14 Nov 22 Flight 02

Check. Check. And Check Again

Have you ever wondered why in the movies (and in reality) the pilot always answers some disembodied voice calling out a litany of plane-speech? (Ha!) And even in the not-so-modern movies and stories, the pilot answers, “Check!”  Like this abbreviated set: 

Ignition         Check

Contact Contact

Clear Clear

The person outside the diminutive plane, e.g. Aeronca Champion, would then hand prop the little workhorse and “. . . off they’d go into the wild blue yonder!” (Yes, there is an art to propping a plane, no matter how small. It’s like dancing with a velociraptor.)

Aeronica Champion

I’ll explain momentarily, but first a preview of today’s poems.

What’s Up Today? (Ha!)

The second half of “Remembering Flight” is the last poem of the set. I’ll remind you, if you didn’t read last week’s post where the first half appeared, that my Father, the center of this poem, is my HERO for many reasons – and certainly not because of his being at the dinner table each night, or taking us to church on Sundays, etc. I hold him in respect and esteem because he knew himself better than anyone else in my experience, and he knew exactly what he wanted to do and be: log as many hours in the air as possible (over 34,000 hours when he folded his wings – do the math!), and if weather or other interruptions kept him from flying, you could find him in a hangar doing an engine overhaul or simply cleaning his little family of planes, which later grew to a sizeable fleet in his commuter airline days.

Before I get too carried away, let me tell you what else is up for you to dive right in: 

“A Pilot’s Prayer,” is anonymous as far as I can tell. That doesn’t matter. Whoever wrote it did so from the heart. Dozens of wallet cards, plaques, and scrolls repeat the prayer. This supplication has lasted a long time, so it has something to say about pilots and the machines they fly. It also reminds me of the bond between sailors and their church, wherein petitions waft to heaven for fair winds and smooth sailing.

“High Flight” by John Gillespie Magee is a poignant depiction of what it is like to leave the earth and everyday life behind and fly baby, fly. It may also be the most famous aviation poem of modern times, right next to the Air Force Song (see next week). Magee’s poem, “High Flight” was inspired by a high-altitude test flight. He sent a copy of the poem to his parents, who published it after his death. The poem was displayed in the Library of Congress, and posters with the poem, a portrait of Magee, and a sketch of the plane he flew were distributed to British airfields.

Continuation of My Sky-Blue Adventure

As I write this, I am taken waaay back to my own days of flight, much of it before I was nineteen years old. This reverie entices me to share all the details, but I’ll restrain myself and say a few words about checklists. Every aircraft has one (or more) from the jumbo jets all the way down to the Aeronca Champs in the pictures. Why the emphasis on checklists? Why don’t we have them in our automobiles? The answer should be obvious: you can stop your car on the side of the road; performing mechanics’ work in flight is a tougher job – you can’t step outside mid-flight to fix anything. Wing walkers excepted. Maybe we should have checklists in our automobiles – for that matter a “pre-flight” check before going on a first date – or a thirty-first – or a third marriage . . .

Still restraining myself, here are a few glimpses of what it was like to perform the checklist cha-cha-cha with my Father looking over my shoulder.

Note: This is nothing like the real checklist; that is waaaay longer.

C - controls

Ailerons - checked

Elevator - checked

Rudders - checked

Trim - checked + set

I - instruments

Altimeter - set to 955'

Tachometer - checked

Airspeed Indicator - checked

Compass - checked

Oil temp - checked

Oil pressure - checked

G - gas

Fuel valve - on

Carb heat - cold

Fuel Qty - checked

Primer - in & locked

A - airplane

Door - latched

Seat belts - fastened

Items - stowed

Passenger - Briefed

R - run-up

Brakes set & stick back

Throttle - 1500 rpm

Magnetos - checked

Carb heat - checked

Oil temp - checked

Oil pressure - checked

Idle - checked

All of the above after a walkaround check and before rolling the wheels over one turn before starting engine

 . . .  and check – check – check goes on from there . . .

Happy flying – if you can ever finish the checklist

 . . . and if you do, remember “Rubber side down.”

Check it, Wilbur! Check it!

You’re off my list, Orville!

A Pilot’s Prayer

Heavenly Father, Thank you that I have the privilege of flying aeroplanes. Thank you that I can take to the skies, see earth become small and fall away beneath me. O Lord, help me to fly with skill and diligence, to follow procedure and to keep those I carry safe. Alert me to difficulties and dangers, so that I have time to respond and pray. And a I take to the skies, come lift my heart too. May I always give thanks for the goodness of my life. As the earth blurs away beneath me, come give me your heart for it. Please inspire my mind to see everything through your eyes. And may my prayers be free, dynamic and effective from this perspective! Lord, lead me closer to you each time I pilot this plane.     Amen.

High Flight

by John Gillespie Magee Jr.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air ....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark nor ever eagle flew—

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Remembering Flight – Part 2

Note: Part 01 was posted on 07 November 22

(And so, it happened on a clear cool night, cruising smoothly, relaxed and calm

we heard a low groan from behind us – we looked at each other – Dad raised an eyebrow

“Check that out,” he said unruffled, directing me to determine the sound’s source

If I turned rearward, I did not want to see the corpse, angel, or soul in flight

no excretion, eyeballs bulging, or hands with grasping claws

But worse than any of these when I took my courage and stepped out the cockpit

another groan long and deep and asudden the corpse sat up straight and I lost composure

“It’s the body!” I said swaying, almost leaking

“Oh good,” my father said evenly. “Sometimes they’ll do that – nerves and muscle twitches.

Don’t worry, it will lay back down. Bet it scared you,” and he chuckled)

. . . Beyond that day of my first lesson, many flights, line by line, filled my logbook

takeoffs, landings – check and check and check – never done by memory or trusting thought – 

many charters, a few more corpses and homebound air ambulances, trips to 

Chicago’s Meigs Field on Lake Michigan, mostly flying the D18 right seat 

For lessons, the Cessna – turn and banks, play with crosswinds, precise compass points

aeronautic maps spread on my lap and plotter used to lay in a course, flight plans filed when required 

– all in the passing of two years wherein the cushion disappeared

Always, always my father gently teaching, praising when I performed well

speaking of better ways when I did not, and not so often – I like to think – he took control

when some danger rose up from my lack of skill, but not so often – I like to think

“Feel the airplane; don’t trust the instruments,” he would say. “Manmade measures can be wrong

but air, wings, and prop are always true – feel the slowing with nose rising – feel it, feel it

before the stall –and just as strong, feel the speed increase when the nose goes down.

Watch for icing on the wings’ leading edges. Be aware of other planes in all 360 degrees

Always, always, safety first, and check, and check, and check.” 

Remembering one flight lesson, my armpits still get wet, and my forehead starts to drip

I heard the words I knew were coming. Every pilot experienced them well along into lessons

“Turn the engine off.”

We were 2500 feet above the ground. I tried to hold a semblance of composure

This was the dreaded “dead stick” landing

I powered back the throttle and turned the ignition key to off

The engine slipped abruptly into silence, one propeller blade straight up and stopped

The beginning of a forced landing

when the engine will not restart

After I made sure that the plane was straight and level, I began to look for a place to set down

clear of wires and tall structures, somewhere with a thousand feet to land and roll out

or rip off the wings or tail. Farm field furrows trip up a pilot, but grassland hummocks can do the same

Gently, gently, my father kept on instructing, reminding me of the checklist – only thirteen tasks

for the most serious challenge a pilot faces because this was all about the bird and me – only fire

could make the situation worse for those broad raptor wings and spread-out, rudder of a tail

Wind rushed past the fuselage – the sound a bird might hear but without the metal fuselage vibration

The airstream a natural sound straight out of evolution – gliding, gliding always downward, level attitude

with the Cessna’s 1700 pounds falling slowly like a steadily deflating balloon 

“Make it light; relax your grip – the plane is made to know how to fly without you fighting it

If you are gentle, it won’t fail you. Try to muscle and she’ll fight back

Feel the natural stable falling and find your safest landing spot

Remember what you’ve learned about making friends with the glide slope

Find the air’s natural lift under the wings – easy, easy – straight and level as you can . . .” 

(Years beyond, I owned a forty-four-foot Morgan sailboat with jib, genoa, and spinnaker

Sailing that boat, I discovered, as with most things, my father’s inner wisdom was reliable

Not often enough, but here and there, he sailed with me, and I taught gently just as he had with me

He proved a stellar student for he already knew winds very like the waves, sails’ leading edges

wandering currents, and obstacles in the path. “The sail is just like a wing,” he said

We proved to be a crew with prowess and the capacity to work without words

All this brought up feelings of good fortune to be the daughter of such a man

in distant times and now, when aloft or on the water, my lifelong truest teacher

up in the Blue One, on the waves, or sitting silent side by side on the ground

Although the ship had an engine, we almost always sailed her “dead stick”

fearless of the sea beneath us, even here and there when a wind shear knocked us sideways

back tip of the mainsail knifing water – a few adjustments and the vessel righted)

. . . But we were amid an unforgiving dead stick landing as I scanned the landing options

if a road, I might not see phone or other wires until too late

no farm fields or pastures appeared within our downward slope and speed

a thousand feet required to land and roll out, hopefully with nose parallel to the ground

I chose, and my choice found the right seat captain’s nod and as he gave it, he dropped a large cloth over all the instruments, something no other pilot had told me to expect

Keep the glide steady – the wings against horizon – no instrument for that

How many feet to the ground? Eyeball it from all the landings in the past

Without an airspeed indicator, I had to listen to the relative volume of the wind

All this time the checklist on my lap- so few checks for this dire situation

The pilot is on her own with the aircraft, everything off, and melding with the plane

At seven hundred feet, I unlatched the door to facilitate a quick exit, but my father did not do the same

And suddenly with a senior captain’s voice, he said, “Hands off!” 

Gladly, I did as told, and with only five checks to accomplish, and without the list,

my father, with practiced moves, calmly reached for the ignition switch

At five hundred feet, the engine ignited without the checklist, but as soon as

the engine kindled, the list was on his lap, and one by one, he followed the procedures

Still, the welcome engine’s resonance could not match the awe of the passing wind, 

the rate of falling, the sail unfurling

That proved the first of several dead stick landings that never touched the ground

I went on flying – soloed on my sixteenth birthday – flew with Dad 

in the Beechcraft with its two Harley-throated engines

until I left for school and other things and only flew on holidays and part of summers

Later I moved two thousand miles away

I took some flight instruction from a very different pilot who made me read numbers from the panel

and never once asked me how the airplane felt

He died in a crash where he was captain, identified by the wallet in the back pants pocket - no trunk

. . . After my father died, I had a frequent dream

In it we flew the Beechcraft D18 – him in the left seat, me in the right

We talked of cloud types and sun patterns on the water of the grand Superior Lake beneath us

to the East, red rising cliffs of northern Wisconsin

to the West, the compass of the setting sun . . .

burning down the day to darkness against the everlasting Blue of One . . .

Background

John Gillespie Magee Jr. was born in Shanghai, China to missionary parents. His father was American and his mother was British; Magee moved to England in the early 1930s to attend St. Clare’s and then Rugby School, where he won the Poetry Prize in 1938. Magee left England for the United States in 1939 to attend Yale University, though he never officially enrolled. Instead, Magee joined the Royal Canadian Air Force and was sent to England for training. Magee never saw combat and died during a mid-air collision with another pilot in training.

This is about one man’s reaction to the little airline that could – Midstate Airlines – a commuter that served the upper Midwest. 

Another Ol’Timey Recollection: Airline and utility reflect can do attitude / 

By Thom Gerretsen

. . . Many smaller cities and towns have airports, but I was almost blown away when I saw that Marshfield had its own airline with scheduled flights.  The late Roy Shwery started Midstate Airlines in 1964 and its smaller aircraft provided service to Midwest cities large and small.  My maiden flight was on one of those Midstate planes to Chicago. There, I took a larger aircraft to Cincinnati when I attended the national Associated Press Broadcasters’ convention in 1978, as the chair of the Wisconsin AP.

I later learned that Midstate had “Champagne Flights” on Friday nights between Chicago and Ashland [ and other destinations] — a novel way for upscale Chicago and Milwaukee residents to enjoy some peaceful weekends along Lake Superior, not far from Wisconsin’s Apostle Islands.  But, eventually, more complex federal regulations overburdened Shwery’s airline, and he sold it to Sentry Insurance of Stevens Point in the 80s.  His memory remains alive as private aircraft continue to use Roy Shwery Field at the Marshfield Municipal Airport.      Hub City Times / 2 May 2018

If you enjoyed this post, here is a link to “Flight Safety Australia". 

Exploration 1: Do you ever dream that you are flying? How does it feel?

Exploration 2: Speculate on why some people are fearful flyers and some are jubilant like Mr. G.

Exploration 3: Do you have a hero? This person or animal need not be a parent, of course. Why do I ask you this question?