ross steps up and offers to sit next to her. She agrees, and we shuffle our boarding passes to seat them together.
I’m not keen on this travel arrangement. What’s going on?
We help Ross and Kimberly get settled, but she’s uncomfortable. Ross does an amazing job in calming her down as the flight prepares for departure.
I make eye contact with one of the operating flight attendants, a very bubbly, vibr
ant young woman. Naturally, she asks what I’m doing in Perth – holidays? I ask if she’s seen the news lately about the Airbus emergency two days ago. Her face drops in recognition that we’re some of the surviving crew heading back to Sydney.
Meanwhile, the media appears to be taking a keen interest. I haven’t looked at any newspapers or television but the story is everywhere. Walking through the terminal, television screens in the departure areas broadcast news programmes showing the images of the plane and analysing the emergency. I only took subliminal notice but this is a big news story.
The aircraft takes off and climbs without incident, and Kimberly calms a bit. I have such enormous sympathy for her and the internal battle she’s waging to control herself during this flight.
*
Our flight lands without incident. I’m feeling numb, still in the fog of shock. As we prepare to disembark, Phil tells me that some management pilots want to talk to me in the arrivals hall.
My response is firm. ‘No fucking way, Phil. I’m in no state to discuss this now, and I should have a pilot representative for something like this.’
‘I understand, Kev,’ Phil says. ‘John and I will be there as witnesses and representatives. They just want to know what happened.’ I think Phil worked at the United Nations in a previous life.
I’m exhausted, emotionally drained and in no state to discuss anything with management. But our discussion is conducted with solemn respect. These two pilots are trained to fly Boeing 747s, so the concept of rogue computers taking control from the pilot and injuring over a hundred passengers and crew is mind-blowing. Computer systems on a Boeing 747 are not as deeply integrated into every aspect of flight as on Airbus planes.
My voice is constricted as I recount the story, and this is also a new experience for me. As I relive the event, my face burns bright red. They know my reputation as an experienced and composed pilot, and it’s obvious that my behaviour is drastically out of character.
I end our discussion by saying that I’ll assist the company in any way to disseminate this information to the pilot group. I’m also willing to participate in any training development to aid our pilots in dealing with a potential recurrence.
The two men thank me for meeting with them, then let me know that the company will provide me with accommodation in Sydney while I assist in their preliminary investigation.
But I leave the terminal perturbed. The planes are still in the air.
*
It’s late afternoon by the time we arrive at company headquarters.
I drop by the office of Adam Lloyd, who has offered his assistance in returning my daughter and her boyfriend to Sydney. He looks tired.
‘Hey, Captain Kev!’ he exclaims as I enter his small office and slump into a chair.
‘Adam, my man,’ I answer in the familiar way I have always addressed him during our professional relationship.
‘How are you?’ Compassion is etched on his brow and in his eyes as we talk.
‘I feel like the chariot racer from Ben Hur who falls out but still holds on to the reigns.’
We both chuckle at my light-hearted attempt to describe the hell I’ve been dragged through.
He tells me of the accommodation arrangements: I’ll be staying in a hotel in Manly, close to John. Adam then explains his plan for my daughter to fly home: the operating captains of two international flights will ensure seats are available. I’m indebted to them and to Adam – it’s a complex humanitarian airlift of a different kind to return my daughter to me.
*
In Manly, I invite my old neighbour, Steve, to share a drink with me. It’s closing time in the bar but we convince the bartender to serve us. Over a glass of Tasmanian pinot noir, I relate the story again. Steve isn’t a pilot but he knows I’m a straight shooter when I recount flying stories. My changed demeanour is not lost on him. We finish our drink and I say goodnight. I retire to my room. I’m still feeling drained and the bed envelops me. I quickly fall into an exhausted sleep.
But this night’s sleep is significant. This time I dream. I’m outnumbered and surrounded by a violent group, bigger and stronger than I am. They pursue me, wanting to hurt me. Despite my best efforts to escape, I’m captured. I’m bound, immobilised, helpless. My antagonists close in, and I know their goal is to maim and kill me.
I wake up yelling. My heart is pounding and my body is flushed. It’s the same body response I experienced after the pitch-downs. What the fuck is happening to me?
I sit up and try to analyse my dream. I’m also trying to slow my pounding heartbeat. Is this all just part of the post-adrenalin recovery? It wasn’t a flying dream, rather one filled with threat, helplessness and imminent death. Are they connected? I’m reluctant to sleep more; it’s early morning, and I’ll stay awake rather than return to the hell that’s waiting for me in my subconscious.
I’m picking up my daughter at the airport in a few hours, so I might as well get ready.
20.
Early the next morning, I’m reunited with my daughter at Sydney Airport.
There’s fatigue and relief on my daughter’s face; she and her boyfriend have been awake for most of the past twenty-four hours. I don’t burden them with my last two days of hell. She recounts the efforts and compassion shown to her by the pilots and cabin crew of the two flights that brought her back to me. Many of these staff members know me and have seen stories about QF72 in the media. It’s comforting that such hospitality and respect was given to my daughter and her partner. Crew take care of their own.
*
That evening, someone from Qantas calls. The company’s safety department is commencing an investigation into the incident.
I have previous experience with safety and accident investigations. My career in the navy didn’t exclusively involve flying: as officers, we were managers first and pilots second. A navy squadron was a self-contained business unit, so an officer could be responsible for one or two management portfolios within a squadron.
During my second carrier deployment, I served as my squadron’s assistant safety officer. It was my portfolio responsibility to ensure the squadron’s technical manuals were current, and safety and recurrent qualifications were maintained. I was also actively involved in safety-related investigations, as required.
A naval safety investigation is a fact-finding procedure with the goal of identifying potential deficiencies in procedures, equipment failure or human-factor issues. The results of fleetwide investigations are shared freely in an effort to improve the knowledge base of the aviation community and to enhance the safe conduct of flight operations.
In this case, the situation should be clear – the best witness to the event is the Airbus itself. The data recorders documented everything the pilots did, along with the confused actions of the flight-control computer systems and subsequent systems failures.
*
At the hotel, I meet up with my daughter and her partner, and we head to dinner at a beachside restaurant. I sense she’s aware of my agitation, but this isn’t a burden I want to share with her.
‘How was your day, Dad?’ she asks.
‘SNAFU,’ I say, which is military speak for ‘Situation Normal, All Fucked Up’.
She accepts this with a cute giggle.
The restaurant manager hears our laughter and stops by our table. He notices my Yankee accent and asks where I’m from. Naturally, my answer of ‘Sydney’ doesn’t compute.
‘What are you doing here? Holiday?’
‘Not really. Did you see the news the other day about the Qantas emergency landing in Western Australia?’
He nods. ‘Lots of injuries.’
‘You’re right. I was the captain of that flight.’
His expression changes immediately. ‘Dear Lord! Are you alright? Can I buy you a drink?’
‘I’m okay. And yes, thank you. Got any good tequila back there?’
He disappears behind the bar and returns with a bottle and four glasses. We sip
and talk, trying to answer his questions about the flight.
My daughter’s eyes are wide as I explain the story. I can tell she’s also reading my behaviour and taking in how the flight has affected me. This is the first time she has heard the complete account of what occurred on my flight. Naturally, the media would be unaware of these details. She’s silent in comprehension and concern. I know I’ve frightened her.
It’s closing time, and we thank this gentleman for his hospitality and service, and I thank him for his compassion.
That night I dream again. It’s another threatening nightmare, and the theme is the same as the first one: pursuit, constraint, helplessness, pain and imminent death. I wake up yelling, my heart pounding again. I still can’t make sense of this reaction.
I’m stuck in this emotional No Man’s Land, confused and frustrated. Night-time is becoming fright-time for me, but it will pass eventually . . . right?
*
At last I’m free to return to my home on the Gold Coast. Before departing, I inform the company that I’ll be taking some time off from flying.
‘Take as much time as you need,’ I am told.
I don’t have a timeframe in my mind, but I know that ‘getting back in the saddle’, the coping strategy most pilots are taught after experiencing a bad flight, is out of the question. Jumping back in an Airbus would be a completely unprofessional decision on my part. It will take time to recover.
My daughter returns with me, so we can spend a few days together. While we’re waiting at the baggage carousel at Brisbane Airport, an off-duty Qantas flight attendant rushes up to embrace me. I struggle to maintain my balance from the force of her hug. We’ve flown together on previous trips, but I’m surprised at her reaction.
‘How’d you know it was me?’ I ask nonchalantly, guessing she somehow heard through the cabin-crew grapevine that I was the captain of QF72.
No Man's Land Page 15