FIRST FLIGHT

Flying Finale

by Rev. Dr. Robert Haldane, Jr.

Copyright Dr. Robert Haldane, Jr. and John L. Haldane, 2001

In 1964, I was assigned as Wing Chaplain of the Michigan Wing, Civil Air Patrol, Aux. of USAF, and promoted to Lt. Colonel. For the most part, it was the end of the most enjoyable aspects of my 27 years in the C.A.P. As a cadet I had had my first flying experiences, taken military training, studied ground-school courses, and attended encampments at Dow Field (Army Air Corps Post) in Bangor, ME during War time summers. Excitement!

After my graduation from Bangor Theological Seminary and my Ordination into the Christian ministry, I became a Chaplain. Working with a Squadron, my primary duty was teaching cadets, for many of whom this was the only religious instruction they had. There was also counseling with adult members of the Squadron, and sharing in continuing military and flight learning experiences. I earned Observer Wings and qualified to go on Search and Rescue Missions (SARCAPS) sometimes for training, and REDCAPS which were the real thing - a plane down!

When I was assigned as Group Chaplain my job changed very little. I traveled a bit more to visit Squadron meetings in other cities, but I still enjoyed the personal/personnel contact!

Wing Chaplain is a desk job. I gave more hours to the C.A.P. cause, but it was in my office with monthly reports and much paper work. I did get to interview Cadets involved in the International Cadet Exchange Program, an interesting and heart-warming experience. I also had the assignment to plan, set-up, and over-see the detail of Chaplain Conferences. Sometimes these were Wing-wide (the State of Michigan) and held at Selfridge AFB, and on occasion, Region-wide (Michigan, Wisconsin, Ohio, Illinois, Indiana, & Kentucky). I learned a lot of military protocol!

My most memorable flight in a military aircraft was on the return from a Regional Chaplains' Conference at Wright-Patterson AFB in Ohio. It was spring, as I recall, and southern Ohio was in full bloom, a week or two ahead of the Michigan foliage. The conference had gone well, the "brass" was appropriately impressed, and the Chaplains were taking home some valuable information and a new burst of enthusiasm.

The Michigan Wing Chaplains were to be flown "home" to Selfridge AFB in a C-47. The weather was uncertain. A line of thunder storms was moving from northern Wisconsin to the southeast. The young Air Force Captain assigned to fly us called us into the briefing room. "It looks like we'll run into some weather if we fly today," he said matter-of-factly. Dismay swept over the room. All these C.A.P. Chaplains had Churches, and civilian duties were urgent. "One more night in the B.O.Q. (bachelor officer's quarters) won't hurt, and you would probably have a much smoother ride home," he argued. The matter did not carry the serious-enough threat to safety to justify an order. We were still in open discussion. "Do any of you Sky Pilots get air sick?" asked one. Nobody acknowledged such an affliction. "O.K., then, let's quit stalling and get aboard that boxcar before the weather gets worse. We have responsibilities in Michigan. Right, Col. Haldane?" I responded, "I won't ask any reluctant Chaplain to fly in rough weather. However, if you all agree, I have no objection." That settled it.

The first hour of our northerly flight was smooth and enjoyable. The sky was clear and bright and from an altitude of about 7,000 feet the ground below was a patchwork of greens in fields and trees, and browns where farmers had recently plowed. Then the pilot called me up to the cockpit. "That line of storms is intensifying in the Michigan area," he said. "I think if we head a bit west around Chicago, we may be able to get north of it." "That sounds like a plan," I grinned. "Thanks for the briefing. I'll tell the men. You're the pilot, Captain, you use your judgment and skill."

Over Chicago we encountered very rough air. The clouds began to outnumber the patches of blue sky. The pilot called me up front again. "Here's the dilemma," he muttered. "If we were to give you all oxygen, I'm still not at all sure I could push this baby above the storm. It's reported too damn high - excuse my French, Chaplain - and we'd only have to come back down through it, anyway." I nodded understanding. "If I try to get north of this line," the pilot continued, "we'll be flying over Lake Michigan further from land than I want to, and besides, we don't have clearance for that."

"So what do you think?" I asked. "Let's just bump along toward Selfridge, and see what happens, " the Captain shrugged. Then he added, "Be sure those Chaplains know and are prepared to follow the horns." The reference was to the horn signals on military aircraft to direct crew and all personnel on board. One horn means "fit yourself to a parachute, and strap it on." A second horn means, "take the 'chute line and hook it up to the cord in the plane." A third horn means, "open the door and one after another JUMP."

I went back to the Chaplains. As I reminded them of the horn protocol on a military plane, we were experiencing severe buffeting. In a few more minutes the wings seemed to be almost flapping, and we needed to hang on to the hand straps, in addition to the seat belts which were secure!

Sure enough, we were over western Michigan and the first horn sounded! We fit ourselves to parachutes. We strapped ourselves in carefully and correctly. We checked-out the rip-cord handle and looked at each other with foolish grins to cover our nervous dread.

Minutes seemed like hours as we continued to shake and rattle (but not to roll, by God's grace) as we inched eastward over Michigan. Then the second horn sounded. With apprehensive glances we snapped onto the cord, one after the other, yours truly last (not out of reluctance, I protest, but because I had to supervise!).

The Captain called for me again. My heart-rate must have doubled as I made my hanging-on way up front. "What if he is about to sound the third horn?" I worried to myself. The pilot grinned as I peered over his shoulder. "We'll never make it to Selfridge," he confided. "I have clearance to land at a little airport just ahead of us." I asked, "Where is that?" The co-pilot answered, looking up from his chart. "Reynolds Field, the Jackson County Airport."

If the plane had not been bouncing me up and down vigorously, I might have done it on my own, as I offered silent but fervent thanksgiving to my God of Grace! Jackson, Michigan was my home. If we had flown to Selfridge as our flight plan called for, I would have had a two hour drive back to Jackson.

After our safe landing at Reynolds Field, a phone call to my house brought my ride in about ten minutes. Two or three of the Chaplains who lived nearer to Jackson than to Selfridge opted to wait at my house for someone to come get them. The others and the AF crew had to wait for land transportation to come from Selfridge (a military truck) and drive them back there. Four hours added to their day - but we never had to JUMP!

As it turned out, that was my last military flight.

AND THEN...

About fifteen years later I had retired from the C.A.P. Chaplaincy, and was serving a Church in Los Angeles. I really enjoyed southern California, the weather, the beaches, the available culture and entertainment, and the laid-back attitude in a sometimes frenetic society. But I had no friends with wings, nor did I have time to become re-involved with C.A.P. So I was essentially grounded. We, my wife and I, flew more miles in commercial airliners, keeping in touch with our Eastern roots, but I became "only a passenger."

So on my birthday my daughter, Karyn, who was always interested and supportive of my love of flying, gave me a gift-certificate for a "lesson" at the flying school at Santa Monica airport. It was a beautiful summer day when I went to utilize the gift.

Santa Monica Airport is inland to the edge of Sepulveda Blvd. The boulevard is steep on a hillside, but the runways have been built on well-leveled land. It's an attractive little airport, busy with private, and some small corporate, aircraft. I was thrilled to be returning to a "hands-on" flying experience. We inspected the aircraft, a Cessna, two place, single engine plane. We went down the pre-flight check list and finally were ready to seek clearance from the tower to take off.

My ears, unused to the radio traffic, had trouble sorting out the tower's instruction to taxi and wait. The Instructor had no problem, of course, and it was soon our turn to take off. We rose westward over beautiful Santa Monica Bay. Beaches on the shoreline were crowded with sun and water worshippers. Sailboats, fishermen, and a variety of recreation vessels dotted the harbor. The Pacific was blue/green with light and dark highlights, framed in white by breakers along the shore, creating a mesmerizing beauty from its undulating surface.

The instructor asked me to make a 90 degree turn. I kept the nose on the horizon and completed the maneuver. "Now show me a 360," he directed. As I began the turn, he admonished, " You are over-controlling." That was a familiar criticism, especially at first, before I was comfortable with the response of an aircraft.

We headed north toward that string of islands from Catalina on up the California Coast. The air traffic was heavy. "Head on a swivel," is the watchword for flying in such an area. And we were not within the flight pattern for any LAX (Los Angeles International Airport) traffic. For me, even worse than that was the radio traffic that kept the earphones crackling like a bee hive, with congestion I could not sort out.

Beautiful as the day was, and the scenery, and the very nice airplane, and grateful as I was to be getting the "feel of flying" again, I was relieved when the instructor said, "Time to head in." As we were getting our clearance for landing we heard, over the radio voices, that Morse Code signal which comes from the black box of a downed plane. We reported the distress signal as soon as we were down.

The busy, busy airways, the radio hubbub, the utter confusion that accompanied this flying experience to which I had so eagerly looked forward, and which was so welcome in spite of everything, nevertheless elicited a vow that from now on, I would only fly as a passenger!

For "wannabe" pilot Bob Haldane this was my flying finale. At my age I shouldn't reconsider, although I wonder what reaction I would have if I were invited to "give her another try."