Decades ago when I was flying as copilot in a Convair 240, I made notes for a future use that I never got around to.
May 2015-
Here is the final installment of the fragmented creations from decades ago when I was flying the original piston airliners—notes I’d made for a future use which I never got around to. These observations from my earliest years of driving airliners provide a sense of what I was seeing and hearing and thinking in those days.
The Convair 240 piston engine airliner droned on through the thick, wet night sky, the clock on the panel measuring off the quiet minutes in their progress toward Boston.
“Any delays?” the flight attendant asked after having stood silently at the rear of the cockpit for a short while. The sound of her voice yanked both pilots’ attentions back to the moment.
“Probably,” the copilot answered quickly to fill the void. Too quickly, perhaps; the captain had said nothing yet. The copilot glanced to his left. “What do you think, Skipper? Delays?”
“Shouldn’t be bad,” the captain had answered in a low, disinterested voice, keeping his eyes straight ahead, staring intently at the black nothingness on the far side of the cockpit windshield.
“Back to work,” the flight attendant mumbled as she turned and headed back to the airliner’s cabin.
They flew another 15 minutes in silence before the pertinent radio call to them was sent. They would hold at a radio fix up ahead and expect further clearance in 20 minutes. The copilot acknowledged, then held his microphone up toward the captain. “Call company?” he asked.
The captain nodded.
The copilot complied, and sat back in his flight chair. They were flying through an area of light, choppy turbulence. The copilot eased his seat nearer to the windshield, then leaned forward nearly pressing his face against the glass.
The Convair’s nose section curved away, tucking out of sight several inches beyond the windshield. When he sat higher in his seat, he could see a greater amount of the airplane’s front end before it dropped from view. He picked his eyes up and examined the night sky again: the clouds were unremitting. There was not a single gap in the veil of darkness.
“All aircraft on the frequency,” the radio crackled. “Boston weather. Special. Four hundred overcast. One mile. Rain. Wind is zero-seven-zero at twelve. Altimeter twenty-nine forty-one.”
The copilot moved his seat rearward. “Crummy,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Worse than forecast. Not supposed to go below a thousand or so.” The copilot watched the captain’s hands as they rested on his control wheel; the captain gave the wheel a slight nudge to begin another holding turn. The copilot licked his lips and said, “It’s nearly one-five. Should I ask for a new clearance time?”
“No. They’ll get to us.” The cockpit was quiet. The captain’s thoughts were, evidently, a thousand miles away.
The copilot had his feet propped up against the lower edge of his instrument panel. After a while, he placed them flat on the floor. He looked at the fuel gauges. So far, they had used nearly 300 gallons. It was 9:27.
“All aircraft,” the radio began again, “there’s a DC-6 on the active runway. Blown tires. All aircraft add 30 minutes to their approach times.”
“We’re thin on fuel,” the copilot said after a short delay.
“Ask how many ahead of us.”
The copilot relayed the captain’s request. “None. You’re number one. As soon as they get that airplane moved.”
The captain nodded. “Tell company we’ll be in as soon as they move that airplane. Tell them we’re number one. Won’t be long.”
“Right.” The copilot transmitted the message, then turned his attention back to the fuel gauges. One hundred and eighty gallons were left. Enough for slightly more than one hour. They sat silently. The Convair went around the holding pattern twice more. The choppiness gave way to smoother clouds.
“Skipper,” the copilot said as he cleared his throat, then leaned in slightly toward the man on his left. “Want me to get the Providence weather? That’s the alternate.” He pointed toward the fuel gauges. The needles sat low, hunched downward toward a portion of the scale they seldom saw. One hundred and fifty gallons remaining.
They were approaching the amount that was reserved solely for emergencies—they weren’t supposed to use that last 130 gallons. They had joked about this in ground school: flying on nothing but fumes, pouring coffee into the fuel tanks, extending oars from the cabin windows and rowing through the heavy weather…
A small frown played at the corner of the captain’s usually expressionless mouth. He had not considered going anywhere else—this was, apparently, becoming a problem. “Ask them how it’s coming.”
The copilot complied. “They’ve got the new tires on the ‘6, and hooking up a tug. It’ll clear in a few minutes.”
The captain nodded approvingly. He steered the Convair outbound in the holding pattern.
The copilot sat back, but he was edgy. He picked up his clipboard. The fueler’s slip lay on top, its smudged numbers difficult to read.
He examined the blotted markings as if he were seeing them for the first time. Five hundred gallons. They should have loaded more fuel when they left. They had the available weight. This sort of delay could have been expected. No, not this; but some problem. Even the weather—it was worse than it should have been.
Why were they playing it so close with the fuel? Should he say something more? But, if he did….
“The ‘6 is clear of the runway,” the radio announced. “Descend to 3,000; direct to the outer marker. Cleared for the approach, you’re number one.”
The captain moved the controls in a smooth, coordinated rhythm. The Convair headed toward the radio beacon. The copilot began the landing checklist. The captain played with the throttles and control wheel, producing a high airspeed and a good rate of descent.
“Do a three-sixty to the right,” the radio suddenly announced. “They’re having trouble with that disabled airplane again. Might have to send you back to the hold. Maintain 3,000.”
As the words hit them, the captain’s eyes moved reluctantly toward the center instrument panel. The fuel gauges were low. Very low. The needles pointed accusingly at him. The problem had suddenly hit him full-face. He blinked in disbelief.
They had 80 gallons in the tanks. Thirty more minutes of flight.
The copilot’s voice was strained as he acknowledged the radio call. He attempted to sound normal as he read back the new holding clearance.
Soon their engines would gulp down the last of the fuel, then sputter to a stop. They would glide for a short while. Then they would land on whatever was in front of them when they descended below the overcast. An apartment building. The bay. The river. A highway, if they were lucky.
They needed to declare an emergency. The copilot glanced at his microphone. If they declared an emergency, the DC-6 would be pulled off the runway, regardless; they could go right in. But that would create a need for explanations. This was crazy, a real nightmare.
The copilot was about to verbalize his feelings, to make something positive happen, when the radio crackled to life again.
“Cleared for the approach again, they’ve got the problems cleared up. Boston weather is improving: 600 overcast, two miles. Rain ended at five-seven. Wind is one-ninety at nine.”
They slid down the instrument approach course. The copilot peeked again at the fuel gauges. He had never been this low on fuel. Ever. Not in any airplane. The needles jumped at him whenever his gaze went anywhere near the center panel.
“Gear down,” the captain said.
The copilot extended the gear handle, then did the remainder of the checklist. The clouds below them had started to break up. Now, the airport lay straight ahead, its approach lights extending toward them from the threshold of the runway. The lights of Boston surrounded the Convair as it scurried beneath the clouds.
The captain put the airplane smoothly on the wet pavement. He selected reverse, and pushed on the wheel brakes. The airplane slowed quickly. He turned off the runway, then steered down the taxiway and headed for the gate.
“We’re here. Finally,” the captain said in a noncommittal voice.
“Yes,” the copilot answered softly. His mouth was dry and he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, outside the cockpit. Never again, he said silently to himself, in what he knew was something between a prayer and a vow.
Never again.
Editor-at-large Thomas Block has flown nearly 30,000 hours since his first hour of dual in 1959. In addition to his 36-year career as a U.S. Airways pilot, he has been an aviation magazine writer since 1969, and a best-selling novelist. Over the past 30 years he has owned more than a dozen personal airplanes of varying types. Send questions or comments to editor@www.piperflyer.com.
