April 17 23 HEROES #01 - RPS

HERO: Roy Paul Shwery, Pilot, ATP, Father

Roy Paul Shwery – Airline Transport Pilot (ATP) and my much-loved Father. He is my personal, and earliest hero. I’ll tell you why in the “Background” section of this post.

Today, and for several future posts by JackPine Savage, we will have a look at various incarnations of the hero. We will look at a variety of heroes, known and unknown. Throughout, we’ll ask, “who is a hero,” Do heroes have any common qualities? Can an individual call himself a hero? A case could be made that those who call themselves heroes never are; they make up with ego what they lack in courage, and other heroic qualities.  Perhaps the defining factor is that other people call an individual a hero, meaning the hero earns recognition by others seeing and labeling him as such. No individual can rightly claim themselves as heroes. Others can.

The list of recognized heroes is exceedingly long. Many of them are seen as heroes by one faction, and as nemeses to others. Can there be a subset of characteristics that heroes generally possess. Well take up that question in future posts.

Consider the following random list: Joan d’Arc/ Jesus, Buddha, John Glenn, Barack Obama, Abraham Lincoln, Jonas Salk. Too many to list and never balanced. Then there are what are called the “unsung heroes.” Named individually, these two lists would make for a very long yellow-brick road. Significantly, the long and varied of individuals and group heroes can result in pride in the human species, and a view of people as pretty amazing.

‘* This post uses the masculine form, hero; however, it should be understood that the term refers to both male and female genders, as well as Personal gender pronouns, and any other reference that people ask others to use in reference to themselves. This definition includes gender neutral and gender inclusive pronouns.

Remembering Flight

I had to wait until my feet could touch the rudders

My father said so

Though I asked for wooden blocks to strap on my feet

I had to wait until, with a cushion, my nose peaked over the plane’s snout

My father said the butt booster was FAA* required equipment

Many flights before this one, me wide-eyed in the right seat

My Father easy in the captain’s left

But this lesson – unlike others – my first genuine flying lesson

My first wing dip into the great blue beyond

Many times, Dad called me to the airport to sweep hangar floors

to clean wheel wells, to polish wings, to fuel travelers’ planes

rent them cars, sell them aeronautical charts and new plotters

and, I like to think, Dad liked my company as much as he did my help

When he did engine overhauls on the Beechcraft D18** – N80017 –

I sat left seat pulling levers, flipping switches, wearing Dad’s U.S. Air Force hat . . .

(Just now, a memory rises hard and sweet of when my Father was old

and I was a hotshot, thirty-years-into-corporate-consulting type

Once I flew to St. Louis to work with Boeing

I arranged a plant tour for my Dad and a chance to “fly” the 727 simulator***

He quietly declined saying he had a chance to fly right seat

with a doctor who had a restricted medical certificate

This “chance” was not actually flying, mind you, 

just a right-seat passenger, a ride-along

To watch aircraft assembly, to sit in a grounded machine

had no appeal compared with flying the Blue One lifting his wings)

. . . As I was saying about that first lesson when I was eleven years old,

my father said we would just “fly around the patch,” practice a few takeoffs -

the easy part - and let me shadow him on the much harder part – the landings

He sent me out ahead of him to the tied-down Cessna 172 chocked and held

Held back like a filly in the gates quivering, rocking wing to wing

me walking across the asphalt ramp with the butt booster cushion under my arm

jangling the keys to Daddy’s Cessna, not his T-Bird

He told me to go out, take the checklist, and begin to execute the steps . . .

(Because of all those checkpoints, I developed the habit of checking everything

throughout my life, checking twice and thrice – stove gas, car keys, house locked)

as if every movement and thing had a place and reason, to be confirmed

and checked again to be sure

to be certain

to stay alive

for these checklists’ purpose: to survive)

. . . My father loped across the hot tarmac apron 

tan baseball cap shading his olive face, wide feet slapping, heel to toe

I had barely begun the preflight checks, so I picked up the pace and tried to

look like I knew what I was doing – which I did – sort of – 

as an outcome of all those hours flying with him . . .

(The sounds of his feet and the propeller I was inspecting raised up

a memory of a different Cessna 172 on a day when the rain fell hard and long

on the metal hangar roof under which I swept the cement floor - 

the floor imprinted with my five-year-old feet, pressed by my father

despite my noisy protests while, like landing gear, I pulled my legs up to my bottom

until my Uncle Arthur gave me an ice cream bar and thoughts of cement cracked away 

Disciples of Flight – Cessna 172

But as I was saying, the rain fell relentlessly – the Cessna pulled up outside,

engine idling, propeller turning one moment

the next, a ca-thunk interrupted the rotating blades

zaaAAand a scream rose that drowned out the steady rain

I scampered to the hangar door, peeked out around the edge, and saw a woman sprawled

on the tarmac, blood spouting from her right arm’s stump

her hand and forearm lay twitching elsewhere

Later, her husband, the pilot, said it was her habit to hop out before he stopped the turning blades

but this time, the rain fell hard

She raised her right arm to hold her coat above her head

Someone tied a tourniquet above her elbow

then brought her inside to wait for the sirens

I never heard if she lived. Her only story the dark stain on the tarmac)

. . . Now it seems strange to return to that first lesson’s brilliant day with its transparent clouds

in a near-pure July sky with my father jogging toward me in his khaki pants

his Air-Force-blue cotton shirt, and that flat-top baseball cap

The Cessna 172 checklist in my right hand, cushion placed left seat in the plane

Every inch of the aircraft had a place on that list; every item checked every time

or twice or three times if memory can’t be trusted

A pilot who trusts her memory does so at her peril and that of anyone aloft with her . . .

(I knew a pilot once, Tilson, who skipped visually checking fuel tanks

He thought the pilot who flew another D18 before him had done the fueling

Some of us happened to be watching as he sped down the runway

The tail wheel lifted off, and then the nose

At that angle, the remaining fuel in the tanks flowed backward 

quickly emptying the fuel lines – a stutter of the radial piston engines

then silence as the nose fell level and the nearly four-ton plane sank

hitting a house on the other side of Highway 13 across from the runway’s east end

Tilson died for his checklist omission, but he took no one with him

only some freight – the demolished house was empty) 

. . . As Dad reached me, I thought of that lost, twin-engine workhorse 

and I swore I would never assume full tanks, 

and always, always check, and check, and check again

My dad boosted me up to the top of each wing so I could unscrew the fuel caps

as I had done with a ladder so many times for the high-winged ones 

Peering in, I confirmed that the av-gas sloshed near the top

He set me down, and after the preflight check, we climbed into the four-seat cabin

settling down to the procedures that would spark the `````

All this and more my father walked me through impressing me again

The consequences of just one omission 

     just one oversight

one of fifty-four plus fourteen undone

one pilot error

one death and often accountability for more

There’s not much chance of walking away from a plane crash, so my father said, 

No exceptions for acts of war that he knew well from his days in the Army Air Corp

Not one check skipped – not one left undone, prime among them 

calling “CLEAR” 

before “IGNITION”

There’s no engine, wing, or fuselage fix in the air – just the grace of a “good” forced landing

Having taken our seats – me left on my cushion

anxious to perform and to please my father-teacher

this one who knew the sky and ground and the fragile things between

Precursor to Apollo yet to launch – from the Wright brothers to Lindbergh and on to us

At last, movement: 

Taxiing, we rolled out, the Continental whirring serenely

We turned and smiled at one another for a moment – I was giddy high

Check, check, check for traffic – roll out onto the runway taxiing faster to its end

where we turned into the wind and did the run-up with its thirteen more checks

only thirteen on top of the sixty-seven prior, summing to one-hundred-twenty-three . . .

So many times, I sat right seat noting my father’s steady, measured moves

Especially in the D18 with its twin, Harley-rumbling engines, two props, and twice the checks

a sound to set hot blood coursing red, not unlike the mortuary transports - the last flights home,

corpses laid flat on their stretchers, their senses of ears and eyes and all the rest gone 

gone

gone

gone beyond

Remembering Flight – Part 2

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 excretions, 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

aeronautical 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 plus up and down

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

Remembering one flight lesson, my armpits still get wet, 

And nervous sweat tickles my forehead 

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 in the midst of 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

*Federal Aviation Administration

**The Beechcraft Company out of Wichita, was known for its superior design and performance, and long service life. Pratt and Whitney reciprocating, nine-cylinder, air-cooled engines. Cruising speed 230 mph. Today, there are fewer than 50 D18s certified airworthy. Continuously produced from 1937 to November 1969 (over 32 years, a world record at the time), over 9,000 were built, making it one of the world's most widely used light aircraft. Sold worldwide as a civilian executive, utility, cargo aircraft, and passenger airliner, it featured a tailwheel, nosewheels, skis, or floats. During and after World War II, over 4,500 Beech 18s were used in military service. If Marilyn Monroe had been an airplane, she would have been a Beechcraft Model 18.

*** A flight simulator is a machine designed to resemble the cockpit of an aircraft, with computer-generated images that mimic the pilot's view, typically with mechanisms that move the entire structure in imitation of an aircraft's motion, used for training pilots.

Background

I loved my Father when he was alive, and that love has not diminished in his physical absence. Actually, my love has increased in the 14 years he has been dead. I buried his ashes in an urn on the airfield he loved so much, and that was later given his name: Roy Shwery Airfield in Marshfield, Wisconsin.

Above all else, he loved to fly. I loved and admired him for his passion for flight. A true passion to be sure. And no, this is not an exaggeration. He couldn’t help himself. In his earliest days – he was born in 1923 –  he always stopped his farm chores, shaded his eyes and looked up to the mythical, flying machines with whirring propellor-swords cutting the air, and with body-sheathes over armored mail constructed from metal and shaped onto the fuselage’s spine, stretched out to hold the precious wings aloft, covered with fabric and glue (literally), liked a medieval surcoat over chain mail.

The final time I saw my Father’s corporeal form was at his wake, the night before his funeral where I was honored to deliver his eulogy. I talked only in flight metaphors. As I looked out over the mourners, I saw many pilots, most of whom I knew growing up and after. As I scanned solemn faces, and more than a few tears, I felt my Father’s legacy rise up from all those men of the air. “This band of brothers.” who burst the bonds of earth. More than anyone else, Roy Shwery had given them their chosen livelihoods, their sky-borne fellowship, and above all, their wings. Each one had learned their art from him.

As an adult, he became a husband, a father, and instructor, yet remaining first and foremost, a pilot who was never quite complete on the ground. To be with him (and I was eager to do so), I had to be in an airplane hangar, in an aircraft, or studying in ground school pouring over meteorology and the mechanics of flight workbooks.

I followed at his direction – sweeping hangars, fueling transient aircraft, organizing aeronautical charts, selling flight lessons, and when the sweat-work was done until tomorrow, I rode with him on the tractor pulling the trailer covered with smudge pots that we lit and turned bright for night flights making their descents. 

His work was heroic and I am his daughter.

Exploration 1: Quick. Flash! Do you have a hero who immediately comes to mind. If not, how about a well-known person that you could choose?

Exploration 2: In the 20th and 21st centuries, do any of the Marvel-type superheroes qualify for “hero status?” Explain your answers.

Exploration 3: Does Roy Shwery meet the standards of a hero?

REMINDER to submit your work either on a theme or not. For your reference, upcoming themes include “Being Human,” “Home,” “Death,” and “Dreams.” Don’t worry about timing. Themes will run for approximately two months; however, a quality poem on any planned theme will be accepted any time.

Everyone is invited to contribute. Remember that JPS alternates with Ginny G, each posting on opposite Mondays.

Questions and submissions to: catherineastenzel@gmail.com.  We look forward to publishing your work.