Maverick Pilot, Volume Three

MAVERICK PILOT

VOLUME III, 1982 -1995

FREIGHT DOG TO FREELANCE

Dave R. Case

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Dave Case

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Table of Contents

ILLUSTRATIONS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PREFACE

BACK IN BUSINESS

NEW T.I.A.

ROSENBALM, THE SECOND TIME AROUND

CHECKITUS

KENYA AIRWAYS

FREELANCE

CONNIE KALITTA SERVICES

UNITED AIRLINES

EMERY AIR FREIGHT

TAMPA CARGO

A LITTLE AIRLINE IN TEXAS

AIR MARSHALL ISLANDS

FOLLOW-UP

ONE LAST PARTY

ILLUSTRATIONS

Adjusting the seat.

Captain Ed Hawley,

The first of many.

Lloyd mixing it up with the Locals.

Hot Standby hotel.

Donated food going to the Black Market.

The view from my four-star hotel, shacks.

Bob doing some shopping.

Lloyd fueling;

Thank Goodness the construction workers

Un-official airport greeters.

The big General Electric engines

This was the badge we proudly adopted.

Modern Hong Kong freight terminal;

#1. On the ILS; cross the shoreline at 750’.

#2. Turning to the right, picking up the lead-in lights.

#3. There’s the runway.

#4. Note the apartment on the left;

The bar where we toasted the GIs.

The Maas River

Two first-class crew;

Copenhagen is a friendly town.

Like a lot of things; the beach

Bombay Laundromat.

The city could be so beautiful...

...and so ugly.

Long Days.

Frank Conboy,.

Steve Fulk, my boss.

Part of my staff; Betty, Andrew, Nurline, and Tamar.

Sherrie was excellent.

Eating followed by dancing.

The Aussie’s and the Kiwi’s knew how to party.

Three Marshallese Cadets about to become pilots.

Dave Glover, Station Agent, Honolulu,

Corky Garner, Me and Pat Barnett

Me and Vickie, forever.

Time to turn the page.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Pilot extraordinaire, a sailor of oceans, and author of over twenty books was Ernest K. Gann. During World War II he delivered much-needed supplies over the treacherous Hump, later he flew well-heeled tourists to the Islands, and once ferried a Gooney-bird 4000 over-water miles to Samoa. Gathering together a crew of friends, Ernie sailed the schooner, Albatross, from Holland to Sausalito for the adventure of being on the sea. His books reflected his experiences with titles like, The High and the Mighty, Fate is the Hunter, and Soldier of Fortune. Many movies followed. As a youth I couldn't wait for the next adventure in print or film to keep me spellbound. After years of enjoying his pursuits, I wrote to him; he kindly and generously responded with a letter and poem that I treasure. His, was all the inspiration I needed. Thank you Mister Gann - Ernie.

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The following have kept me reasonably honest and factual, for that I'm indebted.

Miss Carrie Picket, a great teacher, who patiently nurtured this old Geezer through six-years of training in the How-to of stringing words together. How she suffered me for so long, I'll never know. With sincere appreciation, Carrie, I Thank You.

In a weak moment, Maggie Lloyd-Zeibak agreed to edit Volumes I and II. (An author bears his soul to an editor.) For keeping the Vows of Silence as my confessor Maggie, I also Thank You.

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To my beautiful wife, Jennie Victoria Chan-Case; the constant has been our love for each other. Thank you.

PREFACE

This Volume III, gets me back in an airplane and finds me becoming a Freight Dog, traipsing around the World; before finally completing my career as the Director of Operations for a Flag Carrier in the Pacific. Forty-four years and 25,000 hours of flying is a long time. There've been good-times, bad-times, but seldom boring times.

BACK IN BUSINESS

Life had turned sour, sailing away to Mexico with a typewriter to write stories looked like the only option remaining. I'd foolishly lost most of our savings building houses in a foul real estate market. Then the phone rang. It was Gabe, a friend from Overseas National Airways asking would I be interested in a job flying night freight in DC-8s?

Would I? I almost jumped through the phone with a very positive yes; followed by, You know I haven't been in a cockpit for over three years?

Don't worry, this outfit needs experienced drivers, and you are one of the best. It's working for Rosenbalm Aviation out of Ypsilanti; they operate the planes for Emery Air Freight. Rosie's pretty much a bottom-of-the-barrel outfit but at least they'll get you current. You might have to fly copilot for six-months; would you mind that?

Hell, not at all. Once a pilot had lost currency it was next to impossible to get hired with a carrier as they had to go through a very costly and time-consuming full training syllabus to get the pilot up and running.

Gabe gave me the phone number and the name, Howard Fisher, the chief pilot; adding that he'd mention my name so my call would be expected. I'm in the ground school class starting Monday. Call him right away, maybe we can go to class together.

I phoned immediately. After a couple of secretaries I reached Howard, Oh, hi Dave, Gabe says you flew '8s with ONA? It was the voice of a tired old man.

Yes sir.

That was a good outfit, too bad they went belly-up. A cough and the clearing of his throat followed. How many hours have you got in command and how many in the 8?"

I don't know, around nine thousand, and maybe fifteen hundred to two thousand in the '8.

How long since you've flown the bird?

About three years, I lied. It had been at least four years, since I'd quit ONA.

Have you flown anything else in the meantime?

No, my wife and I went sailing.

You what?

We went sailing around the Pacific in a boat I built.

Jesus, you must be nuts; how soon can you get out here?

"I'm available right now.'

Good, I'll arrange jumpseat on the flight out of Oakland leaving at nineteen-thirty tonight for the hub in Dayton, Ohio. You can ride in the mechanics' van to Ypsilanti. I'll see you in my office in the morning.

That was it; I knew I had the job when I hung up. I called Vickie, telling her I was going to interview for a flying job.

Will you be home for dinner?

No, I'll call you from Ypsilanti.

Where's that?

In Michigan.

Michigan? Well, good luck. Love ya.

Love ya too, Goodbye.

Bye.

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I packed an overnight bag, dug my dust-covered flight bag out of the storage locker, got a bite to eat at Denny's, and headed over to where the freight operations took place at Oakland Airport. No glamour here, just noisy forklifts, smoking diesel trucks and a dirty hangar filled with fiberglass cargo igloos designed to fit inside the fuselage of the plane. A bunch of young kids in Levis and tee shirts were humping the palletized packages and boxes from the trucks to the igloos for loading on the plane. Two mechanics had the cowling open on the number four engine and were fixing something. Meeting the captain, a man about my age only fifty pounds heavier, he introduced himself in a gravelly voice as, Dugan. You must be Case; I got your authorization to ride. Are you thinkin' of comin' to work for us?

Yeah, I've got an interview with Howard.

He's an old fart, but a good guy - you'll like him. Have you flown the Eight much?

I was over ten years with ONA.

You won't have any trouble here, except its all night work. You gotta get used to sleepin' in the daytime and stayin' awake all night long.

A young man named Tom Foster was the copilot. Dugan informed me Tom had upgraded through the ranks from a mechanic, to flight engineer, and just checked out as a first officer; a good man who took his duties seriously. The flight engineer looked like he'd slept in his uniform, an unshaven grizzled old dude close to sixty with a pot belly. There was an easy twinkle in his eye as he introduced himself as, Jim Vogel.

Jim's our chief engineer and makes good coffee, so be nice to him, Dugan interjected.

The plane was a thirty-series that had definitely seen better days. The last two letters on the tail were, A-J. Tom told me the plane originally belonged to Japan Airways, hence the letters, but the pilots at Rosie referred to it as, All Junk, because it was always breaking down.

With a belch of smoke the hydraulic loader was started up and a forklift deposited an igloo on the tracks where it was trundled to an elevator that raised it up to the cargo door of the plane then several kids man-handled it onto the plane, pushing it aft until it was locked in place in front of the previous igloo or pallet. The plane had fifteen positions and once started, it didn't take long to fill the cavernous fuselage. I followed the flight crew up the ladder, stowing my bags next to theirs between the forward bulkhead and the cargo net. I took the jump seat behind the captain. It had been four years since I'd sat in the cockpit and I wanted to refresh my mind as much as possible.

The three and a half hour flight went smoothly; Dugan ran a loose ship where everybody was relaxed. He was a good pilot and captain; the crew reflected his easy manner. We let down through snow-flurries to an instrument approach into Dayton. The ramp was covered with the white-stuff, making me wonder if they were going to have to de-ice the planes before they departed on the second leg of their all-night journey.

The crew lounge was a trailer with a coffee pot and some well-worn easy chairs that looked like they came from Sally's. A second trailer held two-tier stacked bunks someone had hammered together from 2X4s and plywood. Tom Foster headed for that one to get some shut-eye before having to press on to the east coast. I didn't envy him and wondered if I'd be up to the task for any length of time. If I got the job maybe I'd just stay long enough to get current and then find a position with a real airline.

Dugan and I chatted over coffee while waiting; me for the ride to Ypsilanti and him for the cargo to be trans-loaded to the planes on the ramp for early morning delivery to their destinations. Where'd you learn to fly? he asked.

I was a civilian, I solo'd in a Luscombe at Compton, California; ever heard of it?

That's out in Los Angeles somewhere, isn't it? I solo'd in Michigan.

Really; flying around in all this snow must have been exciting?

It isn't all that bad. There's only a couple of weeks out of the year when you can't fly; most of the time it's cold, but okay. You ever fly a Tri-Motor Ford?

No, Twin-Beeches, UC-78s, DC-3s and C-46s were about all I ever got around, why?

I had a job a couple of years before I came to work for Rosie where I flew Tri's for a school district in upper Michigan. I'd pick up the kids who lived on some of the islands and deliver them home after school. It was a three-engine school bus.

Sounds like a fun job; why'd you quit?

Rosie hired me to fly his C-46.

Oh.

Pilots are like dogs; they circle and cautiously sniff each other out before passing judgment. That little exchange established our bonafides with each other. He must have been one hellova pilot to manhandle that Ford over the Michigan countryside and the C-46 separated the men from the boys in a hurry.

By six-thirty the last plane had left the airport, and I joined two mechanics in a beat-up old van full of parts and tools for the hour and a half ride back to headquarters. My seat was a wooden box between the driver and passenger. I kept my balance by hanging on to the two seats. I was feeling more than a bit tired. It was three-thirty in the morning; my time. Light snow made the road slippery, and I'd doze waking up only to brace myself as the driver dodged around slower moving traffic.

We pulled up to what was the factory that built B-24s during World War II. The two-acre snow covered parking lot was deserted except for about a dozen cars parked up against the huge clapboard two-story building that had once held the factory's administration staff. Now it looked mostly abandoned and empty. Only a few windows in front were curtained and occupied.

This is it; international headquarters for Rosenbalm Aviation, otherwise known as, Rosie, announced one of the mechanics as he opened the door from me to exit with my stuff. The front door is open; we're going over to the hangar. Good luck, captain.

Thanks, I waved them off as they proceeded to the hangar-side on the ramp.

Ypsilanti had the reputation for housing all the low-life operators in aviation. I'd learned Bill Rosenbalm, an aerial firefighter from Oregon, had decided he wanted to be in the airfreight business. This was where he thought he could stretch his dollars the most. Still, the place was considered the bottom of the barrel. As I grabbed my bags and carefully walked up the ice covered stairs I began to wonder what had I gotten myself into? The answer immediately came up; nobody else would hire me, unless I was current. Vickie and I desperately needed the money. Opening the door it was unsettling to realize the inside was the same temperature as the outside. Two vacant hallways had rows of closed doors that looked like they hadn't been occupied since the War.

Putting my bags down, I stood there a moment before deciding to turn right, choosing the first door on the left. I knocked and tried the door; the room was occupied with dust-covered furniture. As I gently closed the door a young girl came around the corner wearing a thick coat and carrying some papers.

Can I help you? she asked.

I'm looking for the chief pilot's office.

It's upstairs, down the hall on the right, the second door on the right; just go right in.

Thanks. I humped my bags up the stairs, since there was no one to watch them on the first floor. Following her directions, I left my stuff in the hall, and knocked before entering designated door.

Come in, come in, a muted voice responded from the other side.

Turning the knob I walked into a messy office with two tables loaded in paperwork and manuals. A few slightly askew pictures of airplanes hung on the walls. Amid this, sat a portly little old man behind a desk piled high with more documents; a heater glowed red at his feet. He got up to greet me. The room-temperature must have been seventy-five degrees; I was immediately baking in my overcoat.

Good morning, sizing me up, he continued, you look all right considering you've been up all night. I'm Howard.

Good morning, I'm Dave Case. Shaking hands, I was suddenly aware that I stunk from a mixture of being up all night, the sudden heat of his office, and my stale breath from the fifteen cups of coffee I'd consumed. I wished I'd checked into a hotel and cleaned up before meeting Howard.

I know; they told me you were coming up with the mechanics. Sit down and let's talk; do you want some coffee?

Yes, please milk and sugar.

It'll have to be Pream; we don't have any refrigeration up here. He punched a button on his phone, shouting into it, Mary, would you bring me two cups of coffee and add some packets of Pream and sugar, okay?

A muffled female voice replied, Okay Howard, in a minute, I'm faxing some documents.

Turning to me, he continued, Gabe said you can fly. Give me a quick rundown on what you've been doing.

Pulling a resume I'd prepared out of my coat pocket, I handed it to him. He perused it before setting it aside on top of a pile of papers on his desk. Trying not to ramble, I briefly mentioned where I learned to fly, my total flight time and hours in the DC-8 and the fact that I had a lot of international experience.

What have you been doing lately? How come you're not with World, or Trans-International, or UACI?

I confided about having a life-long desire to sail the Pacific. When ONA went out of business, it seemed like the right time to make the journey. From that moment on all Howard wanted to know about was my sailing in the little boat I'd built with Vickie.

Didn't your wife object?

No, she was eager to come along; we had a grand-time meeting people and telling stories.

I wish I could get my wife to do something like that. We live in a trailer and about the best I can do is hope when I retire, she'll want to go cruising around America in an RV; you had the right idea.

We drank more coffee; I told him a few sea stories. We exchanged comments about pilots he knew from his years at Universal and Zantop that had wound up with Overseas National. I knew I had the job - it was that simple.

Finally, looking at his watch Howard said, It's been good talking with you but I've got to get some work done today. You're set at the Holiday Inn, Gabe's already there; you pay your own bill until after ground school. Then, we'll start picking up the tab. Coming around from behind his desk, he accompanied me to the door and in a lowered voice divulged, Look Dave, this isn't much of a company. You may have to fly a few months as a copilot until you get back the feel of the bird. Give me your word you'll stay with us at least six-months before quitting, and I'll get you current.

I was surprised at his candor, Howard, I can handle that. You have my word.

Good, class starts Monday at zero eight hundred - that's day after tomorrow. We'll get the rest of the paperwork filled out during your breaks, okay?

Okay. How do I get to the Holiday Inn?

I'll have Mary call the hotel van; see you Monday.

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After checking in, I met Gabe in the bar, It looks like we'll be classmates, thanks for the phone call.

Don't thank me yet. This is a pretty low-end, scumbag operation. Did you see their hangar?

No, I came straight here.

The place looks like an aircraft junkyard and the mechanics all look like they came from working on tractors or the Ford-factory production line.

Come on, it can't be that bad.

It is; they've only got one licensed mechanic per shift - the rest are wannabes - hick farm-boys. The damned planes are held together with bailing wire and spit

Can you handle one more.

Thanks; did Howard give you that bullshit about, 'Give me six months?

Yeah.

What did you tell him?

I told him I'd give him the six months.

That's if you don't bust your ass flying one of these clunkers.

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Monday dawned overcast and cold; the TV weather report said there would be snow flurries throughout the day. In addition to Gabe, the hotel van contained three fresh-faced young pilots who would be our classmates. Arriving on schedule at 0745, we clamored upstairs to the warm hallway. The youngsters introduced themselves as new-hire copilots; this was their first job in big airplanes. None of them had over fifteen hundred hours flying time. They'd formed a little bond and kept to themselves. I felt like an old man meeting these eager baby pilots.

Howard led us to a near-freezing vacant room that was to be our classroom. It had a portable blackboard, four tables, and twelve chairs; all collapsible. Your instructor hasn't shown up yet, I'll see if I can find you a heater and get you some manuals, he said as he turned on the overhead fluorescents and walked out.

Surveying the surroundings Gabe commented, This is pretty grim. Faded, smoke-stained light green paint peeled off the walls, broken Venetian blinds covered dirty windows; it looked like nothing had been done to improve the room since it was vacated forty years ago. We kept our overcoats on and commented on the visible vapor clouds caused by warm air being exhaled from our lungs into the cold room. It was thoroughly depressing and certainly didn't bode well for what we could expect from Rosenbalm Aviation.

The door opened and a young man entered pushing a cart containing a space heater and two cardboard boxes full of three-hole notebooks with the company name on the outside. These were our manuals.