Pictures and credits at the end of the story.

Long story but worth the read……

IT WAS A ‘FORTRESS’ COMING HOME..They Could Hear It’s ‘Howl’ Before They Could See it!

By Allen OstromThey could hear it before they could see it!

Not all that unusual in those days as the personnel at Station 131 gathered
around the tower and scattered hardstands to await the return of the B-17’s
sent out earlier that morning.

First comes the far off rumble and drone of the Cyclones. Then a spec on the
East Anglia horizon. Soon a small cluster indicating the lead squadron.
Finally, the group.

Then the counting… 1-2-3-4-5… ..

But that would have been normal. Today was different! It was too early for
the group to return.

“They’re 20 minutes early. Can’t be the 398th.”

They could hear it before they could see it! Something was coming home.
But what?

All eyes turned toward the northeast, aligning with the main runway, each
ground guy and stood-down airman straining to make out this “wail of a
Banshee,” as one called it.

Not like a single B-17 with its characteristic deep roar of the engines
blended with four thrashing propellers. This was a howl! Like a powerful
wind blowing into a huge whistle.

Then it came into view. It WAS a B-17!

Low and pointing her nose at the 6,000 foot runway, it appeared for all the
world to be crawling toward the earth, screaming in protest.

No need for the red flares. All who saw this Fort knew there was death
aboard.

“Look at that nose!” they said as all eyes stared in amazement as this
single, shattered remnant of a once beautiful airplane glided in for an
unrealistic “hot” landing. She took all the runway as the “Banshee”
noise finally abated, and came to an inglorious stop in the mud just beyond
the concrete runway.

Men and machines raced to the now silent and lonely aircraft. The ambulance
and medical staff were there first. The fire truck….ground and air
personnel… .jeeps, truck, bikes…..

Out came one of the crew members from the waist door, then another.
Strangely quiet. The scene was almost weird. Men stood by as if in shock,
not knowing whether to sing or cry.

Either would have been acceptable.

The medics quietly made their way to the nose by way of the waist door as
the remainder of the crew began exiting. And to answer the obvious question,
“what happened?”

“What happened?” was easy to see. The nose was a scene of utter destruction.
It was as though some giant aerial can opener had peeled the nose like an
orange, relocating shreads of metal, plexiglass, wires and tubes on the
cockpit windshield and even up to the top turret. The left cheek gun hung
limp, like a broken arm.

One man pointed to the crease in chin turret. No mistaking that mark! A
German 88 anti-aircraft shell had exploded in the lap of the togglier.

This would be George Abbott of Mt. Labanon , PA. He had been a waist gunner
before training to take over the bombardier’s role.

Still in the cockpit, physically and emotionally exhausted, were pilot Larry
deLancey and co-pilot Phil Stahlman.

Navigator Ray LeDoux finally tapped deLancey on the shoulder and suggested
they get out. Engineer turret gunner Ben Ruckel already had made his way to
the waist was exiting along with radio operator Wendell Reed, ball turret
gunner Al Albro, waist gunner Russell Lachman and tail gunner Herbert Guild.

Stahlman was flying his last scheduled mission as a replacement for regular
co-pilot, Grady Cumbie. The latter had been hospitalized the day before with
an ear problem. Lachman was also a “sub,” filling in for Abbott in the
waist.

DeLancey made it as far as the end of the runway, where he sat down with
knees drawn up, arms crossed and head down. The ordeal was over, and now the
drama was beginning a mental re-play.

Then a strange scene took place.

Group CO Col. Frank P. Hunter had arrived after viewing the landing from the
tower and was about to approach deLancey. He was physically restrained by
flight surgeon Dr. Robert Sweet.

“Colonel, that young man doesn’t want to talk now. When he is ready you can
talk to him, but for now leave him alone.”

Sweet handed pills out to each crew member and told them to go to their huts
and sleep.

No dramatics, no cameras, no interviews. The crew would depart the next day
for “flak leave” to shake off the stress. And then be expected back early in
November. (Just in time to resume “normal” activities on a mission to
Merseburg!)

Mission No. 98 from Nuthampstead had begun at 0400 that morning of October
15, 1944. It would be Cologne (again), led by CA pilots Robert Templeman of
the 602nd, Frank Schofield of the 601st and Charles Khourie of the 603rd.

Tragedy and death appeared quickly and early that day. Templeman and pilot
Bill Scott got the 602nd off at the scheduled 0630 hour, but at
approximately 0645 Khouri and pilot Bill Meyran and their entire crew
crashed on takeoff in the town of Anstey . All were killed. Schofield and
Harold Stallcup followed successfully with the 601st, with deLancey flying
on their left wing in the lead element.

The ride to the target was routine, until the flak started becoming
“unroutinely” accurate.

“We were going through heavy flak on the bomb run,” remembered deLancey.

“I felt the plane begin to lift as the bombs were dropped, then all of a
sudden we were rocked by a violent explosion. My first thought – ‘a bomb
exploded in the bomb bay’ – was immediately discarded as the top of the nose
section peeled back over the cockpit blocking the forward view.”

“It seemed like the whole world exploded in front of us,” added Stahlman.
“The instrument panel all but disintegrated and layers of quilted batting
exploded in a million pieces. It was like a momentary snowstorm in the
cockpit.”

It had been a direct hit in the nose. Killed instantly was the togglier,
Abbott. Navigator LeDoux, only three feet behind Abbott, was knocked
unconscious for a moment, but was miraculously was alive.

Although stunned and bleeding, LeDoux made his way to the cockpit to find
the two pilots struggling to maintain control of an airplane that by all
rights should have been in its death plunge. LeDoux said there was nothing
anyone could do for Abbott, while Ruckel opened the door to the bomb bay and
signaled to the four crewman in the radio room that all was OK – for the
time being.

The blast had torn away the top and much of the sides of the nose.
Depositing enough of the metal on the windshield to make it difficult for
either of the pilots to see.

“The instrument panel was torn loose and all the flight instruments were
inoperative with the exception of the magnetic compass mounted in the panel
above the windshield. And its accuracy was questionable. The radio and
intercom were gone, the oxygen lines broken, and there was a ruptured
hydraulic line under my rudder pedals,” said deLancey.

All this complicated by the sub-zero temperature at 27,000 feet blasting
into the cockpit.

“It was apparent that the damage was severe enough that we could not
continue to fly in formation or at high altitude. My first concern was to
avoid the other aircraft in the formation, and to get clear of the other
planes in case we had to bail out. We eased out of formation, and at the
same time removed our oxygen masks as they were collapsing on our faces as
the tanks were empty.”

At this point the formation continued on its prescribed course for home
- a long, slow turn southeast of Cologne and finally westward.

DeLancey and Stahlman turned left, descending rapidly and hoping, they were
heading west. (And also, not into the gun sights of German
fighters.) Without maps and navigation aids, they had difficulty getting a
fix. By this time they were down to 2,000 feet.

“We finally agreed that we were over Belgium and were flying in a
southwesterly direction,” said the pilot.

“About this time a pair of P-51’s showed up and flew a loose formation on us
across Belgium . I often wondered what they thought as they looked at the
mess up front.”

“We hit the coast right along the Belgium-Holland border, a bit farther
north than we had estimated. Ray said we were just south of Walcheren
Island .”

Still in an area of ground fighting, the plane received some small arms
fire. This gesture was returned in kind by Albro, shooting from one of the
waist guns.

“We might have tried for one of the airfields in France , but having no maps
this also was questionable. Besides, the controls and engines seemed to be
OK, so I made the decision to try for home.”

“Once over England , LeDoux soon picked up landmarks and gave me course
corrections taking us directly to Nuthampstead. It was just a great bit of
navigation. Ray just stood there on the flight deck and gave us the headings
from memory.”

Nearing the field, Stahlman let the landing gear down. That was an
assurance. But a check of the hydraulic pump sent another spray of oil to
the cockpit floor. Probably no brakes!

Nevertheless, a flare from Ruckel’s pistol had to announce the “ready or
not” landing. No “downwind leg” and “final approach” this time. Straight in!

“The landing was strictly by guess and feel,” said DeLancey. “Without
instruments, I suspect I came in a little hot. Also, I had to lean to the
left to see straight ahead. The landing was satisfactory, and I had
sufficient braking to slow the plane down some. However, as I neared the
taxiway, I could feel the brakes getting ’soft’. I felt that losing control
and blocking the taxiway would cause more problems than leaving the plane at
the end of the runway.”

That consideration was for the rest of the group. Soon three squadrons of
B-17’s would be returning, and they didn’t need a derelict airplane blocking
the way to their respective hardstands.

Stahlman, supremely thankful that his career with the 398th had come to an
end, soon returned home and in due course became a captain with Eastern
Airlines. Retired in 1984, Stahlman said his final Eastern flight “was a bit
more routine” than the one 40 years before.

DeLancey and LeDoux received decorations on December 11, 1944 for their
parts in the October 15 drama. DeLancey was awarded the Silver Star for his
“miraculous feat of flying skill and ability” on behalf of General
Doolittle , CO of the Eighth Air Force. LeDoux for his “extraordinary
navigation skill”, received the Distinguished Flying Cross.

The following deLancey 1944 article was transcribed from the 398th BG
Historical Microfilm. Note: due to wartime security, Nuthampstead is not
mentioned, and the route deLancey flew home is referred to in general terms.

TO: STARS AND STRIPES
FOR GENERAL RELEASE

AN EIGHTH AIR FORCE BOMBER STATION, ENGLAND – After literally losing the
nose of his B-17 Flying Fortress as the result of a direct hit by flak over
Cologne , Germany on October 15, 1944, 1st Lt. Lawrence M. deLancey, 25, of
Corvallis , Oregon returned to England and landed the crew safely at his home
base. Each man walked away from the plane except the togglier, Staff
Sergeant George E. Abbott, Mt. Lebanon , Pennsylvania , who was killed
instantly when the flak struck.

It was only the combined skill and teamwork of Lt. deLancey and 2nd Lt.
Raymond J. LeDoux, of Mt. Angel , Oregon , navigator, that enabled the plane
and crew to return safely.

“Just after we dropped our bombs and started to turn away from the target”,
Lt. deLancey explained, “a flak burst hit directly in the nose and blew
practically the entire nose section to threads. Part of the nose peeled back
and obstructed my vision and that of my co-pilot, 1st Lt. Phillip H.
Stahlman of Shippenville , Pennsylvania . What little there was left in front
of me looked like a scrap heap. The wind was rushing through. Our feet were
exposed to the open air at nearly 30,000 feet above the ground the
temperature was unbearable.

“There we were in a heavily defended flak area with no nose, and practically
no instruments. The instrument panel was bent toward me as the result of the
impact. My altimeter and magnetic compass were about the only instruments
still operating and I couldn’t depend on their accuracy too well. Naturally
I headed for home immediately. The hit which had killed S/Sgt. Abbott also
knocked Lt. LeDoux back in the catwalk (just below where I was sitting). Our
oxygen system also was out so I descended to a safe altitude.

“Lt. LeDoux who had lost all his instruments and maps in the nose did a
superb piece of navigating to even find England .”

During the route home flak again was encountered but due to evasive action
Lt. deLancey was able to return to friendly territory. Lt. LeDoux navigated
the ship directly to his home field.

Although the plane was off balance without any nose section, without any
brakes (there was no hydraulic pressure left), and with obstructed vision,
Lt. deLancey made a beautiful landing to the complete amazement of all
personnel at this field who still are wondering how the feat was
accomplished.

The other members of the crew include:

1. Technical Sergeant Benjamin H. Ruckel, Roscoe , California ,
engineer top turret gunner;
2. Technical Sergeant Wendell A. Reed, Shelby , Michigan , radio
operator gunner;
3. Technical Sergeant Russell A. Lachman, Rockport , Mass. , waist
gunner;
4. Staff Sergeant Albert Albro, Antioch , California , ball turret
gunner and
5. Staff Sergeant Herbert D. Guild, Bronx , New York , tail gunner.

Originally printed in 398th Bomb Group Remembrances
<http://webmail. aol.com/Research /Books/index. html#anchor_ Remembrances>
by Allen Ostrom, pages 45-46, published 1989.

Transcribed September 2003 by Lee Anne Bradley, 398th Bomb Group Historian.

October 15, 1944
* 398th Home <http://webmail. aol.com/index. html>
<http://webmail. aol.com/Associat ion/Website/ Tips/index. html>
<http://webmail. aol.com/Associat ion/Website/ Terms/398th_ Use.html>
<http://webmail. aol.com/Associat ion/Website/ Tips/398th_ Tips_Contacts. htm

recd from another Mil friend:

To only those who would and could appreciate it. This account is one of a kind. A powerful one that touches your heart. Tough duty then as it is now.  This one must be shared…. Burial at Sea by LtCol George Goodson, USMC (Ret) In my 76th year, the events of my life appear to me, from time to time, as a series of vignettes. Some were significant; most were trivial. War is the seminal event in the life of everyone that has endured it. Though I fought in Korea and the Dominican Republic and was wounded there, Vietnam was my war. Now 42 years have passed and, thankfully, I rarely think of those days in Cambodia , Laos , and the panhandle of North Vietnam where small teams of Americans and Montagnards fought much larger elements of the North Vietnamese Army. Instead I see vignettes: some exotic, some mundane: *The smell of Nuc Mam. *The heat, dust, and humidity. *The blue exhaust of cycles clogging the streets. *Elephants moving silently through the tall grass. *Hard eyes behind the servile smiles of the villagers. *Standing on a mountain in Laos and hearing a tiger roar. *A young girl squeezing my hand as my medic delivered her baby. *The flowing Ao Dais of the young women biking down Tran Hung Dao. *My two years as Casualty Notification Officer in North Carolina , Virginia , and Maryland . It was late 1967. I had just returned after 18 months in Vietnam .  Casualties were increasing.  I moved my family from Indianapolis to Norfolk , rented a house, enrolled my children in their fifth or sixth new school, and bought a second car. A week later, I put on my uniform and drove 10 miles to Little Creek, Virginia. I hesitated before entering my new office. Appearance is important to career Marines. I was no longer, if ever, a poster Marine. I had returned from my third tour in Vietnam only 30 days before. At 5′9″, I now weighed 128 pounds – 37 pounds below my normal weight. My uniforms fit ludicrously, my skin was yellow from malaria medication, and I think I had a twitch or two. I straightened my shoulders, walked into the office, looked at the nameplate on a Staff Sergeant’s desk and said, “Sergeant Jolly, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Goodson.. Here are my orders and my Qualification Jacket.” Sergeant Jolly stood, looked carefully at me, took my orders, stuck out his hand; we shook and he asked, “How long were you there, Colonel?” I replied “18 months this time.” Jolly breathed, you must be a slow learner Colonel.”  I smiled. Jolly said, “Colonel, I’ll show you to your office and bring in the Sergeant Major. I said, “No, let’s just go straight to his office.” Jolly nodded, hesitated, and lowered his voice, “Colonel, the Sergeant Major. He’s been in this  job two years. He’s packed pretty tight. I’m worried about him.” I nodded. Jolly escorted me into the Sergeant Major’s office. “Sergeant Major, this is Colonel Goodson, the new Commanding Office. The Sergeant Major stood, extended his hand and said, “Good to see you again, Colonel.” I responded, “Hello Walt, how are you?” Jolly looked at me, raised an eyebrow, walked out, and closed the door. I sat down with the Sergeant Major. We had the obligatory cup of coffee and talked about mutual acquaintances. Walt’s stress was palpable. Finally, I said, “Walt, what the h-ll’s wrong?” He turned his chair, looked out the window and said, “George, you’re going to wish you were back in Nam before you leave here. I’ve been in the Marine Corps since 1939. I was in the Pacific 36 months, Korea for 14 months, and Vietnam for 12 months. Now I come here to bury these kids. I’m putting my letter in. I can’t take it anymore.” I said, “OK Walt. If that’s what you want, I’ll endorse your request for retirement and do what I can to push it through Headquarters Marine Corps.” Sergeant Major Walt Xxxxx retired 12 weeks later. He had been a good Marine for 28 years, but he had seen too much death and too much suffering. He was used up. Over the next 16 months, I made 28 death notifications, conducted 28 military funerals, and made 30 notifications to the families of Marines that were severely wounded or missing in action. Most of the details of those casualty notifications have now, thankfully, faded from memory. Four, however, remain. MY FIRST NOTIFICATION On my third or fourth day in Norfolk , I was notified of the death of a 19 year old Marine. This notification came by telephone from Headquarters Marine Corps. The information detailed: *Name, rank, and serial number. *Name, address, and phone number of next of kin. *Date of and limited details about the Marine’s death. *Approximate date the body would arrive at the Norfolk Naval Air Station. *A strong recommendation on whether the casket should be opened or closed. The boy’s family lived over the border in North Carolina about 60 miles away. I drove there in a Marine Corps staff car. Crossing the state line into North Carolina,  I stopped at a small country store / service station / Post Office. I went in to ask directions. Three people were in the store. A man and woman approached the small Post Office window. The man held a package. The Store owner walked up and addressed them by name, “Hello John. Good morning Mrs. Cooper.” I was stunned. My casualty’s next-of-kin’ s name was John Cooper! I hesitated, then stepped forward and said, “I beg your pardon. Are you Mr. and Mrs. John Cooper of (address.) The father looked at me-  I was in uniform-  and then, shaking, bent at the waist, he vomited. His wife looked horrified at him and then at me. Understanding came into her eyes and she collapsed in slow motion. I think I caught her before she hit the floor. The owner took a bottle of whiskey out of a drawer and handed it to Mr. Cooper who drank. I answered their questions for a few minutes. Then I drove them home in my staff car. The store owner locked the store and  followed in their truck.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         We stayed an hour or so until the family began arriving. I returned the store owner to his business. He thanked me and said, “Mister, I wouldn’t have your job for a million dollars.” I shook his hand and said; “Neither would I.” I vaguely remember the drive back to Norfolk . Violating about five Marine Corps regulations, I drove the staff car straight to my house.  I sat with my family while they ate dinner, went into the den, closed the door, and sat there all night, alone. My Marines steered clear of me for days. I had made my first death notification. THE FUNERALS Weeks passed with more notifications and more funerals.                                                                                                             I borrowed Marines from the local Marine Corps Reserve and taught them                                                                                                              to conduct a military funeral: how to carry a casket, how to fire the volleys                                                                                                     and how to fold the flag. When I presented the flag to the mother, wife, or father, I always said, “All Marines share in your grief.” I had been instructed to say, “On behalf of a grateful nation….” I didn’t think the nation was grateful, so I didn’t say that. Sometimes, my emotions got the best of me and I couldn’t speak. When that happened, I just handed them the flag and touched a shoulder.  They would look at me and nod. Once a mother said to me,                                                                                                                                                                                                             “I’m so sorry you have this terrible job.”                                                                                                                                                                               My eyes filled with tears and I leaned over and kissed her. ANOTHER NOTIFICATION Six weeks after my first notification, I had another. This was a young PFC.                                                                                                            I drove to his mother’s house. As always, I was in uniform and driving a Marine Corps staff car. I parked in front of the house, took a deep breath, and walked towards the house. Suddenly the door flew open, a middle-aged woman rushed out. She looked at me and ran across the yard, screaming “NO! NO! NO! NO!” I hesitated. Neighbors came out. I ran to her, grabbed her, and whispered stupid things to reassure her. She collapsed. I picked her up and carried her into the house.. Eight or nine neighbors followed. Ten or fifteen later, the father came in followed by ambulance personnel.                                                                                                                                                        I have no recollection of leaving. The funeral took place about two weeks later. We went through the drill. The mother never looked at me. The father looked at me once and shook his head sadly. ANOTHER NOTIFICATION One morning, as I walked in the office, the phone was ringing. Sergeant Jolly held the phone up and said, “You’ve got another one, Colonel.” I nodded, walked into my office, picked up the phone, took notes, thanked the officer making the call, I have no idea why, and hung up. Jolly, who had listened, came in with a special Telephone Directory that translates telephone numbers into the person’s address and place of employment. The father of this casualty was a Longshoreman. He lived a mile from my office. I called the Longshoreman’ s Union Office and asked for the Business Manager. He answered the phone,                                                                                                                           I told him who I was, and asked for the father’s schedule. The Business Manager asked, “Is it his son?” I said nothing. After a moment, he said, in a low voice, “Tom is at home today.” I said, “Don’t call him. I’ll take care of that.” The Business Manager said, “Aye, Aye Sir,” and then explained, “Tom and I were Marines in WWII.” I got in my staff car and drove to the house. I was in uniform. I knocked and a woman in her early forties answered the door. I saw instantly that she was clueless. I asked, “Is Mr. Smith home?” She smiled pleasantly and responded, “Yes, but he’s eating breakfast now.  Can you come back later?” I said, “I’m sorry. It’s important. I need to see him now.” She nodded, stepped back into the beach house and said, “Tom, it’s for you.” A moment later, a ruddy man in his late forties, appeared at the door..  He looked at me, turned absolutely pale, steadied himself, and said, “Jesus Christ man, he’s only been there three weeks!” Months passed. More notifications and more funerals. Then one day while I was running, Sergeant Jolly stepped outside the building and gave a loud whistle, two fingers in his mouth……. (I never could do that)….. and held an imaginary phone to his ear. Another call from Headquarters Marine Corps. I took notes, said, “Got it.” and hung up. I had stopped saying “Thank You” long ago. Jolly, “Where?” Me, “Eastern Shore of Maryland . The father is a retired Chief Petty Officer. His brother will accompany the body back from Vietnam ….” Jolly shook his head slowly, straightened, and then said, “This time of day, it’ll take three hours to get there and back. I’ll call the Naval Air Station and borrow a helicopter. I’ll have Captain Tolliver get one of his men to meet you and drive you to the Chief’s home.” He did, and 40 minutes later, I was knocking on the father’s door. He opened the door, looked at me, then looked at the Marine standing at parade rest beside the car, and asked, “Which one of my boys was it, Colonel?” I stayed a couple of hours, gave him all the information, my office and home phone number and told him to call me, anytime. He called me that evening about 2300 (11:00PM). “I’ve gone through my boy’s papers and found his will. He asked to be buried at sea. Can you make that happen?” I said, “Yes I can, Chief. I can and I will.” My wife who had been listening said, “Can you do that?” I told her, “I have no idea. But I’m going to break my ass trying.” I called Lieutenant General Alpha Bowser, Commanding General, Fleet Marine Force Atlantic , at home about 2330, explained the situation, and asked, “General, can you get me a quick appointment with the Admiral at Atlantic Fleet Headquarters? ” General Bowser said,” George, you be there tomorrow at 0900. He will see you. I was and the Admiral did. He said coldly, “How can the Navy help the Marine Corps, Colonel.” I told him the story. He turned to his Chief of Staff and said, “Which is the sharpest destroyer in port?” The Chief of Staff responded with a name. The Admiral called the ship, “Captain, you’re going to do a burial at sea. You’ll report to a Marine Lieutenant Colonel Goodson until this mission is completed… “ He hung up, looked at me, and said, “The next time you need a ship, Colonel, call me. You don’t have to sic Al Bowser on my ass.” I responded, “Aye Aye, Sir” and got the h-ll out of his office. I went to the ship and met with the Captain, Executive Officer, and the Senior Chief. Sergeant Jolly and I trained the ship’s crew for four days. Then Jolly raised a question none of us had thought of. He said, “These government caskets are air tight. How do we keep it from floating?” All the high priced help including me sat there looking dumb. Then the Senior Chief stood and said, “Come on Jolly. I know a bar where the retired guys from World War II hang out.” They returned a couple of hours later, slightly the worst for wear, and said, “It’s simple; we cut four 12″ holes in the outer shell of the casket on each side and insert 300 lbs of lead in the foot end of the casket. We can handle that, no sweat.” The day arrived. The ship and the sailors looked razor sharp. General Bowser, the Admiral, a US Senator, and a Navy Band were on board. The sealed casket was brought aboard and taken below for modification. The ship got underway to the 12-fathom depth. The sun was hot. The  ocean flat. The casket was brought aft and placed on a catafalque. The Chaplin spoke. The volleys were fired..  The flag was removed, folded, and I gave it to the father. The band played “Eternal Father Strong to Save.” The casket was raised slightly at the head and it slid into the sea. The heavy casket plunged straight down about six feet. The incoming water collided with the air pockets in the outer shell. The casket stopped abruptly, rose straight out of the water about three feet, stopped, and slowly slipped back into the sea. The air bubbles rising from the sinking casket sparkled in the in the sunlight as the casket disappeared from sight forever…. The next morning I called a personal friend, Lieutenant General Oscar Peatross, at Headquarters Marine Corps and said, “General, get me out of here. I can’t take this anymore.” I was transferred two weeks later. I was a good Marine but, after 17 years, I had seen too much death and too much suffering. I was used up. Vacating the house, my family and I drove to the office in a two-car convoy. I said my goodbyes. Sergeant Jolly walked out with me. He waved at my family, looked at me with tears in his eyes, came to attention, saluted, and said, “Well Done, Colonel. Well Done.” I felt as if I had received the Medal of Honor! Jmac; A veteran is someone who, at one point, wrote a blank check made payable to ‘The United States of America ‘ for an amount of ‘up to and including their life.’ That is Honor, and there are way too many people in this country who no longer understand it.’

Received this in an email from another ‘Wingnut’.

This is the You Tube link. Please read the description                                                                                                                                                           below before watching the video..

This is a little long but worth it.
Long time ago I tried that simulator at NASA and it took me
3 trys to get that thing down on the runway…. there is no
“going around”.
It’s strange because it
is a 19 % glide slope and a final app. speed of 200 k.

Shuttle landing from inside the cockpit – -

(Viewers, FYI :
Mach 1 is the speed of sound or approximately 700 MPH
depending on altitude and temperature. Also keep in
mind that there is no room for “Damn, missed it”.
The shuttle cannot go around and try
again. Enjoy!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Oh, for the ladies, sorry, but
you can’t stop and ask
directions!

The video attached to this file is an  impressive                                                                                                                                                                        cockpit view of the landing of a space shuttle at
Edwards AFB, California to Runway 22 (southwest direction).
The view is through the cockpit window with a HUD
(Head Up Display) superimposed in front of the window.

The HUD makes it possible for the astronaut to look
out of the space shuttle yet have the relevant    information
to fly and land in the space shuttle – altitude, speed, on
course or not, wings level, etc. (no need to glance down at
his instruments).

The video opens with the space shuttle flying in an easterly
direction in preparation to land. There is some light
conversation among the crew about a cloud cover – an
undercast.

You will see the undercast (clouds) at the
bottom of the picture with the atmosphere giving off a faint color
differentiation and then the darkening shades of blue to dark
space.

One crew member is backing up the flying astronaut by reminding
him of the next events – important because there is little
to no room for error as the space shuttle is one
Giant Glider with no chance to add power or go around.

Just short of 3 minutes into the video one
crew member gives the flying astronaut a point when he should
start a right turn for the runway. At about 3:10 in the video
the astronaut is told he has the ‘needle’ centered
referring to being on course.

At about 3:46 the
astronaut is told he is at the 90 – referencing the point
in the pattern where he is to make a final 90 degree turn to
line up with the runway.

Soon after the astronaut calls “Yeah we have the runway.”
Look at the upper right corner of the video to see the runway
come into view. (The runway is 16,500 feet of cement – 3 miles
long.)

passes through altitudes and the high approach speed 200 knots.
At one point the flying astronaut makes the point that the wind
is greater than anticipated.

The height above the runway makes for a steep descent by
commercial airline operations – it is a 19-degree glide
slope. A typical airline flies a 2.5 to 3 degree glide
slope. Notice how fast the shuttle slows and he knows that
could make a difference in the remaining energy to reach the
runway.

“WHY IT WAS GREAT TO BE A PILOT ” Sent by another USAF  ‘wingnut’

Somehow, all the jet-lag and other problems
had some compensating balance!__________________
Flying close finger tip formation in a flight of four.

Losing an engine in an F-84F while taxing back to
the ramp after a mission.

Terminating afterburner at 1.85 Mach in an F-101 and
experiencing deceleration so hard that I flew off of the
seat and into the harness so hard that I had strap bruises
on my body, and needed a change of underwear.

Full afterburner take off in a clean F-101 in 20 below zero
weather at night.

Doing formation join-ups in the F-4 around big beautiful
columns of Cumulus out of every fighter base.

Sunrises seen from the high flight levels that make the heart soar.

The patchwork quilt of the great plains of Kansas from
37,000′ on a day when you can see forever.

Cruising mere feet above a billiard-table-flat cloud deck
at Mach .86, with your chin on the glare shield and your
face as close as you can get to the windshield.

Knowing you got to land a fighter on a five thousand
foot runway, that is covered with hard packed snow,
…and no drag chute.

Punching out the top of a low overcast while climbing
30,000 feet per minute in Afterburner.

The majesty and grandeur of towering cumulus.

Rotating at VR and feeling 800,000 plus pounds of Airplane
come alive as she lifts off.

The delicate threads of St. Elmo’s Fire dancing on
the windshield at night.

The twinkle of lights on the Japanese fishing fleet far below,
on a night crossing of the North Pacific.

Cloud formations that are beautiful beyond description.

‘Ice fog’ in Anchorage on a cold winter morning.

Seeing the approach strobes appear through the fog on a
‘Must do’ zero, zero approach when there is no other place to go.

Seeing geologic formations that no ground-pounder will ever see.

The chaotic, non-stop babble of radio transmissions
at O’Hare during the afternoon rush.

The quietness of center frequency at night during a
“Transcontinental flight” … or over the Amazon at any time.

Watching St. Elmo’s fire all over your windscreen
in the winter night skies over Alaska.

The welcome view of approach lights appearing out
of the mist just as you reach minimums.

Finding yourself in a thunderstorm with 750# bombs
still hanging on your wings.

Lightning storms at night over the Midwest.

Picking your way through a line of huge Thunderstorms
that seemed to go all the way from Chicago to New Orleans

The soft, glow of the instrument panel in a dark cockpit.

The dancing curtains of colored light of the “Aurora Borealis”
on a winter-night “North Atlantic” crossing.

Passing 30 west . . .

The taxiway names at O Hare before they were renamed:
‘The Bridge’, ‘Lakeshore Drive’, ‘Old Scenic’, ‘New Scenic’,
‘Outer’, ‘The Bypass’, ‘Inner’, ‘Cargo’, ‘North-South’,
‘The Stub’, and  ‘Hangar Alley’ !

The majestic panorama of an entire mountain range
stretched out  beneath you from horizon to horizon.

Lenticular clouds over the Sierras.

The brief, yet tempting, glimpse of runway lights
after you’ve already  committed to the missed approach.

The Alps in winter.

Watching a fellow pilot do an engine out flameout approach
and making it in an “F-100″.

Seeing a “dumb” bomb you drop hit a target
and knowing you had all the parameters right.

The lights of London or Paris at night from FL 350.

Squall lines that run as far as you can see.

Exotic lands with exotic food.

Seeing Tokyo lights at night from thirty five thousand feet
stretching from horizon to horizon.

Maneuvering the airplane through day lit canyons
between towering Cumulus Clouds.

The deep blue-gray of the sky at FL 430.

The hustle and bustle of Hong Kong Harbor.

The softness of a touchdown on a snow-covered runway.

Hearing the nose wheel spin down against the snubber
in the wheel well after takeoff. A delightful sound signaling
that you were on your  way!

Old Chinatown in Singapore before it was torn down,
modernized, and sterilized.

Watching the lightning show while crossing the ITCZ at night.

Long-tail boats speeding along the klongs in Thailand .

The quietly turning paddle fans in the lobby of the
“Raffles Hotel” in Singapore .

Dodging colored splotches of red and yellow light
on the radar screen at night.

The sound of foreign accents on the radio.

Luxury hotels.

To paraphrase the eloquent aviation writer, Ernie Gann,
“The allure of the slit in a China girl’s skirt.”

Sunsets of every color imaginable.

The tantalizing glow of the flashing strobe lights just
before you break  out of the clouds on the approach.

Yosemite Valley from above.

The almost blindingly-brilliant-white of a towering cumulus cloud.

A cold San Miguel in Angeles City after a long day’s flying.

The Diamond Horseshoe at Itazuke.

Ocean crossings and in-flight refueling.

Hearing every sound a single engine fighter makes
at night over the open ocean.

The taxiway sentry (with his flag & machine gun)
at the old Taipei (downtown) airport.

Seventy-thousand-foot-high thunderstorm clouds in the tropics.

Sipping Pina Coladas in a luxury hotel bar,
while a Typhoon rages outside.

Chinese Junks bobbing in Aberdeen harbor.

The smell of winter kimchee in Korea.

Watching the latitude count down to zero on the INS, and
seeing it switch from “N” to “S” as you cross the equator.

“Wake Island” at Sunrise.

Oslo Harbor at dusk.

Icebergs in the North Atlantic.

Contrails.

Pago Harbor, framed by puffy cumulus clouds in the late afternoon.

The camaraderie of a good crew.

Ferryboat races in Sydney Harbor

Experiencing all the lines from the old Jo Stafford tune:

“See the pyramids along the Nile .
See the sunrise on a tropic isle.
See the market place in old Algiers
Send home photographs and souvenirs.
Fly the ocean in a silver plane.
See the jungle when it’s wet with rain.”

White picket fences in Auckland.

Trade winds.

White sandy beaches lined with swaying palms.

Double-decker buses in London

The endless expanse of white on a Polar Crossing.

The “Star Ferry” in Hong Kong,

Bangkok after a tropical rain.

Mono Lake and the steep wall of the Sierra Nevada range
when approached from the east.

The bus ride to Stanley … on the upper deck front seat
of the  double-decker bus.

The “Long Bar” at the Raffles.

Heavy takeoffs from the “Cliff” runway at Guam.

Landings in the B-767 when the only way you knew you
had touched down was the movement of the spoiler handle.

Jimmy’s Kitchen.

The deafening sound of tropical raindrops slamming angrily
against the windshield, accompanied by the hurried slap, slap,
slap of the windshield wipers while landing in a torrential
downpour in Manila .

Endless ripples of sand dunes across the trackless miles
of the Sahara desert.

Miller’s Pub in Chicago

German beer.

Oktoberfest.

The white cliffs of Dover

Oom-pa-pa music at Meyer Gustels in ‘Frankfurt’!

Fjords in Norway

The aimless compass, not knowing where to point
as you near the top of the world on a polar crossing.
The whiskey compass on a steep tilt.

The old Charlie-Charlie NDB approach into Kai Tak.

Brain bags crammed with charts to exotic places.

The Peak tram in Hong Kong.

Breaking out of the clouds on the IGS approach to runway 13
at Kai Tak, and seeing a windshield full of checkerboard.

An empty weight takeoff in a B-757.

The bustle of Nathan Road on a summer day.

Sliding in over Crystal Springs reservoir for a visual approach
and landing on 1R in SFO.

The smell of tropical blooms when you step off the plane in Fiji

The quietness of a DC-10 cockpit.

The rush of a full-speed-brakes descent at barber pole in a B-727.

Deadheading in First Class.

The Canarsie approach into JFK.

The Eiffel Tower

Max Gross Weight Takeoffs.

Cross-wind landings at 29 Kts/90 degrees

Good Co-pilots.

Man-sized rudder pedals as big as pie plates.

Leak-checking your eyelids on a long night flight.

And, as one friend so perceptively pointed out, “Payday” !

Making an aural null range approach………

Then there was Venus coming up before the sun in the
Eastern sky, giving the horizon a light show like no other!

And the best .. watching countless rounds of 23/37/57 MM
being shot at you, at night, and ALL missing.

She wasn’t built to go slow!  Good story….

Brian Shul, Retired SR-71 Pilot via Plane and Pilot Magazine

As a former SR-71 pilot, and a professional keynote speaker, the question I’m most often asked is “How fast would that SR-71 fly?” I can be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend.  It’s an interesting question, given the aircraft’s proclivity for speed, but there really isn’t one number to give, as the jet would always give you a little more speed if you wanted it to.  It was common to see 35 miles a minute.  Because we flew a programmed Mach number on most missions, and never wanted to harm the plane in any way, we never let it run out to any limits of temperature or speed.  Thus, each SR-71 pilot had his own individual “high” speed that he saw at some point on some mission.  I saw mine over Libya when Khadafy fired two missiles my way, and max power was in order.  Let’s just say that the plane truly loved speed and effortlessly took us to Mach numbers we hadn’t previously seen.

So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my presentations, someone asked, “what was the slowest you ever flew the Blackbird?” This was a first.  After giving it some thought, I was reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and relayed the following.

I was flying the SR-71 out of RAF Mildenhall, England , with my back-seater, Walt Watson; we were returning from a mission over Europe and the Iron Curtain when we received a radio transmission from home base.  As we scooted across Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a small RAF base in the English countryside had requested an SR-71 fly-past.  The air cadet commander there was a former Blackbird pilot, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty SR-71 perform a low approach.  No problem, we were happy to do it.

After a quick aerial refueling over the North Sea , we proceeded to find the small airfield.  Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment in the back seat, and began to vector me toward the field.  Descending to subsonic speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze.  Like most former WWII British airfields, the one we were looking for had a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure.  Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the field, but I saw nothing.

Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze.  We got a little lower, and I pulled the throttles back from 325 knots we were at.  With the gear up, anything under 275 was just uncomfortable.  Walt said we were practically over the field—yet; there was nothing in my windscreen.  I banked the jet and started a gentle circling maneuver in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a field.  Meanwhile, below, the cadet commander had taken the cadets up on the catwalk of the tower in order to get a prime view of the fly-past.  It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial gray overcast.

Walter continued to give me indications that the field should be below us but in the overcast and haze, I couldn’t see it.

The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got.  With our power back, the awaiting cadets heard nothing.  I must have had good instructors in my flying career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges.  As I noticed the airspeed indicator slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled left hand pushed two throttles full forward.  At this point we weren’t really flying, but were falling in a slight bank.  Just at the moment that both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame (and what a joyous feeling that was) the aircraft fell into full view of the shocked observers on the tower.  Shattering the still quiet of that morning, they now had 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium in their face as the plane leveled and accelerated, in full burner, on the tower side of the infield, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate knife-edge pass.

Quickly reaching the field boundary, we proceeded back to Mildenhall without incident.  We didn’t say a word for those next 14 minutes.

After landing, our commander greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our wings.  Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the commander had told him it was the greatest SR-71 fly-past he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking.  He said that some of the cadet’s hats were blown off and the sight of the plan form of the plane in full afterburner dropping right in front of them was unbelievable.  Walt and I both understood the concept of “breathtaking” very well that morning, and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our low approach.

As we retired to the equipment room to change from space suits to flight suits, we just sat there-we hadn’t spoken a word since “the pass.” Finally, Walter looked at me and said, “One hundred fifty-six knots. What did you see?”  Trying to find my voice, I stammered, “One fifty-two.” We sat in silence for a moment.  Then Walt said, “Don’t ever do that to me again!” And I never did.

A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the Mildenhall Officer’s club, and overheard an officer talking to some cadets about an SR-71 fly-past that he had seen one day.  Of course, by now the story included kids falling off the tower and screaming as the heat of the jet singed their eyebrows.  Noticing our HABU patches, as we stood there with lunch trays in our hands, he asked us to verify to the cadets that such a thing had occurred.  Walt just shook his head and said, “It was probably just a routine low approach; they’re pretty impressive in that plane.” Impressive indeed.

Little did I realize after relaying this experience to my audience that day that it would become one of the most popular and most requested stories.  It’s ironic that people are interested in how slow the world’s fastest jet can fly.  Regardless of your speed, however, it’s always a good idea to keep that cross-check up…and keep your Mach up, too.

THE Northwest Airlines pilots who became so absorbed in their laptop PCs that they flew 150 miles past their destination have added to the concerns of the public, during this busy holiday travel season. This incident should also be a wake-up call to the aviation industry.

Decades of technological enhancements and automation have made flying undeniably much safer but also fostered a subtle disconnect between pilots and the planes they fly. Designed to reduce crew workload and enhance safety, today’s highly automated aircraft can leave pilots so detached from flying that they become almost like passengers on their own flights. That’s apparently what happened on Northwest Flight 188.

Once the busy takeoff and departure was behind them and their aircraft was at cruising level, with the autopilot and the flight management system doing all the flying and navigating, the pilots felt comfortable enough to get to work on a new crew scheduling program. In cruise flight, all they were required to do was monitor the plane’s flightpath, have an awareness of other traffic, monitor systems and respond to radioed air traffic control instructions. Pilots call it being “situationally aware.”

But these pilots’ preoccupation was so deep that situational awareness went out the window and even radio calls were tuned out. The plane was on its own and this crew was along for the ride just like the folks in the back. What got the crew into this pickle was thousands of hours in highly reliable, automated planes that over time made them ever more confident and blunted their need to be involved in the tasks of flying.

In contrast, the early years of jet travel required far more crew involvement and there was always something to do or watch over. When I was a Pan Am Boeing 707 co-pilot in the late ’60s, few cockpit controls and systems were fully automated. Most required periodic attention and resetting to operate properly.

After a series of computations for temperature, altitude and other considerations, engine thrust had to be carefully set for takeoff and reset during climb and cruise. Controlling pressurization and adjusting cabin cooling was a respected art performed by the flight engineer, who also made sure that the wings stayed in balance and fuel from the plane’s seven tanks fed the engines. Flying over land, pilots continually retuned and identified navigation radios, reset courses and adjusted heading for wind drift.

Flying over the ocean still required a knowledge of celestial navigation. Our 707’s had a periscopic sextant on board that could be popped through a small round hatch in the cockpit ceiling for star shots. On Atlantic crossings, pilots used a World War II-era long-range radio navigation system known as Loran to manually plot position. On some long Pacific flights where Loran coverage was too sparse, navigators were the hardest workers, taking star shots, measuring drift and passing heading correction slips to the pilots.

These disciplines required extreme accuracy and skill. And with all the numbers and variables of this demanding work, errors were expected and occurred. That’s why Pan Am required additional verification steps from another pilot to confirm each course change or future position. In short, even when things were going smoothly during level cruise flight, cockpit crews had to be more actively involved to get where they were going.

By the early 1980s, aircraft systems and automation had evolved significantly. Most of the manual chores of staying on the airways or oceanic tracks were eliminated. In many planes, there was no longer a flight engineer sitting sideways behind the pilots, facing a bank of gauges, status lights, toggle switches and levers to operate the plane’s systems. Those functions had been automated, their controls condensed and placed in the pilot’s overhead panel.

By the late ’80s, I was a captain on the A310, a highly automated Airbus jet. I had evolved from the hands-on flier of my earlier years to a systems manager, controlling the plane with a flight management keyboard. During qualification training, pilots quipped that to pass their F.A.A. simulator checkride they had to be able to type 50 words a minute. It was a joke, but not far from the truth. Today it’s the way we fly new airliners, with G.P.S. accurate to within a few feet and computers, known as fly-by-wire systems, sending commands to the engines and all flight control surfaces.

The challenge now is to keep airline crews connected and aware when all this automation relieves them of the details and tasks that kept pilots on their toes in years past. Manufacturers must develop an effective alerting system to complement — or rather mitigate — the effects of advanced automation.

Designing an alert intrusive enough to yank crews back to reality in moments when they’re not responding to conditions won’t be easy and it will have to be right. Today’s cockpits are already filled with annunciator lights, caution lights, and all sorts of indicators and displays, most with their own distinct sounds and decibel levels. Aviation accidents often involve inappropriate or misunderstood alerts, which in some cases were even disconnected before a crash.

But the best safety device is the pilot, who, deep down, regardless of the aircraft, retains a sense of fallibility and vulnerability. No system can ever substitute for that.

Arnold Reiner is a retired airline captain and a former director of flight safety at Pan Am.

Rec’d from a friend:

Every day after I initially Retired from the USAF/ANG ,

I woke up missing the Missions, the Flights and the Aircrews I was associated with.

To have been associated with the professional Aircrew in each of my assigned Squadrons was a Pleasure.

The only Squadron that I was a member of and I did not really think they had their act together was the

147th Fighter Group, 111th Fighter Squadron, Ellington AFB, Houston, Texas in 1974 thru 1976.

In my opinion, the Unit should have flown C-119’s and/or C-141s.

They did not possess a Fighter Squadron Mentality.

None of their pilots ever wanted to turn the F-101 Aircraft Inverted

or Chase a T-33 Target aircraft below 2,000 feet at night.

That is one of the reasons, why I sought and was accepted as the Hawaii ANG,

154th TFW, F-4 Aircraft, Alert Force Commander.

I have been very lucky to be Associated with some great Front Seaters in all the Units I flew with.

You know, in your Mind, that if you have to go to War, who you want as your Front Seater,

and who in Your Squadron are going to end up being Cannon Fodder during the 1st month or so of Wartime engagements.

I was lucky, it never came to that, but you know who the Guys are in your Unit who you want to go to war with

& will always successfully Complete the Mission and bring you home alive.

The Best ANG Squadron that I had the privilege to fly with was the 159th TFG, LA ANG, “the Coonass Militia”.

Their Air Force Advisor said, “In the Air – they are a Highly Disciplined Fighter Unit,

but on the Ground you would think you were a member of a Hells Angels Motorcycle Gang”.

And he was correct.  The 159th TFG used to fight the 33rd TFW, Eglin AFB, F-15’s weekly with their F-4s

and beat them Consistently.  But they were also Restricted from Some Air Force Bases

due to their Conduct on the Ground… was not always Gentile.

Denny H and Billy S, were Key members of this Unit and they were instrumental in developing  the 159th Units’

Air to Air Tactics and its Employment.  The 159th was a Dual DOC unit –

they were assigned to Train both as an ‘Air to Air Unit’ and a ‘Air to Ground’ Unit.

In the USAF and/or ANG and/or AFRES there probably were less then 5 Aircraft Fighter Wings

with Dual DOC Training Requirements.  The 159th TFR was one of them.

The Unit was Legendary.

General Chuck Horner, at that time Commander of USAF 23rd Air Division, Tyndall AFB, FL,

thought they were the Best ANG Unit that he ever flew against or With.

And the saying is true – ‘there are Old Pilots, and Bold Pilots, but there are no Old, Bold Pilots’.

And the another statement that is applicable to the Air to Ground Mission is “One Pass and Haul Ass”.

Also another Truism is “Entering a Fight – the Speed of Light is Life”

It used to be a known Fact that it takes about 3 years and 1,000 hours in a Specific Fighter Aircraft –

prior to your really being able to engage & fight that Aircraft in Air to Air Missions and Win.

The F-4 Phantom was not fought in the Horizotal but in the Vertical.

The only Aircraft the F-4 could turn with in a Horizontal fight was another F-4 or the Russian Built Mig-23.

I can not tell you the Flight Hours we all Spent Learning 1v1 tactics, 2v1 tactics, 2v2 Tactics, etc.

You learn by Heart the Flight Envelope of Your Aircraft & the Employment of its Weapons

and the Flight Envelopes, Weapons  & ECM capabilities of the Aggressor Aircraft that you are engaging.

After about 4 Years in Your Specific Aircraft, the Learning Curve of

how to fight your Aircraft equates to a Doctorate Degree in Aviation Science.

You have to know what Air to Air weapons to employ and at what the Various Ranges are

to employ them and the most successful Tactics for their Employment.

When I was either Double Banging or Triple Banging (flying two to three times a day)

and at least 4 Times a week, I really was up to the Task of engaging any and all Comers.

It used to be –To be proficient and feel Comfortable to engage any other Aircraft,

You should fly at least 40 Hours a Month in Air to Air Engagement Missions against dissimilar aircraft.

F-4……”Been There done That”

This is a re-post of an interesting trip made by Pan am at the start of the second world war. Takes too long to clean it up, so the large print is just one annoying aspect. Great story though.

Check out this short vid:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ms84WfJwalI One hour documentary may soon follow.

A fascinating account of an unplanned trip

around the world by a PanAm crew who got

caught by the outbreak of WWII in the

Pacific and made the most unexpected

trip of their careers.

The Round The World Saga of the “Pacific

Clipper”John A. Marshall”

Engines: Four (4) 1,600 hp (1,192 kW)

Wright R-2600 Twin Cyclone (1,192 kw),

14 cylinder, air-cooled, radial engines.

Wing Span: 152 ft. (46.33 m.)

Length: 106 ft (32.31 m.)

Max Take Off Weight: 84,000 lb.

(38,102 kg.)

Max level speed: 199 mph (320 km/h)

Cruising speed: 184 mph (296 km/h)

Range: 5,200 miles (8369 km)

First flight: June 7, 1938

Ceiling: 19,600 feet

Accommodation: 10 crew, 74 passengers

December 7, 1941 The first blush of dawn

tinged the eastern sky and sent its rosy

fingers creeping onto the flight deck of the

huge triple-tailed flying boat as she cruised

high above the South Pacific. Six days out of

her home port of San Francisco, the Boeing

314 was part of Pan American Airways’

growing new service that linked the far

corners of the Pacific Ocean. With veteran

captain Robert Ford in command, the

Pacific Clipper, carrying 12 passengers and a

crew of ten was just a few hours from

landing in the harbor at Auckland, New

Zealand.

The calm serenity of the flight deck early on

this spring morning was suddenly shattered

by the crackling of the radio. Radio Operator

John Poindexter clamped the headset to his

ears as he deciphered the coded message.

His eyes widened as he quickly wrote the

characters on the pad in front of him. Pearl

Harbour had been attacked by Japanese war

planes and had suffered heavy losses; the

United States was at war. The stunned crew

looked at each other as the implications of

the message began to dawn. They realized

that their route back to California was

irrevocably cut, and there was no going

back. Ford ordered radio silence, and then

posted lookouts in the navigator’s blister;

two hours later, the Pacific Clipper touched

down smoothly on the waters of Auckland

harbour. Their odyssey was just beginning.

The crew haunted the overwhelmed

communications room at the US Embassy in

Auckland every day for a week waiting for a

message from Pan Am headquarters in New

York. Finally they received word — they

were to try and make it back to the United

States the long way: around the world

westbound. For Ford and his crew, it was a

daunting assignment. Facing a journey of

over 30,000 miles, over oceans and lands

that none of them had ever seen, they would

have to do all their own planning and

servicing, scrounging whatever supplies and

equipment they needed; allthis in the face of

an erupting World War in which political

alliances and loyalties in many parts of the

world were uncertain at best. Their first

assignment was to return to Noumea, back

the way they had come over a week earlier.

They were to pick up the Pan American

station personnel there, and then deliver

them to safety in Australia. Late onthe

evening of December 16th, the blacked out

flying boat lifted off from Auckland ha rbour

and headed northwest through the night

toward Noumea. They maintained radio

silence, landing in the harbor just as the

sun was coming up. Ford went ashore and

sought out the Pan Am Station Manager.

“Round up all your people,” he said. “I want

them all at the dock in an hour. They can

have one small bag apiece.”

The crew set to work fuelling the airplane,

and exactly two hours later, fully fuelled and

carrying a barrel of engine oil, the Clipper

took off and pointed her nose south for

Australia.

It was late in the afternoon when the dark

green smudge of the Queensland coast

appeared in the windscreen, and Ford began

a gentle descent for landing in the harbor at

Gladstone. After offloading their bewildered

passengers, the crew set about seeing to

their primary responsibility, the Pacific

Clipper. Captain Ford recounted, “I was

wondering how we were going to pay for

everything we were going to need on this

trip. We had money enough for a trip to

Auckland and back to San Francisco, but

this was a different story. In Gladstone a

young man who was a banker came up to

me and out of the blue said, ‘How are you

fixed for money?’ ‘Well, we’re broke!’ I said.

He said, ‘I’ll probably be shot for this,’ but

he went down to his bank on a Saturday

morning, opened the vault and handed me

five hundred American dollars. Since Rod

Brown, our navigator, was the only one with

a lock box and a key, we put him in charge of

the money. That $500 financed the rest of

the trip all the way to New York.

Ford planned to take off and head straight

northwest, across the Queensland desert for

Darwin, and then fly across the Timor Sea to

the Dutch East Indies (now Indonesia)

, hoping that Java and Sumatra remained in

friendly hands. The next day, as they droned

into the tropical morning the coastal jungle

gradually gave way to great arid stretches

ofgrassland and sand dunes. Spinnifex and

gum trees covered the landscape to the

horizon. During the entire flight to Darwin

the crew didn’t see a river big enough to set

down the big flying boat should anything go

wrong. Any emergency would force them to

belly land the airplane onto the desert, and

their flight would be over.

They approached the harbour at Darwin late

in the afternoon. Massive thunderheads

stretched across the horizon, and

continuous flashes of lightning lit up the

cockpit. The northernmost city in Australia,

Darwin was closest to the conflict that was

spreading southward like a brushfire. A

rough frontier town in the most remote and

primitive of theAustralian territories, it was

like something out of a wild west movie.

After they had landed, the Pacific Clipper

crew was offered a place to shower and

change; much to their amusement their

“locker room” turned out to be an Australian

Army brothel.

Ford and his crew set about fuelling the

airplane. It was a lengthy, tiresome job. The

fuel was stored in five gallon jerry cans, each

one had to be hauled up over the wing and

emptied into the tanks; it was past midnight

before they were finished. They managed a

few hours of fitful sleep before takeoff, but

Ford was anxious to be under way. News of

the progress of the Japanese forces was

sketchy at best. They were fairly certain that

most of the Dutch East Indies was still in

friendly hands, but they could not dally.

Early the next morning they took off for

Surabaya, fourteen hundred miles to the

west across theTimor Sea. The sun rose as

they droned on across the flat turquoise sea;

soon they raised the eastern islands of the

great archipelago of east Java. Rude thatch-

roofed huts dotted the beaches; the islands

were carpeted with the lush green jungle of

the tropics.

Surabaya lay at the closed end of a large bay

in the Bali Sea. The second largest city on

the islandof Java, it was guarded by a British

garrison and a squadron of Bristol Beaufort

fighters. As the Pacific Clipper approached

the city, a single fighter rose to meet them;

moments later it was joined by several more.

The recognition signals that Ford had

received in Australia proved to be

inaccurate, and the big Boeing was a sight

unfamiliar to

the British pilots. The crew tensed as the fighters drew closer. Because of a quirk in the radio systems, they could hear the British pilots, but the pilots could not hear the Clipper. There was much discussion among them as to whether the flying boat should be shot down or allowed to land. At last the crew heard the British controller grant permission for them to land, and then add, “If they do anything suspicious, shoot them out of the sky!” With great relief, Ford began a very careful approach.

As they neared the harbor, Ford could see that it was filled with warships, so he set the Clipper down in the smooth water just outside the harbour entrance. “We turned around to head back,” Ford said. “There was a launch that had come out to meet us, but instead of giving us a tow or a line, they stayed off about a mile and kept waving us on. Finally when we got further into the harbour they came closer. It turned out that we had landed right in the middle of a minefield, and they weren’t about to come near us until they saw that we were through it!”

When they disembarked, the crew of the Pacific Clipper received an unpleasant surprise; they were told that they would be unable to refuel with 100 octane aviation gas. What little existed there was severely rationed, and was reserved for the military. There was automobile gas in abundance however, and Ford was welcome to whatever he needed. He had no choice. The next leg of their journey would be many hours over the Indian Ocean , and there was no hope of refuelling elsewhere. The flight engineers, Swede Roth and Jocko Parish, formulated a plan that they hoped would work. They transferred all their remaining aviation fuel to the two fuselage tanks, and filled the remaining tanks to the limit with the lower octane automobile gas.

“We took off from Surabaya on the 100 octane, climbed a couple of thousand feet, and pulled back the power to cool off the engines,” said Ford. “Then we switched to the automobile gas and held our breaths. The engines almost jumped out of their mounts, but they ran. We figured it was either that or leave the airplane to the Japs”

They flew north-westerly across the Sunday Straits, paralleling the coast of Sumatra. Chasing the setting sun, they started across the vast expanse of ocean. They had no aviation charts or maps for this part of the world; the only navigational information available to the crew was the latitude and longitude of their destination at Trincomalee, on theisland of Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). Using this data, and drawing from memory, Rod Brown was creating his own Mercator maps of South Asia. Ford was not only worried about finding the harbor , he was very concerned about missing Ceylon altogether. He envisioned the Clipper droning on over India, lost and low on fuel, unable to find a body of water on which to land.

As they neared the island they could see a cloud bank ahead. Ford said, “There was some low scud, so we descended. We wanted the maximum available visibility to permit picking up landfall at the earliest moment — we didn’t want to miss the island. All of a sudden there it was, right in front of us, a Jap submarine! We could see the crew running for the deck gun. Let me tell you we were pretty busy getting back into the scud again!”

Ford jammed the throttles of the Clipper forward to climb power, the engines complaining bitterly. Their 150 mph speed soon had them well out of range of the sub’s guns, and the crew heaved a sigh of relief. It would be difficult to determine who was the more surprised; the Japanese submarine commander or the crew of the Clipper, startled out of their reverie after the long flight.

It was another hour until they reached the island, and the Boeing finally touched water in the harbor at Trincomalee. The British Forces stationed there were anxious to hear what Ford and his crew had to report from the war zone to the east, and the crew was duly summoned to a military meeting. Presiding was a pompous Royal Navy Commodore whoinformed Ford in no uncertain terms that he doubted Ford would know a submarine if it ran over him. Ford felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. He realized that he could not afford to make an enemy of the British military; the fate of the Pacific Clipper rested too heavily in their hands. He swallowed hard and said nothing.

It was Christmas Eve when they began the takeoff from Ceylon and turned the ship again to the northwest. The heavily loaded Boeing struggled for altitude, labouring through the leaden humid air. Suddenly there was afrightening bang as the number three engine let go. It shuddered in its mount, and as they peered through the windscreen the crew could see gushes of black oil pouring back over the wing. Ford quickly shut the engine down, and wheeled the Clipper over into a 180 degree turn, heading back to Trincomalee. Less than an hour after takeoff the Pacific Clipper was back on the waters of Trincomalee harbor. The repairs to the engine took the rest of Christmas Eve and all of Christmas Day. One of the engine’s eighteen cylinders had failed, wrenching itself loose from its mount, and while the repair was not particularly complex, it was tedious and time-consuming. Finally early in the morning of December 26th, they took off from Ceylon for the second time. All day they droned across the lush carpet of the Indian subcontinent, and then cut across the north-eastern corner of the Arabian Sea to their landing in Karachi,touching down in mid-afternoon.

The following day, bathed and refreshed, they took off and flew westward across the Gulf of Oman toward Arabia. After just a bit over eight routine hours of flying, they landed in Bahrain, where there was a British garrison.

Another frustration presented itself the following morning as they were planning the next leg of their journey. They had planned to fly straight west across the Arabian peninsula and the Red Sea into Africa, a flight that would not have been much longer than the leg they had just completed from Karachi.

“When we were preparing to leave Bahrain, we were warned by the British authorities not to fly across Arabia,” said Ford. “The Saudis had apparently already caught some British fliers who had been forced down there. The natives had dug a hole, buried them in it up to their necks, and just left them.”

They took off into the grey morning and climbed through a solid overcast. They broke out of the clouds into the dazzling sunshine, and the carpet of clouds below stretched westward to the horizon. “We flew north for about twenty minutes,” Ford said, “then we turned west and headed straight across Saudi Arabia .. We flew for several hours beforethere was a break in the clouds below us, and damned if we weren’t smack over the Mosque at Mecca! I could see the people pouring out of it, it was just like kicking an anthill. They were probably firing at us, but at least they didn’t have any anti-aircraft.”

The Pacific Clipper crossed the Red Sea and the coast of Africa in the early afternoon with the Saharan sun streaming in the cockpit windows. The land below was a dingy yellowish brown, with nothing but rolling sand dunes and stark rocky outcroppings. The only sign of human habitation was an occasional hut; every so often they flew over smallclusters of men tending livestock who stopped and shielded their eyes from the sun, staring up at the strange bird that made such a noise. The crew’s prayers for the continued good health of the four Wright Cyclones became more and more fervent. Should they have to make an emergency landing here, they would be in dire straits indeed.

Later in the afternoon they raised the Nile River, and Ford turned the ship to follow it to the confluence of the White and Blue Niles, just below Khartoum. They landed in the river, and after they were moored the crew went ashore to be greeted by the now familiar hospitality of the Royal Air Force. Ford’s plan was to continue southwest to Leopoldvillein the Belgian Congo and begin their South Atlantic crossing there. He had no desire to set out across the Sahara; a forced landing in that vast trackless wasteland would not only render the aircraft forever immobile, but the crew would surely perish in the harshness of the desert.

Early the next morning they took off from the Nile for Leopoldville. This was to be a particularly long overland flight, and they wanted to leave plenty of daylight for the arrival. They would land on the Congo River at Leopoldville, and from there would strike out across the South Atlantic for South America.

The endless brown of the Sudan gave way to rolling green hills, and then rocky crests that stretched across their path. They flew over native villages and great gatherings of wildlife. Herds of wildebeest, hundreds of thousands strong, stampeded in panic as the Clipper roared overhead. The grassland soon turned to jungle, and they crossed several small rivers, which they tried to match to their maps. Suddenly, ahead they saw a large river, much bigger and wider than others they had crossed, and off to their right was a good-sized town. The river had to be the mighty Congo, and the town was Bumba, the largest settlement on the river at that point. From their maps they saw that they could turn and follow the river downstream to Leopoldville. They had five hundred miles to fly.

Late in the afternoon they raised the Congolese capital of Leopoldville. Ford set the Boeing down gently onto the river, and immediately realized the strength of the current. He powered the ship into the mooring, and the crew finally stepped ashore. It was like stepping into a sauna. The heat was the most oppressive they had yet encountered; itdescended on them like a cloak, sapping what energy they had left.

A pleasant surprise awaited them, however, when two familiar faces greeted them at the dock. A Pan American Airport Manager and a Radio Officer had been dispatched to meet them, and Ford was handed a cold beer. “That was one of the high points of the whole trip,” he said.

After a night ashore they went to the airplane the next morning prepared for the long over-water leg that would take them back to the western hemisphere. The terrible heat and humidity had not abated a bit when the hatches were finally secured and they swung the Clipper into the river channel for the takeoff. The airplane was loaded to the gunnels with fuel, plus the drum of oil that had come aboard at Noumea. It was, to put it mildly, just a bit overloaded. They headed downstream into the wind, going with the six-knot current. Just beyond the limits of the town the river changed from a placid downstream current into a cataract of rushing rapids; pillars of rocks broke the water into a tumbling maelstrom. Ford held the engines at takeoff power, and the crew held their breath while the airplane gathered speed on the glassy river. The heat and humidity, and their tremendous gross weight were all factors working against them as they struggled to get the machine off the water before the cataracts. Ford rocked the hull with the elevators, trying to get the Boeing up on the step. Just before they would enter the rapids and face certain destruction, the hull lifted free. The Pacific Clipper was flying, but just barely. Their troubles were far from over, however. Just beyond the cataracts they entered the steep gorges; it was as though they were flying into a canyon. With her wings bowed, the Clipper staggered, clawing for every inch of altitude.

The engines had been at take-off power for nearly five minutes and the their temperatures were rapidly climbing above the red line; how much more abuse could they take ? With agonizing slowness the big Boeing began to climb, foot by perilous foot. At last they were clear of the walls of the gorge, and Ford felt he could pull the throttles back to climbpower. He turned the airplane toward the west and the Atlantic. The crew, silent, listened intently to the beat of the engines. They roared on without a miss, and as the airplane finally settled down at their cruising altitude Ford decided they could safely head for Brazil, over three thousand miles to the west.

The crew felt revived with new energy, and in spite of their fatigue, they were excitedly optimistic. Against all odds they had crossed southern Asia and breasted the African continent. Their airplane was performing better than they had any right to expect, and after their next long ocean leg they would be back in the hemisphere from which they had begun their journey nearly a month before. The interior of the airplane that had been home to them for so many days was beginning to wear rather thin. They were sick of the endless hours spent droning westward, tired of the apprehension of the unknown and frustrated by the lack of any real meaningful news about what was happening in a world besieged by war. They just wanted to get home.

After being airborne over twenty hours, they landed in the harbor at Natal just before noon. While they were waiting for the necessary immigration formalities to be completed, the Brazilian authorities insisted that the crew disembark while the interior of the airplane was sprayed for yellow fever. Two men in rubber suits and masks boarded andfumigated the airplane.

Late that same afternoon they took off for Trinidad, following the Brazilian coast as it curved around to the northwest. It wasn’t until after they had departed that the crew made an unpleasant discovery. Most of their personal papers and money were missing, along with a military chart that had been entrusted to Navigator Rod Brown by the US militaryattach in Leopoldville, obviously stolen by the Brazilian “fumigators.”

The sun set as they crossed the mouth of the Amazon, nearly a hundred miles wide where it joins the sea. Across the Guineas in the dark they droned, and finally at 3 AM the following morning they landed at Trinidad. There was a Pan Am station at Port of Spain, and they happily delivered themselves and their weary charge into friendly hands.

The final leg to New York was almost anti-climactic. Just before six on the bitter morning of January 6th, the control officer in the Marine Terminal at La Guardia was startled to hear his radio crackle into life with the message, “Pacific Clipper, inbound from Auckland, New Zealand, Captain Ford reporting. Overhead in five minutes.”

In a final bit of irony, after over thirty thousand miles and two hundred hours of flying on their epic journey, the Pacific Clipper had to circle for nearly an hour, because no landings were permitted in the harbor until official sunrise. They finally touched down just before seven, the spray from their landing freezing as it hit the hull. No matter — the Pacific Clipper had made it home.

The significance of the flight is best illustrated by the records that were set by Ford and his crew. It was the first round-the-world flight by a commercial airliner, as well as the longest continuous flight by a commercial plane, and was the first circumnavigation following a route near the Equator (they crossed the Equator four times.) They touched all but two of the world’s seven continents, flew 31,500 miles in 209 hours and made 18 stops under the flags of 12 different nations. They also made the longest non-stop flight in Pan American’s history, a 3,583 mile crossing of the South Atlantic from Africa to Brazil.

As the war progressed, it became clear that neither the Army nor the Navy was equipped or experienced enough to undertake the tremendous amount of long distance air transport work required. Pan American Airways was one of the few airlines in the country with the personnel and expertise to supplement the military air forces. Captain Bob Fordand most of his crew spent the war flying contract missions for the US Armed Forces. After the war Ford continued flying for Pan American, which was actively expanding its routes across the Pacific and around the world. He left the airline in 1952 to pursue other aviation interests.

The Crew of Pacific Clipper:
Captain Robert Ford
First Officer John H.Mack
Second Officer/Navigator Roderick N. Brown
Third Officer James G. Henriksen
Fourth Officer John D. Steers
First Engineer Homans K.”Swede” Roth
Second Engineer John B. “Jocko” Parish
First Radio Officer John Poindexter*
Second Radio Officer Oscar Hendrickson
Purser Barney Sawicki

Asst. Purser Verne C. Edwards.

* Poindexter was originally scheduled to accompany the Pacific Clipper as far as Los Angeles, and then return to San Francisco; he had even asked his wife to hold dinner that evening. In Los Angeles, however, the regularly scheduled Radio Officer suddenly became ill, and Poindexter had to make the trip himself. His one shirt was washed in every portthat the Pacific Clipper visited.

Scorpions, Chiggers and Sand Fleas by Dutch Wilkinsin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From the Sand Pit… It’s freezing here. I’m sitting on hard, cold dirt between rocks and shrubs at the base of the Hindu Kush Mountains , along the Dar ‘yoiPomir River , watching a hole that leads to a tunnel that leads to a cave. Stake out, my friend, and no pizza delivery for thousands of miles.

I also glance at the area around my ass every ten to fifteen seconds to avoid another scorpion sting. I’ve actually given up battling the chiggers and sand fleas, but them scorpions give a jolt like a cattle prod. Hurts like a bastard. The antidote tastes like transmission fluid, but God bless the Marine Corps for the five vials of it in my pack.

The one truth the Taliban cannot escape is that, believe it or not, they are human beings, which means they have to eat food and drink water.. That requires couriers and that’s where an old bounty hunter like me comes in handy. I track the couriers, locate the tunnel entrances and storage facilities, type the info into the handheld, shoot the coordinates up to the satellite link that tells the air commanders where to drop the hardware. We bash some heads for a while, then I track and record the new movement..

It’s all about intelligence. We haven’t even brought in the snipers yet. These scurrying rats have no idea what they’re in for. We are but days away from cutting off supply lines and allowing the eradication to begin.

I dream of bin Laden waking up to find me standing over him with my boot on his throat as I spit into his face and plunge my nickel-plated Bowie knife through his frontal lobe. But you know me, I’m a romantic. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: This country blows, man. It’s not even a country. There are no roads, there’s no infrastructure, there’s no government. This is an inhospitable, rock pit shit hole ruled by eleventh century warring tribes. There are no jobs here like we know jobs.

Afghanistan offers two ways for a man to support his family: join the opium trade or join the army. That’s it. Those are your options. Oh, I forgot, you can also live in a refugee camp and eat plum-sweetened, crushed beetle paste and squirt mud like a goose with stomach flu, if that’s your idea of a party. But the smell alone of those ‘tent cities of the walking dead’ is enough to hurl you into the poppy fields to cheerfully scrape bulbs for eighteen hours a day.

I’ve been living with these Tajiks and Uzbeks, and Turkmen and even a couple of Pushtuns, for over a month-and-a-half now, and this much I can say for sure: These guys, all of ‘em, are Huns… actual, living Huns.. They LIVE to fight. It’s what they do. It’s ALL they do.. They have no respect for anything, not for their families, nor for each other, nor for themselves. They claw at one another as a way of life. They play polo with dead calves and force their five-year-old sons into human cockfights to defend the family honor. Huns, roaming packs of savage, heartless beasts who feed on each other’s barbarism. Cavemen with AK-47’s. Then again, maybe I’m just cranky.

I’m freezing my ass off on this stupid hill because my lap warmer is running out of juice, and I can’t recharge it until the sun comes up in a few hours. Oh yeah! You like to write letters, right? Do me a favor, Bizarre. Write a letter to CNN and tell Wolf and Anderson and that awful, sneering, pompous Aaron Brown to stop calling the Taliban ’smart..’ They are not smart. I suggest CNN invest in a dictionary because the word they are looking for is ‘cunning.’ The Taliban are cunning, like jackals and hyenas and wolverines..They are sneaky and ruthless, and when confronted, cowardly. They are hateful, malevolent parasites who create nothing and destroy everything else. Smart.. Pfft. Yeah, they’re real smart.

They’ve spent their entire lives reading only one book (and not a very good one, as books go) and consider hygiene and indoor plumbing to be products of the devil. They’re still figuring out how to work a Bic lighter. Talking to a Taliban warrior about improving his quality of life is like trying to teach an ape how to hold a pen; eventually he just gets frustrated and sticks you in the eye with it.

OK, enough. Snuffle will be up soon, so I have to get back to my hole. Covering my tracks in the snow takes a lot of practice, but I’m good at it.

Please, I tell you and my fellow Americans to turn off the TV sets and move on with your lives. The story line you are getting from CNN and other news agencies is utter bullshit and designed not to deliver truth but rather to keep you glued to the screen through the commercials. We’ve got this one under control The worst thing you guys can do right now is sit around analyzing what we’re doing over here, because you have no idea what we’re doing, and really, you don’t want to know. We are your military, and we are doing what you sent us here to do.

Saucy Jack
Recon Marine in Afghanistan
Semper Fi
“Freedom is not free…but the U.S. Marine Corps will pay most of your share.

True/with Denials, but now with even more doubts, From an airline professional, friend: Story is rated as suspicious, but the details are now being confirmed by other passengers. Twelve actually did get off (they were fed up and wanted No more of  this atrocious behavior).

http://www.debbieschlussel.com/13175/another-passenger-confirms-airtran-flt-297-dry-run/

And this one: http://theamericanheritageproject.wordpress.com/2009/12/02/jihadists-force-cancellation-of-us-flight/

The spokesperson at AirTran told Media, the guy was on a different plane? No TSA or police agents boarded, and the eleven were not dressed in Islamic garb (much?) How did they know who to take off, then let return? If the guy was not on the plane, like they said, how did he know about removing 11 trouble makers?  The 2 1/2 hour delay ‘reportedly’ was due to the fact the men could not speak English?

Now THAT is suspicious. Two and One half Hours to find a ‘Terp’? Then convince the guy to put away his cellphone? The weak explanation is worse than the ‘real? story.. ‘Cair’ lawsuits followed the last time ‘Shieks on a Plane’ caused trouble. I can see why no one ‘Wants to get involved’. what’s with these guys anyway? Don’t they like our system? (That is obvious) It sure as hell beats theirs..

Strange thing is, the true postings get few hits in comparison to the outrageous false information. Guess that is why Main Stream Media is so popular with the unwashed (brainwashed?) masses?

I will leave this story  for a while. Hits are running twenty to thirty times the number of Hits on the real aircraft/military stuff I usually post. Enjoy…Rant……Make nasty comments….Work up your blood pressure. That’s what Media does best.

Here is the Truth or Fiction link. ‘copy paste’  is best:    http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/a/airtran297.htm

This below is yet another source of the story (many more on net, some in comments) : People have also called the originator and he say’s ‘True and Political Correctness ‘cover up’ is in full swing’, Now what?

Also no one heard about the Muslim man that went into the restroom and removed the ceiling panels during a flight. Luckily an alert FA told the Captain and the door was forced open to get him out of the ceiling. That story was squashed immediately.

I’m sure without a doubt CAIR is deep into this, they tend to protect their own dis-functional miscreants…

Pray for air travel passengers and Crews these days, they sure missed the wonderful civilized years of our Pre-PC Liberal past.

http://messageboards.aol.com/aol/en_us/articles.php?boardId=551411&articleId=332620&func=6&channel=Member+Guided+News&filterRead=false&filterHidden=true&filterUnhidden=false

One week ago, I went to Ohio on business and to see my father.

On Tuesday, November the 17^th, I returned home.  If you read the news papers on the 18^th, you may have seen or read, a Main Stream Media ‘blurb’ where an AirTran flight …’reportedly’…was canceled from Atlanta to Houston ‘Reportedly’ due to a man who refused to get off off his cell phone before takeoff.  It was reported on Fox.

This Main Stream Media ‘Report’, was NOT what happened.

I was in 1^st class coming home.  Eleven Muslim men got on the plane in full Islamic attire.  Two sat in 1^st class and the rest peppered themselves throughout the plane, all the way to the back.  As the plane taxied to the runway, the stewardesses gave the safety spiel we are all so familiar with.

At that time, one of the men got on his cell and called one of his companions in the back and proceeded to talk on the phone in Arabic, very loudly and very aggressively.

This took the 1^st stewardess out of the picture, for she had repeatedly told the man that cell phones were not permitted at that time.  He ignored her as if she was not there.

The 2^nd man who answered the phone did the same and this took out the 2^nd stewardess.  In the back of the plane at this time, 2 younger Muslims, one in the back ‘aisle sea’, and one in front of him, ‘window seat’, began to show footage of a porno they had taped the night before. They were very loud and obnoxious about it.

Now from what I have studied….they are only permitted to do this prior to a Jihad.  If a Muslim man goes into a strip club, he has to view the woman via a mirror with his back to her.  (don’t ask me….I don’t make their rules,… but I’ve sure studied them)

The 3^rd stewardess informed them that they were not to have electronic devices turned on at this time.  To which one of the men said “shut up infidel dog!”  She went to take the camcorder and he began to scream in her face in Arabic.

At that exact moment, all eleven of the Muslims got up and started to walk the cabin.  This is where I had enough!  I got up and started to the back where I heard a voice behind me from another Texan, who was twice my size, say “I got your back.”

I grabbed by his arm, the man who had been on the phone, and I firmly said “You WILL go sit down or You Will be thrown from this plane!”  As I “led” him around me to take his seat, my fellow Texan grabbed him by the back of his neck and his waist, and headed out with him.  I then grabbed the second man and said, “You WILL do the same!”  He protested but adrenaline was flowing now and he Was going to go, one way or another.

As I escorted him forward, the plane doors suddenly opened and three TSA agents and four police officers entered.  Myself and my new Texan friend, were told to cease and desist, for they now had this situation under control.  I was happy to oblige actually.

There was some commotion in the back, but within moments, all eleven Muslims were escorted off the plane.  TSA then unloaded their luggage.

While waiting, we all talked about the occurrence, and were in disbelief that it had happened. Then suddenly, the door opened again, and on walked all eleven Muslims!!  Stone faced, Eyes front and Robotic (the only way I can describe it).

The visibly upset stewardess from the back had been in tears, and when she saw this, she was having NONE of it!  Being that I was up front, I heard and saw the whole ordeal.

She told the TSA agent, there was ‘NO WAY’ she was staying on the plane with these men.  The agent told her they had searched them and were going to go through their luggage with a fine tooth comb and that they were allowed to proceed to Houston.

The Captain and o-Captain came out and told the agent, “We and our crew, will Not fly this plane!”  After a word or two, the entire crew, luggage in tow, left the plane.  5 minutes later, the cabin door opened again, and a whole new crew walked on.

Again…..this is where I had enough!!!  I got up and asked “What the hell is going on!?!?”  I was told to take my seat.  They were sorry for the delay and I would be home shortly.  I said “I’m getting off this plane”.

The new replacement stewardess sternly told me, that she could not allow me to get off.  (now I’m mad!)  I said, “I am a grown man who bought this ticket, who’s time is mine, with a family at home and I am going through that door alone, or I’m going through that door with you under my arm!!  But I am going through that door!!”  And I heard a voice behind me say, “so am I”.

Then everyone behind us started to get up and say the same.  Within 2 minutes, I was walking off that plane, where I was met by even more agents who asked me to write a statement.

I had 5 hours to kill at this point, so why the hell not.  Due to the amount of people who got off that flight, it was cancelled.  I was supposed to be in Houston at 6pm.  I got here at 12:30am.

Look up the date.  Flight 297 Atlanta to Houston.

If this wasn’t a dry run, I don’t know what one is.  They wanted to see how TSA would handle it, how the crew would handle it, and how the passengers would handle it.

I’m telling this to you because I want you to know….

The threat is real.  I saw it with my own eyes….

-Tedd P

personal Note from BG and friends: Sounds suspicious but after the Minneapolis fiasco and the Islamic lawsuit filed by CAIR, this could just as easily have been one more ‘Deep Pockets’ attack, using the insane PC legal system of the USA.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flying_Imams_controversy