In every pilot’s journey through their career, they will share the cockpit with hundreds of other airmen. The personalities of said airmen will run the gamut from wonderful, to decidedly less than wonderful. During my four decades in a cockpit, the folks that fit into the “not so wonderful” crowd were few and far between, and that is a good thing. Of that group, an even smaller subset was formed. These folks excelled in the fine are of being a horses’ ass (as in the “I would not cross the street to urinate on them if they were on fire” category…a few yarns about them brewing). Again (thankfully), that group was indeed quite small. Most of the people I spent time with in the pointy-end of the machine, were truly great to work with (and for), and a select few became my life-long “brothers” as it were: bonded by our deep passion for machines that fly and our shared experiences in the sky.

The following entry has been grouped into something I call my “Roll Call” series. All the pilots in these yarns were; 1) folks that I personally shared a cockpit with, and 2) a unique spoke in the wheel that was my aviation journey. I offer to you:

“The Best of the Best”

The year was 1981, and I was a newly minted 25-year-old “commuter airline” Captain, firmly ensconced in the world of screaming turboprop engines and long duty days. I was flying the Fairchild Swearingen Metroliner II, and finding out that not all the jackasses sat in the left seat (meaning not all the jerks were captains). Indeed, some of these mal-contents sat a mere 36 inches to my right in the First Officer’s seat, and sometimes that distance seemed to magnify their personalities. I gleaned that crewing a 6-ton, 19 passenger, commuter “airliner” with these type folks could be a graduate course in “Human Psychology.” A dozen years removed, after I had upgraded to the “God seat” on the Boeing 727 at Northwest Airlines, I discovered that nothing had changed in that realm of aviation. Jackasses were still jackasses, no matter where they sat, and no matter the size of the flying machine.

(I was so green; I’m sure the price tag was still dangling from the back of my brand new “Captain’s hat.”)

Doug C.

Doug was most certainly not a jackass. With that said, many of my left-seat contemporaries did not fancy sharing a cockpit with him, often referring to him as “a real piece of work.” I however, did not share their opinion, for I found Doug to be quite interesting, if not a bit fascinating (refer to above reference to “Human Psychology”). He was the type of guy that may appear to be a grown man, but within him lives a “little boy” that more accurately sums up his true personality. He had a perpetually playful attitude, given rise by his overabundance of confidence. Confidence that bordered on the obnoxious. Regardless of his propensity for too much swagger and attitude, I enjoyed flying with him…. but for God’s sake I wish he would stop vomiting all over the instrument panel! 

Allow me to back up a bit. The date in reference was Friday, the 21^st of March, 1981, and I was paired to fly a 2-day trip with Doug; one of our more seasoned Scheduled Skyways First Officers. He was employed by this small airline, based in the hills of northwest Arkansas, for the same reason that the rest of us were; to build enough experience (read flight hours logged) to land a job with a “major” airline. We were young men and women with one burning desire: to bide our time, pay our dues, and hope for the big day when “our ship would come in.” In our case, we all hoped that ship would take the form of a winged wonder from the folks at Boeing or McDonnell Douglas.

For those not familiar with the lifestyle of a commuter airline pilot in the 1980s, let me sum it up for you; it could suck. “Hang on there Tex! Isn’t flying a 12000-pound airplane around all day a fun thing to do? Sounds cool, even enjoyable.” It certainly could be; but many times, it was far less than fun, and the cool part didn’t pay the bills. It could also be hard, very hard actually. The airplane was very demanding to fly (we had no autopilots, we “hand flew” it 100% of each flight), the small airports we flew into could be “interesting” (read dangerous), and the weather in the Mid-West could be awful. We saw far too many days filled with “tornado alley” type thunderstorms, pea-soup London fog, and even the occasional snow or ice storm. The airline operated on a shoe-string budget, which helped to spawn egregious management, and horrible work rules. We flew long days and nights (14-hour days in the cockpit were quite common), and we flew plenty of them. Mix all that together, and you have a witch’s brew of difficulty. The daily grind could take its toll, almost to the point of negating our youth. We bitched, we complained and we “soldiered on.” Why? Because we were young (mostly), and we loved to fly.

(A Fairchild Swearingen Metroliner II at the gate in Birmingham, AL.)

So, what was so different about that and a job at Delta, American, United, TWA, or Continental? The closest analogy I have found over the years is to use a professional baseball comparison. The minor leagues are the commuter (or regional) airlines, and the MLB “big show” represents the major airlines. At the bottom of the airline food chain (the commuter airlines), the pay salaries were bad. No, check that, they were horrible. As a new hire First Officer in 1979, my monthly pay was $800 (whether I needed it or not…lol), I actually met the federal and state parameters to qualify for food stamps. Surely traveling to all the fascinating destinations made up for the bad salaries, right?

It is true, we routinely flew into very large, very busy cities (Dallas, Memphis, Kansas City, St. Louis, Nashville, etc.) but we were far too intimate with the one-horse, backwater towns of the South. These were thriving hamlets right out of the “Bumpkinville” phone book, and seemed far more suited for a Mark Twain story then the world of the 20^th century. Have you ever been to El Dorado, Arkansas? How about Harrison, Arkansas? Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri?  Jackson, Tennessee? Texarkana, Texas? We knew them like we knew our own back yards. Again, it could be a grind, but we were pursuing that “golden ring”, and we simply needed to build enough flight time to apply for a “real” airline job (all the while trying very hard not to kill ourselves and a plane load of passengers).

(The route map for Scheduled Skyways, circa 1983.)

Back to Doug.

As a destitute First Officer, Doug had one rather large advantage working in his favor. He had another flying job, and those paychecks were signed by “Uncle Sam” himself. On the days he was not flying for the airline, he flew jets for the Arkansas Air National Guard in Ft. Smith. But not simply any jet, he flew the deadly famous McDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom II fighter. On those rare days off, he would strap himself into a multi-million dollar, “balls to the walls, hair on fire” military jet made for one reason: to roar off into the heavens and do battle with a dreaded foe. He was a by-God “fighter pilot” (albeit part time), the likes of Eddie Rickenbacker, Richard Bong, Robin Olds, even the great Pete “Maverick” Mitchell (at least in his own mind). He stood six feet tall, head full of crazy blond hair, the requisite fighter pilot “broom handle” mustache, and was lightning quick with an “aw shucks” sort of smile. Doug’s ego wrote the checks, and his attitude readily cashed them.

(An F-4 Phantom II of the Arkansas National Guard…it sports the iconic “razorback” emblem on the engine intake.)

With all this going for him, he possessed one big fault. Truth be told, it would not be a fault in your “Mach-2, yank and bank, flying, and drinking on the edge” kind of fighter pilot’s universe, but in the world of commuter airline flying, it was indeed a large blemish. This kink in his armor seemed to inevitably rear its ugly head when he opened his mouth about aviation. He had no qualms about telling you that he was without a doubt, 100%,  the shining example of “GOD’S GIFT TO AVIATION” …period, end of discussion (and everyone else sucked).  That simple little “minor fault” was the very essence of why many Captains preferred not to fly with him. To be sure, he should have left it out of the commuter airline cockpit, but alas, he did not. Again, I liked Doug and I just chose to ignore the “God’s gift” part…besides, I could fly the aircraft as well (or better) than him, so there was that.

(My initiation into the world of the Metroliner. FAA registration N6SS. When I was hired at Skyways in 1979, the airline possessed but two of these machines…and 3 Be-99 “Beechliners”. Its sister ship was N7SS.)

Again, the aircraft type was conceived as the SA226TC Fairchild Sweringen Metroliner II, but the flying world knew it as the “San Antonio Sewer-pipe” (their factory resides in San Antonio). We, the pilots at Skyways had our own name for this beast, for we called it “the Trauma Tube.” To say we had a hate-hate relationship with this aircraft would be an understatement. There was a plethora of reasons for our disdain of this machine, and here are but a few: it had the spaciousness of a sardine can, was excruciatingly loud in both the cabin and the cockpit (I suffer hearing loss to this day partly due to the screams of the engines…and we wore “noise cancelling” headsets), it was a sweltering steam bath in the summer, and colder than a frat house beer fridge in the winter. Mostly notably, we hated it because it was vastly underpowered and the small wing required lots of very heavy control wheel inputs. It was difficult to fly, and very difficult to fly safely.

(Where the cabin sardines sat. Our seat covers were definitely not of the leather variety.)

The environment in which we operated them was a mechanics nightmare (each machine could easily be flown over a dozen legs per day), and the maintenance gremlins were proof of that. Fortunately, at Skyways we had a superb collection of mechanics that somehow kept us in the air…these folks were true magicians. We put lots of “cycles” (startups and shut downs) on the two Garrettt TPE-331 engines, and as they accumulated more cycles, the less powerful they became. The FAA knew this and developed a program whereby we attempted to mitigate that (they called it the “Degraded Power Program”).  Before each takeoff, we were required to check performance charts and graphs to determine a “minimum” thrust number to be read on the engine gauges. During the takeoff roll, if we did not meet that number, we were required to abort the attempt, and reduce the weight of the machine (this was done by offloading passengers and/or cargo). So, essentially, every takeoff was a “test flight”, and it was a nightmare for the folks trying to get from point A to point B. It played havoc with our flight schedule (and was making us old before our time). I recall many takeoffs on sweltering hot days where I was not completely convinced the airplane wanted to depart Mother Earth and imitate our winged friends. We never crumpled up an airplane (or a passenger), and to that I attribute incredible skills from a group of very talented pilots… and maybe a large dash of love from “lady luck” herself.

The “day of days.”

On this journey with Doug, we began our 2-day trip leaving Fayetteville, Arkansas early in the morning, and had drawn one of the company’s newer aircraft. For once in a blue moon everything was working as the factory advertised, and as we launched, things began on a good note, for the weather was generally good. It looked to be a “medium hard” workday with only 6 takeoffs and landings scheduled (our hardest airline trip was a day with 14 takeoffs and landings…it was a killer). For my money, the best part of the day would happen when it was complete; not because of Doug mind you, but because of the locale where our day would end. The layover that night was to be in my hometown of Dallas, and a good friend was slated to pick us up and chauffeur us around to the local libraries for some quiet study time…yeah, no. Rick had been one of my college roommates, and a few years earlier had landed a job at American Airlines, thus breaking out of the small airplane quagmire.

As the day progressed, I noticed that Doug seemed to be a bit friskier than his normal self. It could have been his excitement at flying with yours truly (probably not), or because the 7^th moon of Jupiter was aligning with his stars (also, probably not). God only knows why Doug was acting that way…I didn’t want to know, so I didn’t ask. Doug being Doug however, most of our cockpit conversations were full of his exploits at being Doug. According to him, he was the envy of his fighter squadron, for he was indeed the “best of the best.”  He regaled me with stories of how he had shot down all the other pilots in their mock dogfights, and how he had consumed the most beer at their Officer’s Club parties. I listened during our five plus hours in the cockpit that day, doing the “yeah, right Doug” routine as I flew the machine (and looked out the left-side window a lot). I had no way of knowing that his “friskiness” would manifest itself into a long night ahead in Dallas, and an even longer day to follow.

As the western horizon was slowly changing from gold to crimson, I set the parking brake on the ramp at DFW, thus bringing our cockpit day to an end. Within the hour we had arrived at the hotel, and quickly changed into our street duds. Shortly after that my friend Rick picked us up in his brand-new luxury sedan, and we made a bee-line for one of his favorite watering holes. Within a scant few minutes, it was easy to notice that a certain amount of tension existed between Rick and Doug. The chance that they were going to be “besties” anytime soon, vanished within moments of their first conversation.

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it might have been due to Doug’s warm salutation upon meeting my good friend. As I introduced them, he exclaimed; “oh, you’re one of those… a f**cking FLAP!” (FLAP stands for: F**king Light Airplane Pilot…an invective that military pilots would occasionally throw at us civilian guys. Side note: While Rick never served in the military, his father had served heroically in the Pacific during the WWII. He was fully aware of the honor of military service).  I never let the “FLAP” thing bother me, but I could tell that it was not the best way for Rick and Doug to begin their “relationship.”

As the night wore on, we changed venues a few times, and eventually found ourselves sitting at a small table in a neon-infused establishment, with loud music blaring, and a stage covered in dollar bills. In fact, the small table had a pole extending through the middle (I’m guessing this was the “library” Rick had informed me about). Not being one to infringe upon local traditions, I was quick to remove my drink as he shouted, “Move your beer asshole!” Within seconds, a high-heeled foot attached to a curvy leg stepped onto the chair next to Doug and then onto our table. I was beginning to get the picture. The pole was part of her work equipment, and she was going to perform some local “native dance.” Sharp, aren’t I?

(Picture this table…only with a pole in the middle…and three idiots jammed around it in a dimly lit, rather loud, “library”.)

Doug seemed to like this “native custom.” We all did, but he seemed to REALLY, REALLY like it. After 30 minutes of him really liking it, he started getting a weird look in his eyes, and began to exhibit some “interesting” (read strange) behavior. I chose to ignore it and concentrate on the native custom. Bad move #1. At the next offer of refreshment from the waitress, Doug changed his preferred choice from a cold beer to a “double martini.” OK, this was not too shocking, but what happened next was. Upon arrival at the table, he would take each double martini, gulp it down, mumble something unintelligible, and then take a large bite out of the martini glass! Hmmmm…I had never seen that done before…shocking to be sure. After crunching, and forcing the glass down his gullet, he would follow with a statement concerning the manliness (or lack thereof) of civilian pilots …I think the actual quote was, “You f**king civilian pilots are all a bunch of f**king pu**ies!” (Crunch, crunch…swallow) Interesting, to say the least (I point again to the “Human Psychology” reference earlier).

(NOT what Doug’s martini glass looked like, but you get the picture.)

Even though some parts of Texas are still considered the “wild West,” this seemed to be pushing the boundaries of civil behavior a bit. The locals started to notice my esteemed First Officer’s sudden appetite for gin and glass, and were beginning to give us some disturbing looks. I was both amazed and concerned at Doug’s sudden, strange penchant for swallowing shards of glass, but sat motionless hoping it would all play itself out.  With a look of disgust, Rick commented, “Where the hell did you find him?” I was at a loss for words, and chose to sit back, have another cold beer, and watch the show…the young ladies, not Doug’s.  Bad move #2.

As you might expect, along with snacking on the bar chalices, Doug was intently watching the show… to the point of fascination. In fact, after several martinis,’ he became so enamored with the young lass conducting her “native ritual” on our small table, that he had no choice but to take matters into his own hands; so, he did. With a crazed, mesmerized look on his face, he suddenly stood up, shoved his chair back crashing it into the table behind us, grabbed her posterior, and gave it the same treatment as the martini glasses! The look on her face was only matched by the scream from her (now snarling) lips!

That “Virginia,” is the part in the movie where we grabbed Doug, one under each arm, and vigorously dragged him toward the nearest exit. The ape-like bouncer, witnessing the entire thing, intercepted our little trio of stooges, and politely asked us to vacate the premises (actually, he yelled something to the effect of “GET THE F**K OUT OF HERE BEFORE I KICK ALL 3 OF YOUR ASSES!).  His thundering admonishment of our comrade’s less than proper behavior, left us no choice but to agree with him and to his terms of our dismissal. We excused ourselves, apologizing as we left, and as we dragged Doug across the pavement to Ricks car, we continued to hear the shouts of the young lady, and the continued profanity-laced instructions from the bouncer.

The ride back to the hotel was a blur for yours truly, but was far worse for Doug. As he rode sprawled in the back seat of Rick’s new car, he serenaded us with what can be described as the groans of a dying animal. My curiosity beckoned, but I (wisely) chose not to look behind me. Rick angrily offered that if Doug began to deposit the contents of his beleaguered stomach all over the back seat of his new car, he would be kicking BOTH of us out on the side of the freeway. Praise be to the “god’s of gin and glass,” for Doug kept the contents within his bodily vessel, and we eventually got him inside his hotel room. We poured him into bed and ended the evening with Rick telling me that he was not exactly impressed with all of this. Nonetheless, he invited me down again …. with one very large proviso… “Do not bring that a**hole with you next time!” Fair enough.

(A typical Texas sunrise at the Dallas Ft. Worth International Airport.)

Dawn came early, and standing at the curb waiting for our ride to the airport, the morning sun was shining down on two steely-eyed, clear headed, and ready for another day of aviating pilot types…well, one…. kind of. I had to “assist” Doug in his wake-up and pre-launch routine from the hotel, and after the short bus ride and finding our departure gate, he disappeared toward the airplane. This was not unexpected; for his preflight duties and mine were very different. Mine entailed the maintenance status of the airplane, checking the weather for the flight, ordering the fuel, reviewing the flight plan, and talking to the dispatcher back in Fayetteville “Flight Control.” Though Doug’s duties were a bit simpler, they were no less important. His consisted of doing the interior and exterior preflight inspections on the bird itself, and a seasoned F/O could accomplish that in under 30 minutes easily. Roughly 20 minutes later, as I stepped on to the ramp and walked towards the plane, I noticed something very strange. The orange, plastic, engine “intake plugs’ had not been removed (they were installed the night before to protect the interior of the engines during the overnight). Before we could aviate, they obviously needed to be dealt with…part of Doug’s preflight duties. This did not portend good things.

I boarded the machine, peered into the cockpit, and found Doug…or what might have been mistaken for Doug’s corpse. He was slumped in the First Officer seat, softly moaning, and looking like death warmed over. His head was tilted back, and he had his crewmember oxygen mask strapped to his face (pure O2 has the effect of limiting a hangover…at least that’s the old wife’s tale in aviation). He was taking deep breaths between anguished moans, and it was obvious that his pre-flight duties had not been accomplished…and why. I set about quickly doing them so as to get us out of the gate on schedule. As busy as he just made me, I should have realized that this was but a preview of what the day had in store.

Needless to say, my morning began a bit pear shaped. I was essentially acting as a single pilot in a two-pilot aircraft. Doug was basically just ballast; worthless to be sure, and was to “ride” along in the F/O’s seat while I flew another “easy” little day…a mere five legs and we would be home free. We (meaning me) found Hot Springs, then Little Rock, and then Ft. Smith just where they were the day prior. All that remained in our journey was to fly to Tulsa and then home to the “mother ship” at Fayetteville. Again, my erstwhile First Officer was present in his cockpit seat in name only. Truthfully? I was OK with that. After the previous evening’s events, I was not in the mood for a morning full of Doug’s litany of “hero stories.” The upside is that it made the workplace rather quiet. Except for the screaming engines…and the moaning in my headphones.

(At the gate doing a “quick turn.” We routinely left the right engine running while we deplaned and boarded the next load of customers. All of the pilots hated doing this (I’m sure the ramp agents did too), the danger was obvious, and we were very lucky that no one was ever injured or worse. Another operator of the Metroliner was not so lucky, and the story makes me shudder all these years later. I’ll keep it to myself.)

The day slowly wore on, and as we left Ft. Smith bound for Tulsa, I was beginning to see the proverbial “light at the end of the tunnel.” (Side note: on top of being “solo” in the cockpit for the first six hours or so, of the three previous landings, the only airport where an instrument approach was not required was Little Rock). A stationary cold front was sitting over the Midwest, and most of the landing approaches were to a ceiling of under 1000 feet with a visibility of roughly two miles in fog. Was I miffed that Doug had yet to do any of “that pilot shit Mav”? Yeah, a bit, but my previous flying jobs were all flown as a single pilot operation (charter, night freight, etc.), so this was a little like the old days for me.

As we neared Tulsa, the afternoon sun was high in the sky, and we were flying above the clouds in clear, smooth air. This signaled that the weather was improving west of the cold front, and with loads of bright, warm sunshine beaming into the cockpit, I was to witness a full-blown miracle. It was hard to believe, but Doug was coming back from the dead. He was making human like noises, and seemed to be on the mend… (I had no way of knowing that said miracle was to not last long, and our day would end in the likes of an apocalyptic, dystopian world). At this moment however, Doug was beginning to lose the pale, yellow zombie look he had been displaying all morning, and was speaking in a language that resembled English. He mumbled something about being hungry, and about getting a bite to eat after we landed in Tulsa…  once again, I chose to ignore him at a critical juncture in time (you would think by now I would have learned). Bad move #3.

I landed the machine, we deplaned the folks, and off he went toward one of the “choke and puke” food stands in the terminal (this was in the days long before most terminals had actual restaurants where the food might be mistaken for being edible). A few minutes later, he was back at the boarding gate, looking mostly human, but now sporting a “troubled look” on his face. In his right hand, he was grasping the remnants of something, and when I asked, he held up an item that did not look like something one should injest into one’s body. He grimmaced it bit, then asked if I wanted the rest of his hot dog. I adamantly, vociferously declined, for having flown into the Tulsa International Airport many times in the past, I knew that the “tube steaks” there were by far the worst in the entire airline system. No sane pilot would eat one! Not on a dare, not on a bet, or not even with a gun held to their head. It seems that Doug did not get that memo on Tulsa, or simply did not care, whatever. The most disturbing part for me (and probably his intestines), is that it looked as though he had consumed roughly 3/4s of the hideous thing. The “troubled look” thing was beginning to worry me, but I saw him throw the rest of it in the trash can, so I quickly put it all behind me.

(Doug’s tube steak might not have looked exactly like this…but it was not far off.)

No matter, the time had come to finish this little clam bake, and I was more than ready for it to be over. We had boarded the last load of customers, started up the two screaming Garrett engines, and began the 30-minute flight eastbound to the green grass and rollling hills of northwest Arkansas (and home base). “Troubled look” notwithstanding, as Doug now seemed to be firmly amongst the living, I casually informed him that his “rest time was over,” and that he would be flying the final leg home. He offered a rather meek “OK,” sat up a bit straighter, grabbed the control wheel and away we went. As we climbed away from Tulsa and turned our little wagon train eastward, my thoughts turned to being finished and parking my ass on a bar stool somewhere (sans Doug I might add). As we leveled off at our cruise altitude of 15000’, we were well above the clouds, sailing along in smooth, clear blue skies. All seemed satisfactory in my little world. That is, until we checked in with the ATC Fayetteville Approach Control folks.

As fate would have it, things were going to be a bit “sporty” on this leg, for Fayetteville was still suffering the effects of the stationary cold front. The weather folks predicted it to be clearing at our arrival time, but that had not happened, and any pilot will tell you that forecasting the whims of Mother Nature can be a fool’s errand. The day was winding toward evening, and I was feeling a bit worn out after a short night, and a long day flying “solo.” All that aside, I now had a newly “re-born” First Officer at the controls ready to take me home, and he could handle it. After all, he was “the best of the best” …right?

The ATC folks informed us that the airport was reporting an overcast ceiling of 1000’, a visibility of 3 miles in fog, with the wind gusting out of the northwest. This would require an instrument approach, and the flavor of choice was to be the “VOR Alpha approach, circle to land runway 34”.  Side note: The home base operations for our little airline were staged out of an airport that was not at all suited for numerous “airline type” flights. In fact, it sucked majorly, for it lay between two groups of hills, it had no precision type instrument approach, and it had a “non-radar” Approach Controllers facility (I always envisioned them pushing plastic planes around a big board map, ala. WWII and the Battle of Britain). To make matters worse, it was a very busy place during our hub “rush hours,” and this of course, was exactly the time of day that we were tasked with arriving.

(The Fayetteville, Arkansas Drake Field airport. The “lore” concerning the airport was that the guy conducting the survey to decide where to build the airport died before he got a chance to tell anyone where it should be built. They found his map with a red X and decided to build it there. The lore part is that he put the X in exactly the spot to NOT construct an airport. The surrounding hills made an instrument approach “challenging”. Interesting fact: just up the little 2-lane road heading to the left in the picture ((Hwy 71, it runs north-south just west of field) was a liquor store with a VERY bright neon billboard-type sign. Rumor has it that the Skyways pilots, on foggy nights, used to fly the instrument approach to legal “minimums,” and if they could see the bright liquor store lights flash below them…they knew they were exactly on the electronic centerline of the runway and would “cheat” and descend a few dozen feet lower in an attempt to see the runway. Rumor also has it that the “Liquor Store One Arrival” got many a flight into the airport on foggy nights that otherwise would have been forced to divert to Ft. Smith…rumors mind you. 🙂 )

So far, so good. All was proceeding fine as we descended inbound to the airport, and Doug and I briefed all the information to conduct the instrument approach. I set up the navigation radios, and he started to configure the airplane as the Fayetteville Approach Controller cleared us for the procedure. We were still in clear air, but as we descended toward the cloud layer, I could tell they possessed the signature little puffy build-ups that announce to the experienced flyer… “it’s going to be just a wee bit bumpy as we fly into them.”  Doug was hanging in there, doing a good job of keep the airplane “right side up”, but he was now sporting a “furled brow” of intense concentration to go with his “troubled look.” I began to have an inclination that this may not end well for Doug and his Tulsa “tube steak” (I told you I was sharp).

(We may have been the “most experienced regional airline in the south”, but Mother Nature was not impressed.)

As we entered the tops of the clouds, the machine started to bump around slightly, this turned into bumping around abruptly, and then quickly, it turned into a full-blown “ride on the mechanical bull”. I could plainly hear the “whoops” and “hollers” from the passengers as we hit the turbulence, but that didn’t concern me very much. It was what I heard next that got my undivided attention. I had been dreading that I might hear it (and praying that I would not) …. but from the right side of the cockpit, from the “best of the best” fighter pilot his squadron had ever seen, through my headphones I heard a muffled “UHHH, OHHH.”

I slowly pulled the curtain that separated our cockpit from the passenger cabin (the Metroliner had no cockpit door and the passengers seemed to enjoy watching what was happening in the cockpit…so we tended to leave the curtain open under most operations).  I grabbed the control wheel, sternly announcing to First Officer Doug that “I have the aircraft,” and began the process of flying the machine in the clouds. This was a moment blessed by the “gods of perfect timing,” because the moment I grabbed my control wheel, Doug let go of his (again, there were no autopilots on our airplanes). He was now desperately grabbing for something he could use as a container to deposit stomach items that were angrily intent on being regurgitated! As a rule, we did not keep airliner type “barf bags” in the cockpit, so he used the only thing he could find.

He grabbed the spiral-bound, plastic-covered Pilot’s Checklist resting in the pouch under his right-side window, and upon opening the plastic sleeve holding each page in the binder, he let go a spew that would have made “Mount Vesuvius” proud! The results were disastrous. After filling up several of the checklist holders, one might think the event would have been over, right? Wrong. Linda Blair fire-hosing vomit in “The Exorcist” had nothing on Doug. He power-vomited all over his side of the instrument panel, all over his own uniform, and finally, with nowhere else to aim, he simply hung his head between his knees and let go.

(Picture the right half of this Metroliner instrument panel covered in…well…just covered.)

I was busy; and when I say busy, I mean really busy! I was flying the instrument approach, reporting our position on the radio to the “little plastic airplane on a big board” ATC controllers, and concentrating enough to NOT become a victim of the “sympathy puke” program (which every kindergarten teacher can tell you is a real thing). Somewhere in this nightmare, I managed to switch the radio to our Station Operations frequency, and request a cleaning crew to meet the airplane. They knew exactly what this meant, for they had seen days like this turn one of these little airplanes into true “vomit comet.” By now, Doug was finished doing the deed, and was as limp as a wet dish rag. He was spent, he was kaput, he was toast, …you get the picture. With his head tilted back, eyes closed, blond locks and face slick with spittle, he slipped back into “moaning zombie mode.”

At that instant, the second miracle of the day occurred, and it happened not a moment too soon. If I could not see the runway, and see it soon, we would be forced to abandon the landing attempt and suffer the unimaginable fate of entering a holding pattern thus prolonging this vomitus-induced nightmare. Suddenly, the clouds parted, and the runway appeared slightly to our left, thus showing us the path to our salvation! I executed a slight S turn to align ourselves with runway 34, plopped the aircraft firmly onto the pavement, reversed the propellors and turned left to clear the runway. I “expeditiously” taxied the airplane to the ramp hardstand, shut down the engines, removed my headphones, and just sat there attempting to comprehend what I had just witnessed.

Normally, the First Officer would get out of their seat, open the cabin door, deplane and “kiss everyone goodbye” as he/she helped them down the stairs. Not on this doomed ship of fools…we had no First Officer, just a rung out, puke covered, noodle limp fighter pilot. The ramp agent, being a bit perplexed by a lack of movement by the F/O to open the door, did just that and began the process of welcoming all our “cabin daredevils” to Fayetteville. As they filed past the cockpit (curtain still closed) and out the exit door, I heard more than one loud comment about the smell. Not without reason, for a disgusting hot dog, dusted with glass splinters, and a gin “chaser” (or several gin chasers) was indeed disgusting.

(Words cannot describe what I removed myself from.)

After the (now traumatized) customers had deplaned, I slowly unbuckled my seat belt, and without uttering a word, vacated the scene of the crime. Doug sat in all his “splendid glory” as if paralyzed by the recent events. The short walk to our Operations Office provided me two things; a chance to breath fresh air again, and a moment to process what had just happened. As I passed the outbound captain for that aircraft, he asked if someone had gotten sick on the flight. All I could muster was a heartfelt, “I’m truly sorry Wendell.”

Less than an hour later, finding myself firmly planted on the bar stool mentioned earlier, I ordered a beer, and picked up the phone. There was but one person to call, and waiting to make that call would not suffice. As I recounted the last few hours of my life to Rick back in Dallas, I could hear him laughing hysterically. Still suffering from a bit of trauma myself, I began to realize that he saw my tale far more entertaining than I did (through the prism of 40 years however, it now seems hilariously funny). Amid his merriment, he stopped laughing long enough to make a comment about military pilots and their “lack of manliness.” I think his actual statement was: “F**king miliary pilots are all a bunch of f**king pu**ies!” Enough said, I guess.

Addendum to the story.

Doug never made it to “the big show.” Several months later, he and I were ferrying a disabled aircraft from Little Rock to our maintenance base in Fayetteville, and he pulled an (unannounced to me) bone-headed stunt. Unfortunately for him (us), it was witnessed by the FAA, and he was fired. After that, he became a full-time “Guard bum,” for the Arkansas National Guard. He spent his days flying an F-4 Phantom II across the skies of Arkansas, and keeping us safe from the red horde…or something.

(The Phantom is an iconically beatiful jet to be sure.)

Side note: I too was let go after that ferry flight, but rehired after Doug selflessly insisted that I was not a part of his little airshow. He offered that I had no idea he was about to do the maneuver (the truth), and thus, I should not be held responsible for his actions. The Chief Pilot and Director of Operations grudgingly hired me back, but not without attaining their pound of flesh. They had me sit in the proverbial “chair in the spotlight” in the middle of the office and the Chief Pilot handed me the big black book that was our Operations Manual. He then ordered me to read the Federal Aviation Regulation that pertained to “Careless and reckless operations” (FAR 91.13…every pilot knows it by heart).

“FAR 91.13: “Aircraft operations for the purpose of air navigation. No person may operate an aircraft in a careless or reckless manner so as to endanger the life or property of another.”

As I began to read the words, the Director of Operations loudly blurted out…”OUT LOUD…READ IT OUT LOUD!” I blankly stared at him and quoted the regulation verbatim, purposefully neglecting to look down at the page. I guess their Gestapo display of “we’re in charge and you’re not” was enough castigation to keep me employed. Lovely folks they were.

Fast-forward to a few years later, and I’m sitting at my breakfast table fat, dumb, and quite happy. I was now living in Little Rock, and was many months out of the morass of the commuter airline world. My “ship had come in,” for I had landed a position as a pilot with Northwest Orient Airlines, and life was good. As I opened the morning edition of the Arkansas Gazette, I found myself staring at Doug’s picture on the front page. Never a good thing.

He was doing low-altitude ACM (air combat maneuvering…dogfighting), had flown his F-4 Phantom II low and fast into the rugged hills of western Arkansas, and had never returned. The next day, they would locate the bodies of Doug and his “back seater,” but a happy ending was not to be. He was to leave a widow and five children.

The article read:

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“An Air National Guard F-4 jet crashed in the…

HARVEY, Ark. — An Air National Guard F-4 jet crashed in the mountains of the Ouachita National Forest Wednesday, killing both men aboard, officials said. The jet, which was on routine low-level maneuvers, crashed at 10:28 a.m. CDT, setting a fire that the National Forest Service rushed to extinguish.

The dead were identified as Maj. Douglas C. CXXXXXX, 32, of XXXXXX, Ark., the pilot; and Capt. XXXXXXX X. XXXXXXX, 31, of XXXXXXXXXX, Ark., a weapons systems operator. Both were attached to the XXXth Tactical Fighter Group at the Air National Guard base in Fort Smith, Ark., said Maj. XXXXX.

The F-4 and two companion jets were on a low-level training mission over the national forest when the plane crashed about 30 miles southeast of Waldron, Ark. ‘There was no other than normal communication from the plane at the time. There was no indication of any problem whatsoever,’ XXXXX said.”

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I was left shocked and speechless. Memories flooded back to me of the “night of the bite,” and the events of the next day’s flight. Vivid memories of the “gin, glass, and gushing hot dog” moved my face into a forlorn smile. Those memories had been lost in the dusty brain-vault of my cortex, but they were now on full display. I had lost a cockpit friend, a comrade of the sky, and for that, I was truly sad. But I realized that Doug had died doing his thing, doing what he dearly loved, and at that thought I gently smiled. Low and fast, “hair on fire,” yanking and banking, drinking all the beer, killing all the “bad guys,” and perishing in his world of fast-jet aviation. All the while….

…. being the “best of the best.”  I raised my coffee cup in salute.

Till next time,

BBall