The Flight Log E-Book

Christoph Huebener

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Flying has always been an almost magical fascination. Even in times of global mass travel with huge airliners, you can hardly escape this spell. By how much more pronounced must this attraction be as a pilot of one's own plane? In his Flight Log, the 1960-born author with over three decades of flight experience up to now, tells exciting short stories about the feeling of freedom, independence and adventure. He tells how for the first time he held the controls by himself, how as an experienced pilot fixed rituals developed with his comrades and how floating above things literally gave him the necessary composure to make important life decisions. But it is not just an autobiographical narrative. Rather, this book uses individual episodes from the life of a passionate pilot to ask questions about life, uncover interpersonal behaviour and build bridges between people. In this way the reader can also find himself in this book. This makes the Flight Book unique and offers an entertaining and reflective read.

Leseprobe

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunwards 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.

Hovering there I've chased

the shouting wind along

And flung my eager craft

through footless halls o fair...

Up, up

the long delirious burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights

with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle, flew;

And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod

The high untresspassed sanctity of space,

put out my hand and touched the face of God

Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

No. 412 Squadron RCAF

June 1922 - December 1941

Contents

Preflight

For My Father

These Evenings

The Blue Hour

The First Flight

Cat Bravo Yankee

Illusion

Formation

Fear

Airline

B-17

Encounter

Fever

Last Call

Air Canada Four-One-Seven

After Landing

Credits

Almost nothing in my life has shaped me to the same extent that flying has.

My stories don't focus on dry technical descriptions or impersonal reporting.

Rather, they offer a glimpse of my experiences; of unforgettable events and everything connected with them.

None of these stories are pure imagination; most really did happen as described - more or less.

A few arose from events which I myself experienced, or are dedicated to people I have flown with or who are very important to me. Any resemblances are therefore intentional.

The thing that unifies all these stories is the incredible miracle of flight and the impossible-to-grasp sensations and emotions which accompany it.

It has always moved me deeply, and continues to do so today.

nice flight

Oh, one more thing:

This text contains some terms whose meanings may not be immediately apparent. I considered adding footnotes or a glossary, but decided against it on the advice of my editors. If you would like to know the meanings of these (technical) terms, you can look them up in the relevant sources.

Thank you.

For My Father

This story was actually supposed to be called something completely different.

The title was supposed to involve a word like start or beginning. After all, it's the first story in this book.

But I decided against it after a discussion. It was my father who made this story happen - and it was my father who introduced me to flying, among many other things. So this (true) story is dedicated to him.

It began in the early seventies. I was around eleven years old and the Wall divided the country, enclosing what was then the GDR. My grandparents lived in isolated, island-like Berlin, and we visited them regularly. The simplest way to do so was by plane from Hanover.

Thanks to subsidies, flights back then were cheap - a little over 60 Deutschmarks for a half-hour flight to Berlin-Tempelhof airport on a British Airways Super One-Eleven or a Pan Am 727. These airliners could reach Berlin via three different corridors through the GDR: Hamburg Air Corridor in the north, Bueckeburg Air Corridor in the centre and Frankfurt Air Corridor in the south. Each was 20 miles wide; there was an ADIZ along the border, as well as widespread aerial surveillance. But of course, I knew nothing of all that back then. My mother and brother were flying to Berlin to visit my grandparents that autumn day. Although for some long-forgotten reason I wasn't travelling with them, my father and I still accompanied them to the airport in Hanover. We made our way from the provinces of Ostwestfalen to the capital of Lower Saxony via train and bus. For me, this was more than just an excursion; it was a real sensation. After all, we weren't just visiting a major city, but also a major airport.

I can still picture myself on the bus from the station to the airport: the closer we got, the more excited I became. And my father was no different; he was as curious as I was about anything to do with aviation, and skilfully explained it all to me.

Back then, Langenhagen (the area of the city where the airport was located) didn't have any industrial buildings to block our view of the airfield, and soon, in the distance, behind the high fence, I could make out the air traffic control tower, which in those days still crouched on top of the plain terminal building. Soon after, we left the bus at the parking area and entered the terminal. The air, impregnated with the scent of kerosene, smelt like perfume to me. The ubiquitous howl of the APUs was broken only by the sound of idling turbines from the planes which I assumed must be starting up or coming to rest on the apron behind the concrete barriers that blocked my view.

We proceeded to the check-in. There were promotional gifts from the airlines at the counters (I had long been the proud owner of a Pan Am shoulder bag!), along with colourful stickers for the luggage, which vanished into the unfathomable depths of the building on a clattering conveyer belt. We said our goodbyes; my mother and brother went through the glass door behind the counter, and my father and I struck out up endless flights of stairs towards the remote corner of the building where we would gain the lofty heights of the viewing terrace.

We stood, freezing, in the cold autumn drizzle, and, a short time later, watched my mother and brother climb the gangway, waving, and vanish into the aircraft. The cabin door closed as if by magic, the gangway was hauled away by a sweet little tractor, and the plane slowly began to move.

I watched it like a hawk. I watched it waiting at the end of the runway, watched as the gleaming white 727 with the light blue logo on its fin vanished into the low grey stratus clouds with an ear-splitting roar of engines and an imposing plume of exhaust fumes.

The return journey awaited us; the weather started to improve a bit. But there was still a little time left to explore the airfield, so my father and I strolled past the battered silver aluminium cargo containers with their colourful stickers, past the dreary parking lot and storage areas, and along a low, equally joyless service building. Our goal: the fence.

Engines thundered promisingly in the background and we soon found a suitable spot near the wide taxiway that linked the two runways. From here, we could see the planes trundling by from up close – at least until, with another roar of engines, they turned and vanished behind the edge of a forest, only to reappear shortly afterwards, accelerating down the runway and finally ascending into the sky with a deafening din.

We watched this spectacle for a little while before strolling along the fence to the GAT. Here, lined up neatly on the apron, were a huge number of sports planes: Piper PA-28s, Cessna 150s and 172s, P-159Ds, Beechcraft Barons... I even remember seeing a Ryan Navion lashed down in the front row.

Near the apron, set into the green chain-link fence - as tall as a person and somewhat the worse for wear - was a locked door that gave access to the airfield. Next to the door, a white metal sign hung on the fence, promising SIGHTSEEING FLIGHTS in embossed black letters. Below, one could discover that a thirty-minute excursion in one of the sports planes would set you back 20 Marks, and that those interested should ring at the door.

Of course, the events and impressions of the last few hours had only increased my desire to go flying myself, and now the desire became a burning urge. My eager glances at the apron, the sign, the bell; my beseeching sidelong looks at my father - they were enough for him to grasp, even without words, what it was I wanted.

My father was and remains the best-tempered man I know, and he attempted to explain that we only had enough money for the train ride back to our village. This information failed to halt my desperate pleas. I regret my stubbornness to this day - or then again, perhaps not.

At last, a miracle occurred: as much to his surprise as to mine, my father discovered another five-Mark note in his pocket - enough for both the longed-for flight and the train ride home. In tearing haste, I dashed to the bell, and a few moments later, a tanned old man appeared and informed my smiling father that I was the final passenger he needed to make the flight - there were already two others waiting. I looked on gratefully as my father proffered the necessary fee. Then, the tanned old man - who now revealed himself to be my pilot - ushered me through the door in the chain-link fence.

I still remember clearly my excitement as I was led across the holy ground of the apron to the aircraft. My knees were weak with the restless expectation that we would be taking off at once.

My pilot's target was a C-172. Creamy white and embellished with red stripes, it stood out on the apron in front of the lines of parked aircraft. There were already two passengers in the back of the plane; a father with his daughter.

I expected to sit in the back with them, and was stunned when the tanned old man opened the starboard door of the Cessna and invited me to take the co-pilot's seat.

Dizzy with this unexpected stroke of luck, I clambered awkwardly into the seat. The tanned old man showed me how to fasten the claret-coloured lap belt and closed the door from the outside.

A few minutes later, he was sitting next to me, smiling and taking his sunglasses from the cockpit shelf without looking. With a grin, he offered me a headset. I hauled it over my ears, still a little clumsy. I was almost bursting with pride - the passengers behind me didn't have headsets!

Now, my pilot began to flip switches and press buttons on the Cessna's beige-coloured plastic dashboard, focusing intently. This was all entirely mysterious to me in those days, but I was nonetheless fascinated.

My headset began to hum gently; the propeller in front of me turned loosely a couple of times before the engine caught loudly and the plane's very foundations seemed to shake.

Shocked, I stared at the various lamps, switches and dials in the cockpit as the motor's hum quietened, allowing me to breathe again. I glanced at my pilot, who gave me a grin, a nod and a thumbs-up. He said something incomprehensible into the microphone - I supposed it must be English - and an equally incomprehensible answer crackled back. He pushed a lever into the dashboard, the engine's roar swelled and the plane began to move. I barely had time to absorb everything that was happening around me - me, in my wonderful co-pilot's seat. A truly incredible feeling!

My pilot nudged me and pointed outside. I saw my father standing by the fence; camera in one hand, waving to me with the other. I waved excitedly back.

Finally, the aircraft turned and left my father in its slipstream. Spellbound, I stared out of the shuddering window at the taxiway sliding slowly away beneath us as we followed its bends and signposted turnings to the runway. We waited, the engine idling impatiently. After a few minutes and some more gibberish from the radio, my pilot took the plane's brakes off again, let it roll onto a kind of oversized zebra crossing, turned it to the left and lined it up with the runway. Before us lay two kilometres of concrete, inconceivably wide; sunlight shimmered through the clouds at the end of the strip.

I looked over at my pilot, a little nervous. He gave me a nod, opened the throttle, and then stared by turns at the instruments and straight ahead through the cockpit window, in deep concentration.

The Cessna accelerated smoothly; the runway slipped away beneath us faster and faster; finally, I heard his voice through the headset - Look out - and, with one smooth movement of the yoke, the plane lifted off from the ground and we rose gently into the sky over Hanover. I looked down, and it was as though the whole world belonged to me alone. The edge of the airfield slipped away beneath us, the forest shrank and, in the distance, lakes sparkled tentatively in the sun. We made a gentle curve to the left and Hanover shimmered before us in silhouette. The clouds had broken up and we climbed slightly, approaching one of the gaps. The engine thrummed, warm and powerful, the sun peeked dazzlingly through the scattered clouds and we circled giddily above the world, city and country. I couldn't get enough of the view; my heart turned somersaults of delight and I felt as though this whole miraculous world of sunlight, cockpit, patchy clouds and toybox landscape below had been created just for me.

I was beside myself when my pilot indicated that I should put both hands on the yoke in front of me. I couldn't quite believe it when I felt the cool black plastic under my small fingers. I quickly understood the motions that he entered and which the aircraft followed.

What more can I tell you?

We circled Hanover, and this half hour in the clouds felt to me like an entire lifetime; the slow descent that quickly brought the airport into view before us again, the purring landing at the edge of the vast runway, the engine still running. I still remember the slight floating sensation during the descent and the gentle thump when we reached the ground; the mischievous expression on my pilot's face; my fingers still carefully clutching the yoke; the engine shuddering in the airframe - I felt as though I was the very first pilot in history.

Finally, the creamy-white Cessna with its red stripes trundled off the vast runway and onto the taxiway, whose curves and signposts we followed back to the apron with its dozens of sports planes sitting motionless in the distance.

Now, at last, we swung back into our own parking spot; the engine died away and the plane shook once again. My pilot laid his sunglasses back on the shelf without looking, took my headset back and - very professionally, I felt - undid the claret-coloured lap belt with the big buckle himself.

My father - who I now realise was hugely relieved - stood behind the chain-link fence, waving at me. Calm and unshaken, I raised my hand in answer.

Then the starboard door snapped open and I hopped out onto the concrete, bursting with confidence. My pilot, tanned and laughing, shook my hand; I'm sure he gave me some kind of compliment as well.

I raced over to my father, who folded me into his arms.

During the late afternoon train ride home, I alternated between silence and floods of words. It's only today that I understand how profoundly the experience shaped me - it was unforgettable.

My father - who had been interested in aviation all his life yet never quite got as far as flying himself - gave me an experience that showed me where I belonged and that led to nearly thirty almost indescribable years as a pilot.

My confirmation present was the glider lessons that I'd been longing for. To my parent's chagrin, however, I spent far more time on the airfield than I did in school - a fact which eventually came to light despite my elaborate attempts to cover it up.

My glider lesson funding abruptly dried up. The consequences were appalling: I endured my academic nosedive stoically and without much concern, but having to look up at the sky and see others flying without me was almost unendurable.

When I started to earn money through my apprenticeships and the numerous jobs that I took during my studies, I invested almost all of it in flying, spending many, many hours soaring above the world and gathering incredible experiences.

Incidentally, I was later able to take my father with me on numerous impressive flights - but they'll never repay what I owe him.

These Evenings

It's time for the final flights of the year. The weather is getting rapidly worse and sometimes we end up flying through squadrons of showers, beneath low-hanging clouds, trying to climb through the rare gaps in the grey ceiling to enjoy the sun above, low as it already is. Warm light blazes through the plexiglas of our aircraft canopies. But the rough wind robs us of the poignant calm of gliding: flying in these angry airstreams is more like a furious car race over an unpredictable stretch of potholes. Hard thrusts of the rudder, tightly-fastened safety belts, showers of rain concealing the view, strong sidewinds turning landings into complex feats of acrobatics.

At some point, this will all be over as well.

In the never-ending autumn rain, the airfield is transformed into a sodden pasture which dooms even the simplest attempt at taxiing. The hall doors rattle in the wind; the airfield becomes desolate: no more hustle and bustle of planes taxiing back and forth, taking off and landing; no more roar of engines.

All abandoned and alone.

Many of our planes now stand, covered, in the dimly lit, damp, draughty hangar. Some of them have been dismembered into skeletal components; a few have even been robbed of their wings. Their colourful, grubby cable entrails spill from their covered engine hoods as though from open wounds. There are oily tools everywhere; trestles and tables with discarded parts; above the workbenches are tacked crumpled plans, lists, exploded diagrams soiled with oily fingerprints. Along the walls stand chaotic shelves stacked with spare parts: generators, dusty crates and boxes labelled with beige dockets dangling from thin cords. Rusty petrol cans in an unlit corner; scrap stacked on top of them. A row of battered military lockers, resting place of all manner of documents.

Above hang individual ribs, disassembled ailerons and a complete vertical stabiliser. Enamel signs advertising aircraft manufacturers, discoloured aerial photos in crooked frames, portraits of this pilot or other; a gritty residue of dust, oil and dirt on the sloping ledges. Beneath the roof, out of harm's way, hangs the gutted steel airframe of a Piper Cub. Lid-shaped tin lampshades dangle from long cables, swaying with every gust of wind and setting delicate traceries of shadow dancing on the ground.