Short Story - Just Plane Lucky

Author's note: This is a fairly raw, almost unedited tale. It is published under the Creative Commons License.

Just Plane Lucky

So there I was. Crashed; and a lot farther from civilization than I was comfortable with. I didn't quite plan to spend the afternoon this way but then again, if my plane could talk, I'm sure it would offer a similar opinion.

My plane. Oh boy. I don't think she'll forgive me this time.

I know what you're thinking. A plane can't feel, right? I'm crazy, right? A little non compos mentis, perhaps? I beg to differ. Ask any cowboy about the bond he develops with a good horse. Ask any sailor about the connection they serve aboard a good ship. Likewise, just ask any pilot...a good plane can come to mean an awful lot to a pilot who has taken it to the edge, especially if it brings the pilot home safe and sound.

I was running my own air cargo business some years after I left the Air Force. I tell you, I got to fly some of the best stuff in those days. I started in Hurricanes, and then moved on to Spitfires and then Typhoons, until a rather nasty crash landing rendered me healthy enough to fly, just not healthy enough to take on the rigours of a fighter aircraft. After getting out of the hospital, I found myself transferred to a Transport squadron; the ultimate blow to a fighter pilot's ego and prestige. I mean, no self-respecting aerial warrior wants to be seen inside a cargo plane, let alone being seen at the controls of one of these lumbering beasts.

Lady Luck being my guardian angel, I was blessed with a new Squadron Leader who had suffered a similar fate. In his office he told me that when he was a young pilot, he had crashed a biplane fighter some years before the war, but had managed to convince the higher-ups that he could still fly, so he got a slot in a bomber squadron. Six months ago, he took command of this rather rag-tag Transport squadron. The greybeards at Group HQ figured that some of his "dash" might be just what the squadron needed. Their faith in him was rewarded when the squadron successfully flew some particularly hairy resupply missions in decidedly unfriendly skies. Looking back, I knew he did the right thing by me as I was leaving his office to go find my billet. He said, "I know you were a good fighter pilot. But not everyone can cut it flying a transport. Keep that in mind during your transition training."

Well, that did it. He went for my ego. In my naiveté, I figured I'd show the old boy.

I shouldn't have spoken too soon, because my initial experience with the venerable old 'Dakota' was somewhat below my usual standards. To be completely honest, my first landing had - in the immortal words of my instructor pilot - "...all the grace of a clumsy cow walking across a field of marbles." This was a somewhat humbling and galling comparison for a guy with more than his share of difficult flying under his belt. However, a fighter pilot doesn't know the meaning of the word "quit" and I slowly mastered the intricacies of flying the loveable "Gooney Bird".

As time went on, my experience flying fighters served me quite well as I flew some rather high-risk missions towards the end of the war. The squadron's unofficial motto was "no mission too dangerous" and we managed to nurse home some rather tattered and battered birds after some of these missions. I grew to understand that it was harder to fly the Dakota than it was to fly low-level missions in my beloved "Tiffie', because the Dakota couldn't shoot back.

So what does all of this have to do with the plane being mad at me? Well, for a lot of those 'high pucker factor' missions, I flew the same plane over and over again. When I think about it, I'm not sure how that happened, because we weren't really "assigned" to a particular aircraft like we would be in some fighter squadrons. In fact, I never even noticed it until my crew chief pointed it out to me. It seemed like every time he had his airframe gang patching up a large number of flak holes in an aircraft; invariably that aircraft was a Dakota with the tail number "303" with your truly being the most recent pilot-in-command.

The final half-dozen mission I flew before the end of the war were all in 303 and she never failed to bring me home safely. Allied air power might have had control of the skies, but ground fire was a real hazard on some of the resupply drops we had to do in those final days. My very final mission before I rotated home was through the worst storm experienced in over half a century. But I had a full load of wounded soldiers headed back from a forward hospital to a rest area and I was damned if I was going to let some storm prevent them from making it there safely. 303, bless her, carried us all there safely.

After the war ended, I found myself a little adrift. After being demobilized I kept up my pilot qualifications and took odd flying jobs here and there and I managed to make enough money to keep myself afloat and start some savings. When the air force finally got around to selling off surplus aircraft, I figured I could parlay some of my meagre savings into an air freight operation. Of course, making a bit of money doing the one thing I loved wouldn't hurt either. Unfortunately the airlines were also on the hunt for cheap, surplus planes now that air travel was the new big thing and I'd need to make sure that I got a bird I could maintain (mostly) on my own...so, no "hangar queens" for me. I'd flown a lot of different planes in the years since the war, but I figured that a surplus Dakota was just the thing for me.

Lady Luck was with me again when I was ready for the auction. The supply officer from my old squadron had managed to stay on in the air force after the war. He was a rogue, completely disdainful of higher authority and a first-class scrounge. In other words, he was my kind of rogue. We stayed in touch over the years and I knew he'd give me the inside track on the birds for sale. I knew he'd collect the marker later, but he told be which lot number to bid on. "If the paperwork can be believed," he told me over the phone, "she's not too high on airframe hours and the engines are almost new."

After I made a couple of mocking references to his creative accounting and paperwork skills, he responded with a vague comment about a certain squadron smoker and a certain Dakota pilot later discovered somewhat intoxicated in his favourite bird (minor no-no) giving a very personal cockpit tour to one of the local "birds" (major no-no.)

My faith in his information was immediately and miraculously restored.

We exchanged a few more good-natured barbs before we said good-bye. I knew he'd given me reliable information for the auction. One week and a substantial portion of my life savings later, I was walking down the rows of surplus Dakotas looking for my new bird. The aircraft had been mostly stripped of their air force markings but here and there you could still see some of the tail numbers and roundels. When I looked up to confirm that I had the right plane I dropped the papers I was carrying. There, just visible on the tail...but was it possible? I blinked and looked again.

It was 303.

I stood in front of the plane absolutely dumbfounded. I uttered a quiet prayer of thanks to fate and I started my usual walk-around. For all the abuse she had taken, she was in remarkably good shape. The Air Force had certified all aircraft for auction as "flyable" but it was a relief to see that there wasn't much I'd have to do to get her completely ready for business. I finished my walkaround and opened the rear door so I could check out her insides. I could see that the main passenger/cargo area was more-or-less fitted out as I walked up to the cockpit. Pushing the curtain inside, I slipped into the pilot's seat and I closed my eyes and felt an almost tangible warmth come over me. It was like being reunited with a long-lost love. I opened my eyes to look around the cockpit, noting some familiar dents and scratches with a smile, a note taped to the back of the cockpit wall caught my eye.

Dear Flyboy,
I told you I'd find something. See if you can practice some of that "safe flying" we hear so much about. Try not to bend the bird. Now you really owe me.
- The Scrounge

Yeah, I owed him. I owed him big. I ran my hands over the controls, remembering missions and close calls and ferverent prayers to 303 if only she'd get me home one more time. Funny, there must have been something in my eye, because I was having trouble seeing clearly at the time.

Once word got out that I was running my own air cargo operation, a few familiar names and faces popped up wanting to be a part of the fun. I usually took whoever was available as a co-pilot, but my old crew chief and a couple of his wrench monkeys signed on with a handshake, all on the promise of a share of future profits. I was indebted to them for more than just their wages. They worked miracles keeping us in the air and operational. I couldn't imagine the fate of the business had it not been for them.

Over the first year, there was a lot more hard work and anguish than anyone expected, but we managed to make enough money to let everyone have a modest share of the profits and definitely enough to keeps us going for another year. Even after the success of that first year, I had to resist the urge to try and cash-in and grow. After all, I was running the operation because I wanted to fly, not just because I wanted to own and run an airline. If I owned an airline, it would seriously cut into my opportunities for flying. If it came down to a choice between flying and paperwork, well...it was pretty easy to see the decision I'd make. The Scrounge decided that he'd had enough of what he called the "world of fantasy" in the Air Force and packed it in. Of course, he landed on my doorstep and I was happy to give him all the administrative crap that came with the territory. As I said, I owed him and he was happy to use his god-given talents to keep us running without being bothered by what he once termed "becoming a trained seal, jumping through paperwork hoops for some wingless wonder who is only capable of flying a desk." You really did have to admire his ability to turn a phrase.

Of course, that admiration wasn't doing much to keep me warm in what was left of my plane as I took stock of the situation. I was returning, solo, from a supply flight up in the bush. I was a little unhappy for a couple of reasons. First, I had a heated discussion with one of the recipients of the cargo, complaining that he was short one barrel of bright orange paint. Second, my co-pilot for this trip came down with a spectacular case of the shits shortly after consuming something at the airstrip canteen. I did my best to enlighten him of the dangers of such culinary russian roulette. Sure, the men who worked out here were tough. They had to be, especially if they had to survive on whatever food stocks we could fly in. Sometimes, it was rumoured, the canteen cook took a chance with a can of something-or-other that might have been a little past its prime. Those were the risks of bush flying.

That was also why I packed a lunch. Sometimes you listen to the rumours.

As I sat, shivering in what was left of 303, I realized with perfect hindsight that I really should have listened to the camp doc. He told me if I waited out the night he could probably have my co-pilot well enough to fly, but I told him that I had to get back because I was pretty sure I had another load waiting for me to fly to some other wilderness Shangri-la. Besides, I could fly the bird solo if it came down to it. Sure, the Dakota was a handful for a lone pilot, but sometimes us bush flyers didn't have a choice. As I listened to the wind whistling by the cockpit windows across the tundra, I wondered if I might have used up all spots on Lady Luck's dance card. About one hour into my return flight, the port engine gave out and no amount of persuasive cursing was going to entice the engine to restart. I was in the middle of getting the cranky engine to shut down when something very large broke away, blew off the cowling and caused some damage to the controls.

That's when things got really exciting.

Control problems with a damaged Dakota were pretty standard fare on some of the missions I'd flown in wartime. Of course, some vague regulation requiring the presence of a competent, trained co-pilot probably made a difference. I was taking stock of exactly what was wrong with the bird when the other engine started to go. At that point I was pretty sure I wouldn't be back at my home field that night. I looked around for a place to set down, but I wasn't seeing a lot of options. This far into the tundra and the bush, you were lucky to find a relatively level space. From a few thousand feet it looked flat enough, but when you got closer all of those bumps and ruts and rocks and marshy spots looked like bad news for any airplane looking for a temporary home. I knew that a regular landing was out of the question, so I prepared myself, reluctantly, for a rough, wheels-up landing. As I ran through my mental crash landing checklist, I was muttering apologies to the plane.

"Sorry, girl. I know your landings are supposed to equal your takeoffs, but get we'll get through this."

She started to get pretty sloppy as the airpseed dropped. I had the rudder full over to compensate for the lost engine and I was using every muscle I had on the control column just to keep her level enough to land. Just when I thought I had her all lined up, I yelled out "Atta girl! I knew you could do it!"

At that moment, the airplane just quit flying and I went from Pilot, to Passenger.

Mercifully, I don't remember the landing at all. I remember opening my eyes and immediately regretting it when a gargantuan headache assaulted me. I could hear the howl of a low wind emitting from holes in the plane that really shouldn't have been there. Forcing myself to take a look around, I was relieved to have been knocked out during the crash landing. The aircraft was facing the other way around, having spun at least twice. I could see part of the port wingtip off in the distance where it dug in (spin #1) and part of the port landing gear sitting for all the world like it had been ripped out by a giant hand (spin #2).

Somehow, I managed to get my belts unfastened and I rather shakily headed out of the cockpit. I could see that I was going to need more than just a wrench and a hammer to fix the old girl. The main cargo door was hanging by a single hinge and some of the skin panels had popped rivets from the frame members and at least 3 of the forward windows had popped out from the force of impact. I could smell a bit of fuel in the air, but it wasn't clear if I had managed to rupture a fuel tank or if I'd just blown a line when I hit. It was the missing engine which confirmed my suspicions that 303 was going to have a hard time getting off the ground any time soon. There was a rather ragged spot where the port engine had been ripped from its mountings which looked a lot like my head felt.

I headed back to the tail section where I kept some of my emergency supplies. It didn't look promising. The water barrel had burst open in the crash and there wasn't a lot left. A similar fate befell some of my canned rations. I did have my first aid kit relatively intact, even though it was strewn all over the tail section. At least the old parachute I kept was still there, so I could fashion some sort of shelter against the wind, if not from the plummeting temperatures. My biggest concern was that a lack of suitable wood meant that a fire might be out of the question. I wasn't so worried about signalling anyone, I just wanted to stay warm.

Doing my best to keep moving, I rigged up the 'chute over the cockpit and started with the business of survival. I tried to get a signal out on the radio, but I was pretty sure it was dead. I used the first aid kit to tend to a few cuts and scrapes that were begging for attention and I had to figure out where I was. I managed to find my charts, but the instrument panel compass didn't survive the crash, and I was damned if I could find the small compass from the wreckage of my survival gear. Using "dead reckoning", a navigation term that was increasingly ironic given my probable fate, I had a reasonably good idea where I was, and frankly, I didn't like the bottom line from my estimates. I was a good 200 miles from my take off point and at least 300 from my home airfield. At this time of year, it wouldn't get completely dark at night but it would be dark enough. The temperature was dropping and my supplies were limited. At least I had my health. For the moment.
I sat in the cockpit in the looming darkness, trying not to think about the situation at hand. For the first little while my own well-honed bravado kept me going. After all, I'd survived a war. I'd survived a couple of crashes, enemy gunfire and worse. I could make it through this, right? After all, 303 had been my guardian. Or so it had seemed when I looked back on it. But as time went on and bravado faded my thoughts got a little maudlin. I figured that 303 would pull me through, but reality started to creep in and I wondered how this wreck of a plane was going to save me this time.
Wreck. Plane. My plane.
My thoughts were rather rudely interrupted when something fell onto my head and then onto the cockpit floor with a clatter. While rubbing my head, I picked up a small metal clipboard I often kept stashed near an upper panel. I smiled to myself and hung the clipboard back in its usual place. After all, a tidy cockpit is a happy cockpit, I mused to myself. Even if that's pretty much all that's left of your plane. I figured I would grab some of my meagre food left in my emergency kit and settle in for the night.
As the night went on, time stopped having meaning and I was cold. Really cold. Colder than I had ever been before. My eyes wanted to close and I kept thinking about warm fires and hot food. Every so often I would shake myself awake when the little voice inside my head would shout, "No!" I would blink a couple of times and remember where I was and I'd find yet another measure of resolve to stay alive out here. But sleep beckoned. I was tired. I had lost all sense of time and my own being. I dreamed of the war, of home. I could see friends I'd lost along the way and the friends who stayed with me. They were all beckoning me to come with them, but I didn't know where they were going. I walked closer to them and I could hear the sound of an aircraft engine. Such a comforting sound. One I knew well. One I had...
OW!
I came to with a start and rubbed my head and picked that damned clipboard off the deck once again. I thought it would be a pretty sad thing to be killed by falling cockpit supplies before dying of exposure in the North. But then I heard a noise. Engine noise.
Aircraft engine noise!
For a moment I thought I was still dreaming, but the throbbing in my head told me I was wide awake. I grabbed the one useable flare remaining from my emergency kit quickly made my way out of the cockpit and out of the wreckage of 303 and tried to spot the plane. There it was...not too far away and heading more or less in my direction. So far, so good, but the pilot would have to be looking the right way if he was to spot me. I said a quick prayer and fired the flare. The plane didn't change direction. Didn't acknowledge my flare. It was still on its same course. I could see it clearer now. A single-engine bush plane like so many others up here. I wondered if I could yell or wave enough to be seen. As I was waving and yelling for my life, the plane circled overhead a few times and wagged its wings. At turned back the way it came, I saw a small object fall from the cockpit window. It had a rag or cloth tied to it and it fluttered down. I ran towards it as it fell.
As I got to the landing spot in the grassy tundra, I could see it was a small wrench with a note attached, along with a well used mechanic's rag. I was too elated to even note that the wrench was one of my own. I unfolded the note with trembling hands and read:

Dear Flyboy,

Figured I'd find you up here. Bernie is ferrying up in the chopper. Will take a
while because we've been dropping fuel for him since we got the radio message.
Almost missed you except for the big orange paint smear on the ground. Did you
forget to unload it?

You still owe me.

-The Scrounge

I don't know how, but I'm sure 303 knew when to drop that clipboard on my head to wake me.

At least I know what happened to the paint.

END


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Canada License.