Tales of An Old Aviator .... The Big Chill
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I already knew that this pig-eyed sack of useless primordal cells was lazy and for the moment very cocky. He'd squeeled with delight at the thought of bigger US dollars from the DC4... and how can you work for two opposing companies anyway?
And he certainly was untroubled by anything so inconvenient as a scruple.
I glanced at the half finished wheel assembly... and at my wounded airplane. I thought with intensity. .... and like a flash..
My mind raced back a month or two when I remember something Suzy Secretary said to me .. She was a loyal secretary to our company ... and me.
She would often give me shelter from the storm...
"These contract employees have to pay their own Workers Compensation payments" she purred, as I feigned interest in the topic whilst marvelling at her form.
In place of the left jab I postulated to the slacker , "I phoned Suzie when I was in Wrangell and it seems we have a problem with your WCB payments which opened up a can of worms with the tax department and all this crap with your ex wife ... blah .. blah .. blah .. blah".
He went slackjawed as his receding chin dropped into his sunken chest. He folded his hand to the master. I knew nothing of which I had spoken.... all bluff... and more..
"You will sign out all work till I find a replacement" I bargained from a newfound position of strength. Everybodys attention was diverted by the arrival of the DC4 from Alaska. Piggy's trotters were a blur as he ran off squeeling to his next employer.
The crew were a mixed bunch with a young blond hero type of guy as the captain and a copilot somewhat older and a swamper called Cowboy Jim.
The Bristol crew took them off in the direction of the bar followed by my porcine engineer darting excitedly behind them.
Rob and I were alone ... a busted winch , burned out brake , no left generator , no heater.... we looked at each other .... lots of heart .... lots of guts.
The deal was , we do the work , Piggy signs it out. There was the wheel. We saw why he abandoned the project. The multiple discs were warped and the brake blocks were hanging up , just like the brakes on the airplane now. Rob came up with a solution and we struggled long into the night .. in the cold clear night , soon to be cloaked in a dense fog.
Rob ground the castellations on the discs with a small grinder so that the blocks were not held up , a tempory fix but skillfully done.
The merriment from the chalet was of no comfort to us.
And a special thanks to Mzunga. The pics were well received and lent reality to the story.
I already knew that this pig-eyed sack of useless primordal cells was lazy and for the moment very cocky. He'd squeeled with delight at the thought of bigger US dollars from the DC4... and how can you work for two opposing companies anyway?
And he certainly was untroubled by anything so inconvenient as a scruple.
I glanced at the half finished wheel assembly... and at my wounded airplane. I thought with intensity. .... and like a flash..
My mind raced back a month or two when I remember something Suzy Secretary said to me .. She was a loyal secretary to our company ... and me.
She would often give me shelter from the storm...
"These contract employees have to pay their own Workers Compensation payments" she purred, as I feigned interest in the topic whilst marvelling at her form.
In place of the left jab I postulated to the slacker , "I phoned Suzie when I was in Wrangell and it seems we have a problem with your WCB payments which opened up a can of worms with the tax department and all this crap with your ex wife ... blah .. blah .. blah .. blah".
He went slackjawed as his receding chin dropped into his sunken chest. He folded his hand to the master. I knew nothing of which I had spoken.... all bluff... and more..
"You will sign out all work till I find a replacement" I bargained from a newfound position of strength. Everybodys attention was diverted by the arrival of the DC4 from Alaska. Piggy's trotters were a blur as he ran off squeeling to his next employer.
The crew were a mixed bunch with a young blond hero type of guy as the captain and a copilot somewhat older and a swamper called Cowboy Jim.
The Bristol crew took them off in the direction of the bar followed by my porcine engineer darting excitedly behind them.
Rob and I were alone ... a busted winch , burned out brake , no left generator , no heater.... we looked at each other .... lots of heart .... lots of guts.
The deal was , we do the work , Piggy signs it out. There was the wheel. We saw why he abandoned the project. The multiple discs were warped and the brake blocks were hanging up , just like the brakes on the airplane now. Rob came up with a solution and we struggled long into the night .. in the cold clear night , soon to be cloaked in a dense fog.
Rob ground the castellations on the discs with a small grinder so that the blocks were not held up , a tempory fix but skillfully done.
The merriment from the chalet was of no comfort to us.
And a special thanks to Mzunga. The pics were well received and lent reality to the story.
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It's hard to explain what drives you. Late at night , at least we were in a heated shack , tired after a hard days flying , and determined . Determined not to fail.
Not ever a cross word between us and yet we would often vent at the injustices that beseiged us.... we had a common enemy.
We learned how to lockwire the finished wheel by running out into the brutal night with a flashlight and returning with a mental picture that Rob skillfully put into practice.
We now had to wrestle this giant wheel out to the airplane through the snow.... grunting ... it flops over ...AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!
GGGGRRRRRRR!!!!!!F*ck this! F**** that!!!!
Cold it was ... a still biting cold.
Our problems had just begun.
The aircraft was perched very precariously on jacks. This would not have been possible had the wind been blowing a mere three knots or so. We were lucky. No wind.
A fog had enveloped us and the cold snow now chirped and squeeked when walked upon.
The lights under which we laboured barely escaped a few yards or more. An erie glow surrounded us.
It took two of us to stand the wheel up to the axle but the jack leaked allowing the airplane to sag and settle slowly but we failed to time the shove ... time after time we struggled .. it took such effort to control the frustrated outbursts ... making sure we did not aim our vehemence at each other.
Comradeship was sacred at this point. And loyalty to each other was one thing we could count on.
The chalet should be closing anytime now. It's late .. after midnight. Cold .. bloody cold.
Sometimes , bouts of inappropriate laughter had us collapsing in heaps on the snow as we referred to "the romance of aviation" or the fact we had reached the pinicle of our careers.
"If only we had someone to work the jack." Rob said wishfully. We were alone. There were some who wanted us to fail.
We gather the last of our strength for one last effort.
The camp hummed in the background , somewhere over there in the thick fog.
A squeek ... was that a footstep? ... and another. Somebody was carefully feeling their way towards us ..a shape ... devoid of form .. cloaked.
We stared silently waiting for this creature to reveal its identity.
It was Cowboy Jim.
"Ah am here to help you boys" drawled Cowboy Jim. "Why! Ah just can't beleive what the fat fella was saying up in the bar." he continued.
"Which fat fellow?" I asked. I already knew the answer.
"The one whose eyes seem too close together , he always has three rum and cokes in front of him , he's pig eyed by now" explains Jim slowly.
We have a match , thinks I.
Jim told us how the engineer laughed at our efforts and laughed at the faulty jack and told everybody what a piece of crap these planes were. And how he was to pocket lots of dough with two paychecks coming in.
"They'll NEVER get those brakes done let alone get the wheel on." the fat one had grunted and he guffawed at our expense.
"I'm here to help." said the Cowboy and help he did. We easilly slid the wheel onto the axle and everything was lockwired accordingly and the airplane was lowered safely to the ground. Whew! Now all we had to do was replace the winch and look at the heater.
At 4am we decided to get some sleep so we could arise before dawn to get the airplane ready for a trip tomorrow ... when the fog lifts. So we crashed into our bunks and only seconds later the alarm rang at six.
It's hard to explain what drives you. Late at night , at least we were in a heated shack , tired after a hard days flying , and determined . Determined not to fail.
Not ever a cross word between us and yet we would often vent at the injustices that beseiged us.... we had a common enemy.
We learned how to lockwire the finished wheel by running out into the brutal night with a flashlight and returning with a mental picture that Rob skillfully put into practice.
We now had to wrestle this giant wheel out to the airplane through the snow.... grunting ... it flops over ...AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!
GGGGRRRRRRR!!!!!!F*ck this! F**** that!!!!
Cold it was ... a still biting cold.
Our problems had just begun.
The aircraft was perched very precariously on jacks. This would not have been possible had the wind been blowing a mere three knots or so. We were lucky. No wind.
A fog had enveloped us and the cold snow now chirped and squeeked when walked upon.
The lights under which we laboured barely escaped a few yards or more. An erie glow surrounded us.
It took two of us to stand the wheel up to the axle but the jack leaked allowing the airplane to sag and settle slowly but we failed to time the shove ... time after time we struggled .. it took such effort to control the frustrated outbursts ... making sure we did not aim our vehemence at each other.
Comradeship was sacred at this point. And loyalty to each other was one thing we could count on.
The chalet should be closing anytime now. It's late .. after midnight. Cold .. bloody cold.
Sometimes , bouts of inappropriate laughter had us collapsing in heaps on the snow as we referred to "the romance of aviation" or the fact we had reached the pinicle of our careers.
"If only we had someone to work the jack." Rob said wishfully. We were alone. There were some who wanted us to fail.
We gather the last of our strength for one last effort.
The camp hummed in the background , somewhere over there in the thick fog.
A squeek ... was that a footstep? ... and another. Somebody was carefully feeling their way towards us ..a shape ... devoid of form .. cloaked.
We stared silently waiting for this creature to reveal its identity.
It was Cowboy Jim.
"Ah am here to help you boys" drawled Cowboy Jim. "Why! Ah just can't beleive what the fat fella was saying up in the bar." he continued.
"Which fat fellow?" I asked. I already knew the answer.
"The one whose eyes seem too close together , he always has three rum and cokes in front of him , he's pig eyed by now" explains Jim slowly.
We have a match , thinks I.
Jim told us how the engineer laughed at our efforts and laughed at the faulty jack and told everybody what a piece of crap these planes were. And how he was to pocket lots of dough with two paychecks coming in.
"They'll NEVER get those brakes done let alone get the wheel on." the fat one had grunted and he guffawed at our expense.
"I'm here to help." said the Cowboy and help he did. We easilly slid the wheel onto the axle and everything was lockwired accordingly and the airplane was lowered safely to the ground. Whew! Now all we had to do was replace the winch and look at the heater.
At 4am we decided to get some sleep so we could arise before dawn to get the airplane ready for a trip tomorrow ... when the fog lifts. So we crashed into our bunks and only seconds later the alarm rang at six.
Last edited by Duke Elegant; 19th Mar 2004 at 04:34.
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I had a pilot's breakfast ... A coffee and a piss followed by a donut and a dump.
The fog hung even heavier as we made our way to the strip and we finished our work.
It was hard to tell when dawn arrived. A lighter glow maybe. All three crews left the wing covers on until it was certain we were going to do a trip.
My plan was to taxi up and down the runway to seat the brake in by using power against brake.
Air and ground crew scurried about preparing their aircraft , and waiting , coffees in hand. Loadermen sat in their warm mounts as did the graderman after he had groomed the strip.
We removed all the heaters and with the help of the Herman Nelson got both engines running and sat while warmth seeped into their innards and oil. We left the wing covers on.
Lots of people were watching as we proudly taxied out to test our rebuilt brake system prior to it being signed out by the porcine poofter.
We dissapeared into the fog as we taxied downhill , stabbing at the brakes. We couldn't go too fast as the end of the runway was not easilly discernable and we did not want to end up in the Iskut.
Uphill was a different matter. I needed more power so I moved the throttles forward .. and then some more. We were not paying attention.
Witnesses said later that the huge beast loomed out of the fog in a huge batlike fashion , engines roaring , as the wing covers filled with air puffing them up atop the wing like huge biceps .. bungies snapping ... more air under the cover as they bulged , taut and full of wind with a madman at the controls stabbing at the brakes making it lurch this way and that.
I came to a lurching stop and surveyed what looked like wounded people who I determined later were rolling in the snow laughing at this madness.
I was not amused.
But I was an idiot.
I came out of hiding and went looking for the engineer. He was to sign out the work on the wheel ... or a call was to be made to WCB or the tax department. The bluff worked. He must have had a guilty concience. I didn't have any dirt on him at all. He inspected the work including the perfect lock wire job and signed it off.
I called our hangar in Victoria and advised them of the urgency to find an M3 engineer and they were hard to find , especially one willing to work in a camp for weeks at a time. And this was radial engine territory , a fast dying breed of tough engineers.
The fog persisted.
And when the fog lifted , the weather in Wrangell turned on us.... cheating us out of our livelihood and cheating the mine out of diesel and groceries.
A week this went on. We avoided some people , mixed with others. Stories had worn thin. Groups formed .. people talked in low tones ... politics crept in like a tumour... rumours.
I heard that the mine wanted to extend the tempory Operating certificate for the American DC4. I had another C117 coming out of maintainence in Victoria .. so why would I allow this? I could bring it up to work.
We had tried to get work in Alaska and were laughed off the claim by the Americans.
More rumours.... The mine would have to bring in the Southern Air Transport Hercules as the inventory of bags reached twenty five hundred. Fuel was running short. Days were shorter. They had run out of explosives.
I got a visit from the dispatcher.
I was informed that as soon as the weather cleared , the DC4 and the Bristol would do Wrangell trips as their diesel tanks were installed and ours were removed so we got the laborious job hauling groceries.
But there were two semi trailer loads of explosives at Bob Quinn Lake and it was our job to fly it all to camp. All of it.
It was only thirty miles away but the weather to the East was somewhat better.
What an adventure that turned out to be.
I had a pilot's breakfast ... A coffee and a piss followed by a donut and a dump.
The fog hung even heavier as we made our way to the strip and we finished our work.
It was hard to tell when dawn arrived. A lighter glow maybe. All three crews left the wing covers on until it was certain we were going to do a trip.
My plan was to taxi up and down the runway to seat the brake in by using power against brake.
Air and ground crew scurried about preparing their aircraft , and waiting , coffees in hand. Loadermen sat in their warm mounts as did the graderman after he had groomed the strip.
We removed all the heaters and with the help of the Herman Nelson got both engines running and sat while warmth seeped into their innards and oil. We left the wing covers on.
Lots of people were watching as we proudly taxied out to test our rebuilt brake system prior to it being signed out by the porcine poofter.
We dissapeared into the fog as we taxied downhill , stabbing at the brakes. We couldn't go too fast as the end of the runway was not easilly discernable and we did not want to end up in the Iskut.
Uphill was a different matter. I needed more power so I moved the throttles forward .. and then some more. We were not paying attention.
Witnesses said later that the huge beast loomed out of the fog in a huge batlike fashion , engines roaring , as the wing covers filled with air puffing them up atop the wing like huge biceps .. bungies snapping ... more air under the cover as they bulged , taut and full of wind with a madman at the controls stabbing at the brakes making it lurch this way and that.
I came to a lurching stop and surveyed what looked like wounded people who I determined later were rolling in the snow laughing at this madness.
I was not amused.
But I was an idiot.
I came out of hiding and went looking for the engineer. He was to sign out the work on the wheel ... or a call was to be made to WCB or the tax department. The bluff worked. He must have had a guilty concience. I didn't have any dirt on him at all. He inspected the work including the perfect lock wire job and signed it off.
I called our hangar in Victoria and advised them of the urgency to find an M3 engineer and they were hard to find , especially one willing to work in a camp for weeks at a time. And this was radial engine territory , a fast dying breed of tough engineers.
The fog persisted.
And when the fog lifted , the weather in Wrangell turned on us.... cheating us out of our livelihood and cheating the mine out of diesel and groceries.
A week this went on. We avoided some people , mixed with others. Stories had worn thin. Groups formed .. people talked in low tones ... politics crept in like a tumour... rumours.
I heard that the mine wanted to extend the tempory Operating certificate for the American DC4. I had another C117 coming out of maintainence in Victoria .. so why would I allow this? I could bring it up to work.
We had tried to get work in Alaska and were laughed off the claim by the Americans.
More rumours.... The mine would have to bring in the Southern Air Transport Hercules as the inventory of bags reached twenty five hundred. Fuel was running short. Days were shorter. They had run out of explosives.
I got a visit from the dispatcher.
I was informed that as soon as the weather cleared , the DC4 and the Bristol would do Wrangell trips as their diesel tanks were installed and ours were removed so we got the laborious job hauling groceries.
But there were two semi trailer loads of explosives at Bob Quinn Lake and it was our job to fly it all to camp. All of it.
It was only thirty miles away but the weather to the East was somewhat better.
What an adventure that turned out to be.
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Keep them coming Aviator.
How often did you regret giving up the Goroka weather for that icy crap? The bar at the Bird must have been way, way better than that camp sounds.
STL
How often did you regret giving up the Goroka weather for that icy crap? The bar at the Bird must have been way, way better than that camp sounds.
STL
Last edited by SawThe Light; 21st Mar 2004 at 19:31.
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I lay on the bunk propped up against a pillow , feet crossed , boots on.
The small two bunk contractor's cabin was not trembling now as it had through the night as swirling blasts of cold air came up the strip from the Iskut and swished amongst the huge trees near the frozen creek.
This rare demon wind had done one thing for sure in cleaning the air of low snow clouds and ragged wisps with only a milky sky above. Clearing rapidly to the East ... towards B ob Quinn Lake airstrip , two thousand feet higher , and thirty miles upriver... up the frozen Iskut flanked by several seven thousand foot peaks.
As Rob , my co-pilot , dressed I explained my position about crew duties. I wanted to give him more take off and landings but felt I was still feeling my own way , and we always seemed to be on the edge
It made me feel better when he laughed it off ... "Hell man , I'm still learning my right seat job."
It was to be his lucky day as we were to fly to B ob Quinn empty , a very rare event and a perfect opportinity for a full hands on leg for Rob to fly . I had never been there before so I had the chance to survey the scene and come up with escape routes in the event of rapidly closing weather , a far too frequent event in this area. My gloved finger traced the river on the chart. Past McClymont Creek , and Forrest Kerr.
I mentioned to Rob that I had left instructions with the First Aid bloke in Bronson ... he was puzzled. I stayed silent on the matter.
The milky sky and the snow covered flats made the strip difficult to locate at first but appeared by the highway that went hundreds of miles south to Smi thers.
The trucks sat waiting after a long trip from the South.
As we taxiied toward the dozed out parking area we tried to determine which way was downhill for take off. Rather , it seemed , that it was uphill , both ways.
We winched the shrink wrapped palets uphill and herc strapped them down and filled in the gaps with individual boxes of explosives that are humped up by hand.
During this process we talk as we labour.
"We have five tons of dynamite on board. I don't know what it takes to set this sh*t off but here we are strapping it close to the temperamental heaters under the floor that are fired with high octane aviation fuel. MMMM fired by igniters. Don't think so mate! .. its gonna be a cold flight back." says I.
We had lots of fuel on board as we could only refuel in Wrangell.
The first three flights were uneventful , if not , very satisfying as we ran the engines at reduced power on the descent down to Bronson Creek. We can only do one more flight as the weather in Wrangell is down.
Upon return to B ob Quinn we load a few palets and I notice the size of the boxes changes. They are now smaller and lighter.
I question the driver who casually informs me that those fifty boxes are caps.Blasting caps!
Sh*t!! The very devices with which to anger the dynamite god and KA-F*CKIN-BOOM and I'm the first Aussie on the moon.
Darkness stalked us.
"I don't want to take caps and explosives on the same flight" I implore him.
"You"ll need this bulkhead" he says as he hands us up a four by four sheet of three quarter inch plywood.
"Use it to separate the two , everybody else does." he matter of factly exclaims.
"Besides ," he informs me , " We can't sleep in our truck , we would have to go all the way to S mithers and return here tomorrow , maybe , IF you can get in. We have already made one fruitless trip and you guys never made it yesterday. We are nearly broke now , over this contract."
I started bleating like a sheep but quickly re-gained composure.
The cargo door thumped shut as I slid behind the frozen yoke. The sky was darkening. A 31,000lb grenade to be flown to the mine and its savage appetite for GOLD.
They blasted their way into Johnny Mountain. There was gold alright. Flown out in its purest form by a Beech 1900. Ingots.
In its dirtlike form , we flew the bulky bags in exchange for GOLD. Were we bargaining away our safety for GOLD?
"I wanted the gold and I got it
And somehow the gold isn't all"
Rob settled into his frozen position. We tried not to aim a breath near the frozen windshield.... there would be no heater.
The pressure of the mission was building.
"By the way," quizzes Rob , "what instructions did you give the First Aid guy this morning?"
I turned to look at him, slowly, so the gravity of what I had to say seeped into him
I paused.
"I told them that in the event of a crash , I want them to look through the wreckage and retrieve the nine inch d*ck and put it in my box so I could be identified."
We exploded into a laughing fit .....
..and took off.
I lay on the bunk propped up against a pillow , feet crossed , boots on.
The small two bunk contractor's cabin was not trembling now as it had through the night as swirling blasts of cold air came up the strip from the Iskut and swished amongst the huge trees near the frozen creek.
This rare demon wind had done one thing for sure in cleaning the air of low snow clouds and ragged wisps with only a milky sky above. Clearing rapidly to the East ... towards B ob Quinn Lake airstrip , two thousand feet higher , and thirty miles upriver... up the frozen Iskut flanked by several seven thousand foot peaks.
As Rob , my co-pilot , dressed I explained my position about crew duties. I wanted to give him more take off and landings but felt I was still feeling my own way , and we always seemed to be on the edge
It made me feel better when he laughed it off ... "Hell man , I'm still learning my right seat job."
It was to be his lucky day as we were to fly to B ob Quinn empty , a very rare event and a perfect opportinity for a full hands on leg for Rob to fly . I had never been there before so I had the chance to survey the scene and come up with escape routes in the event of rapidly closing weather , a far too frequent event in this area. My gloved finger traced the river on the chart. Past McClymont Creek , and Forrest Kerr.
I mentioned to Rob that I had left instructions with the First Aid bloke in Bronson ... he was puzzled. I stayed silent on the matter.
The milky sky and the snow covered flats made the strip difficult to locate at first but appeared by the highway that went hundreds of miles south to Smi thers.
The trucks sat waiting after a long trip from the South.
As we taxiied toward the dozed out parking area we tried to determine which way was downhill for take off. Rather , it seemed , that it was uphill , both ways.
We winched the shrink wrapped palets uphill and herc strapped them down and filled in the gaps with individual boxes of explosives that are humped up by hand.
During this process we talk as we labour.
"We have five tons of dynamite on board. I don't know what it takes to set this sh*t off but here we are strapping it close to the temperamental heaters under the floor that are fired with high octane aviation fuel. MMMM fired by igniters. Don't think so mate! .. its gonna be a cold flight back." says I.
We had lots of fuel on board as we could only refuel in Wrangell.
The first three flights were uneventful , if not , very satisfying as we ran the engines at reduced power on the descent down to Bronson Creek. We can only do one more flight as the weather in Wrangell is down.
Upon return to B ob Quinn we load a few palets and I notice the size of the boxes changes. They are now smaller and lighter.
I question the driver who casually informs me that those fifty boxes are caps.Blasting caps!
Sh*t!! The very devices with which to anger the dynamite god and KA-F*CKIN-BOOM and I'm the first Aussie on the moon.
Darkness stalked us.
"I don't want to take caps and explosives on the same flight" I implore him.
"You"ll need this bulkhead" he says as he hands us up a four by four sheet of three quarter inch plywood.
"Use it to separate the two , everybody else does." he matter of factly exclaims.
"Besides ," he informs me , " We can't sleep in our truck , we would have to go all the way to S mithers and return here tomorrow , maybe , IF you can get in. We have already made one fruitless trip and you guys never made it yesterday. We are nearly broke now , over this contract."
I started bleating like a sheep but quickly re-gained composure.
The cargo door thumped shut as I slid behind the frozen yoke. The sky was darkening. A 31,000lb grenade to be flown to the mine and its savage appetite for GOLD.
They blasted their way into Johnny Mountain. There was gold alright. Flown out in its purest form by a Beech 1900. Ingots.
In its dirtlike form , we flew the bulky bags in exchange for GOLD. Were we bargaining away our safety for GOLD?
"I wanted the gold and I got it
And somehow the gold isn't all"
Rob settled into his frozen position. We tried not to aim a breath near the frozen windshield.... there would be no heater.
The pressure of the mission was building.
"By the way," quizzes Rob , "what instructions did you give the First Aid guy this morning?"
I turned to look at him, slowly, so the gravity of what I had to say seeped into him
I paused.
"I told them that in the event of a crash , I want them to look through the wreckage and retrieve the nine inch d*ck and put it in my box so I could be identified."
We exploded into a laughing fit .....
..and took off.
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I POSTED THIS ABOUT EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO ON THE ORIGONAL THREAD.
I will take a break from further tales , of which there are many more to come , to indulge in a little reality.
Three years ago.....
I lay on the couch at the Flight Service Station in Mayo, Yukon Territories. I still had my flight suit on as we were on Red Alert whereby we were poised for action. There was a large fire only minutes away. I did not want to fly. I knew something was wrong with my guts. I knew it was not ulcers as I had been initially diagnosed. It was not Beaver Fever as I was now diagnosed. The pain became unbearable.
The bird dog officer came with good news: we were to return to Dawson City and stand down as a fleet of helicopters were on the fire line. I clambered up the ladder of the A26 and fired up both engines in haste , followed by a scrambling take off .... I wanted to go to the small medical clinic in Dawson City ASAP so I left the power at METO and scorched across the blurred landscape at 260 knots indicated. The clinic sent me immediately to Whitehorse where I sought help but there was only one surgeon there and he was busy. Fortunately , he did see me and I discovered how lucky I was. He was an Australian who was temporarily releiving the local surgeon and he saw me after hours. He admitted me immediately for explorative surgery but when I awoke and was clear of the morphine he gave me the bad news. He had removed a tumour from by colon that was clearly cancerous but he said he was amazed that I had survived so long and that I would not have lasted a week as there was four litres of stuff backed up behind the tumour.
Recovery was very painful but his visits showed him to be a pleasant and compassionate man who had clearly saved my life. He was an athletic, 52 year old good looking man and was a favourite amongst the staff. He returned to his home down south as I was released from Whitehorse hospital and shipped south to my home in Chilliwack where I recovered over the next six months only to be subjected to the chemical nightmare of chemotherapy for six months. It was a miricle that the cancer seemed to be beaten and I returned to flying with the help of Transport Canada who gave me a restricted Airline Transport Licence and Fugro Airborne Surveys, who I flew for in the off season. Fugro was both compasionate and generous and had sent me to one of the most respected flight surgeons , Dr Takahashi of Ottawa. His gentle encouragement was a beacon of hope.
I now have a lifetime loyalty to Fugro and that was put to the test in Yellowknife on my way back from Baffin Island a year later. As I wandered throught the hangar at Buffalo Airways I was approached my Buffalo Joe who offered me an immediate job as Captain of a fire-bombing DC4 but loyalty won out. I stuck with Fugro for half the money. Joe was even appreciative of that.
Honour is a man's gift to himself.
A very close friend, Brian, from the Yukon, phoned me one day and was emotional as he told me to check my e-mail. The attatchment was an obiturary of Dr Frank Timmermans , an Australian surgeon previously from Whitehorse. He had died of a brain tumour.
And this man had saved my life.
I'm sorry folks ... I have to collect my thoughts .... back soon.....
Dr Timmermans was one of the most productive, profound, adventurous and compassionate jewels of mankind.
He had sailed around the world and had stopped in Africa to work with people with AIDS. He than went to India to work with people with leprosy and then on to Canada where he went up to the Northern villages to help the native population with myriads of afflictions. He settled in Whitehorse and as I say, became a popular hard working surgeon.
Can you fellow aviators see where my inspiration comes from?
I am blessed.
.
I POSTED THIS ABOUT EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO ON THE ORIGONAL THREAD.
I will take a break from further tales , of which there are many more to come , to indulge in a little reality.
Three years ago.....
I lay on the couch at the Flight Service Station in Mayo, Yukon Territories. I still had my flight suit on as we were on Red Alert whereby we were poised for action. There was a large fire only minutes away. I did not want to fly. I knew something was wrong with my guts. I knew it was not ulcers as I had been initially diagnosed. It was not Beaver Fever as I was now diagnosed. The pain became unbearable.
The bird dog officer came with good news: we were to return to Dawson City and stand down as a fleet of helicopters were on the fire line. I clambered up the ladder of the A26 and fired up both engines in haste , followed by a scrambling take off .... I wanted to go to the small medical clinic in Dawson City ASAP so I left the power at METO and scorched across the blurred landscape at 260 knots indicated. The clinic sent me immediately to Whitehorse where I sought help but there was only one surgeon there and he was busy. Fortunately , he did see me and I discovered how lucky I was. He was an Australian who was temporarily releiving the local surgeon and he saw me after hours. He admitted me immediately for explorative surgery but when I awoke and was clear of the morphine he gave me the bad news. He had removed a tumour from by colon that was clearly cancerous but he said he was amazed that I had survived so long and that I would not have lasted a week as there was four litres of stuff backed up behind the tumour.
Recovery was very painful but his visits showed him to be a pleasant and compassionate man who had clearly saved my life. He was an athletic, 52 year old good looking man and was a favourite amongst the staff. He returned to his home down south as I was released from Whitehorse hospital and shipped south to my home in Chilliwack where I recovered over the next six months only to be subjected to the chemical nightmare of chemotherapy for six months. It was a miricle that the cancer seemed to be beaten and I returned to flying with the help of Transport Canada who gave me a restricted Airline Transport Licence and Fugro Airborne Surveys, who I flew for in the off season. Fugro was both compasionate and generous and had sent me to one of the most respected flight surgeons , Dr Takahashi of Ottawa. His gentle encouragement was a beacon of hope.
I now have a lifetime loyalty to Fugro and that was put to the test in Yellowknife on my way back from Baffin Island a year later. As I wandered throught the hangar at Buffalo Airways I was approached my Buffalo Joe who offered me an immediate job as Captain of a fire-bombing DC4 but loyalty won out. I stuck with Fugro for half the money. Joe was even appreciative of that.
Honour is a man's gift to himself.
A very close friend, Brian, from the Yukon, phoned me one day and was emotional as he told me to check my e-mail. The attatchment was an obiturary of Dr Frank Timmermans , an Australian surgeon previously from Whitehorse. He had died of a brain tumour.
And this man had saved my life.
I'm sorry folks ... I have to collect my thoughts .... back soon.....
Dr Timmermans was one of the most productive, profound, adventurous and compassionate jewels of mankind.
He had sailed around the world and had stopped in Africa to work with people with AIDS. He than went to India to work with people with leprosy and then on to Canada where he went up to the Northern villages to help the native population with myriads of afflictions. He settled in Whitehorse and as I say, became a popular hard working surgeon.
Can you fellow aviators see where my inspiration comes from?
I am blessed.
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It is so very hard to answer this Duke...
I don't think you need to really see one...
But we have said before and will again - you will beat this.
You still have much to tell and many of us here, need you in our own small ways, to experience in your words what we can only dream about...
Onward through the fog..
Rhodie
I don't think you need to really see one...
But we have said before and will again - you will beat this.
You still have much to tell and many of us here, need you in our own small ways, to experience in your words what we can only dream about...
Onward through the fog..
Rhodie
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Thanks for some interesting stories about a side of aviation I have only had some brief encounters with.
I was waiting in Key West one night while my pax were off dining and dancing. ETD was 0300 local or so and I had plenty of time to wander around the ramp and Flight Service like a lost soul. Then a call came in from a DC-6 that was inbound from El Salvador (I think) with one engine out that hadn't feathered. I think they ran one engine so low on oil they had to shut it down, when they found it stuck in flat pitch. As if that wasn't enough trouble, the Cubans had then tried to get them to land on that benighted isle and now they were trying to make Key West.
We all went down to watch when the DC-6 was on finals, quite a while later. A set of real bright lights appeared, followed closely by a large aircraft. It made the midfield turn-off, pulled up on the ramp and then parked by backing up (!) in a blast of grit. It looked about as difficult to park as a VW beetle, actually. That might have had something to do with pilot skill, though.
A lot of little brown guys and one tall Yankee in cowboy boots came down. The Yankee pulled a comb out of a boot, groomed his greasy pompadour and then told us how they went across the Gulf of Mexico at low level with the little brown guys airmailing crates of avocados out the emergency exits. All the little brown guys had that 'thousand yard stare'.
That gave me something to think about. Not least, I always wondered if some shrimper out on the Gulf was surprised by being bombarded with a crate of avocados.
I was waiting in Key West one night while my pax were off dining and dancing. ETD was 0300 local or so and I had plenty of time to wander around the ramp and Flight Service like a lost soul. Then a call came in from a DC-6 that was inbound from El Salvador (I think) with one engine out that hadn't feathered. I think they ran one engine so low on oil they had to shut it down, when they found it stuck in flat pitch. As if that wasn't enough trouble, the Cubans had then tried to get them to land on that benighted isle and now they were trying to make Key West.
We all went down to watch when the DC-6 was on finals, quite a while later. A set of real bright lights appeared, followed closely by a large aircraft. It made the midfield turn-off, pulled up on the ramp and then parked by backing up (!) in a blast of grit. It looked about as difficult to park as a VW beetle, actually. That might have had something to do with pilot skill, though.
A lot of little brown guys and one tall Yankee in cowboy boots came down. The Yankee pulled a comb out of a boot, groomed his greasy pompadour and then told us how they went across the Gulf of Mexico at low level with the little brown guys airmailing crates of avocados out the emergency exits. All the little brown guys had that 'thousand yard stare'.
That gave me something to think about. Not least, I always wondered if some shrimper out on the Gulf was surprised by being bombarded with a crate of avocados.
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I have been somewhat tardy in writing lately mainly due to a daunting event regarding my upcoming date with infinity.
The oncologist sat across the table from me at the Surrey Cancer Clinic and told me his version on my situation.
He told me I was going to die.
Pain management is the next thing for me , he says.
With movements devoid of flourish and with a professional monotone , he explained with the use of graphs and statistics that the general population survived this long if you did this... blah blah blah....this long if you did that....blah blah blah...
I spied the weakness in his arguement right there : I pounced !!
"How dare you include me in the "general population !" says I ... he laughed.
So anyhow , we disagree on when this event is forecast to occur.
I told him I will continue to buy green bananas.
I have been somewhat tardy in writing lately mainly due to a daunting event regarding my upcoming date with infinity.
The oncologist sat across the table from me at the Surrey Cancer Clinic and told me his version on my situation.
He told me I was going to die.
Pain management is the next thing for me , he says.
With movements devoid of flourish and with a professional monotone , he explained with the use of graphs and statistics that the general population survived this long if you did this... blah blah blah....this long if you did that....blah blah blah...
I spied the weakness in his arguement right there : I pounced !!
"How dare you include me in the "general population !" says I ... he laughed.
So anyhow , we disagree on when this event is forecast to occur.
I told him I will continue to buy green bananas.
Over 1000 posts and I bought this Personal Title to try and tell my mother the embarrassing news that I am a closet Jazz fan.
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You've beaten worse odds more times than you can remember dude.
Have faith, we have.
Have faith, we have.
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While I compose another literary symphony please enjoy a post that was made by a very good friend from my past.
We were graduates of the Scheyville Officer Training Unit in the Australian Army.
treefrog
Joined: Dec 18, 2003
Posts: 4
From: Brisbane
Posted: 2003-12-18 18:16
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Got a call from a thousand years ago. On the phone was someone with a phoney Yank accent saying he was Duke Elegant (not his real name!)just visiting Australia and wanted to meet up. Naturally he invited himself for an indefinite period.
Two great days of talking - never let a good story be ruined by facts- and he headed off to the outback for Xmas. The bane of authority, collector of women with extreme cantelever structures and legend in his own lunchtime has mellowed a lot.
If you weren't in charge of him you could not help but like him. He pointed out this forum and going through it, now he heads off to continue with his personal battles, I want to confirm the PNG/Australian stuff is 100% "based on fact" as they say in the movies.
I first met him at Officer Training School back in 67 and for some reason (maybe most of us were heading for flying training although the Army wanted us to be grunts) we were part of a small group who are mates to this day. He was always "in the ****" but extremely popular with the staff and other cadets - because he took the heat off us. I think he had a regular reserved position on the 0500 punishment parades every morning.
He was caught red handed in the cadets mess one evening up on a table doing an impersonation of the distinctive characteristics of the colonel who unbeknown to him was standing off to the side. Anyhow, as he says of his unbelievable luck "If it was raining arseholes I would be hit with a c--t" and the colonel invited him to partner his daughter who was visiting for a dance.
The next morning he was at the colonel's house seeing the daughter off back to university.
Colonel "I chose him to partner you because he dresses so well"
Daughter " And so quickly too."
Duke stayed out of the colonel's way for the rest of the course.
Shortly after the sad period of Barry Mayhew's death so well related by Duke, there was a huge summer ball at the officers mess at RAAF Point Cook. State Governor, mayor, admirals and generals were invited. Duke brought a girl who, if she fell flat on her face would look like a Piper Cub on Tundra tires. Anyhow, the lesser mortals stuffed down the back of the room got sick of foxtrots and waltzes and pooled together to bribe the band (against strict instructions from the base commander) to play some "proper" 60's music.
I seem to recall it was during a Stones number that Duke and the watermelon girl were swinging wildly when he lost his grip and she flew through the air, crashed into the band, displacing the drummer and his gear into a heap over the back of the stage.
Much to the horror of the Governor's wife and delight of the Second Lieutenants our heroine's low-cut dress had exceeded VNE and I think inspired the band (when they finally got sorted out) to launch into "Great Balls of Fire".
All 6 Army Officers, 5 of them completely? innocent, were banned from the Air Force mess for 3 months - thanks mate!
If anyone is interested there are lots more stories - particularly in PNG, Duke might not like to relate himself.
[ This Message was edited by: treefrog on 2003-12-19 18:02 ]
While I compose another literary symphony please enjoy a post that was made by a very good friend from my past.
We were graduates of the Scheyville Officer Training Unit in the Australian Army.
treefrog
Joined: Dec 18, 2003
Posts: 4
From: Brisbane
Posted: 2003-12-18 18:16
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Got a call from a thousand years ago. On the phone was someone with a phoney Yank accent saying he was Duke Elegant (not his real name!)just visiting Australia and wanted to meet up. Naturally he invited himself for an indefinite period.
Two great days of talking - never let a good story be ruined by facts- and he headed off to the outback for Xmas. The bane of authority, collector of women with extreme cantelever structures and legend in his own lunchtime has mellowed a lot.
If you weren't in charge of him you could not help but like him. He pointed out this forum and going through it, now he heads off to continue with his personal battles, I want to confirm the PNG/Australian stuff is 100% "based on fact" as they say in the movies.
I first met him at Officer Training School back in 67 and for some reason (maybe most of us were heading for flying training although the Army wanted us to be grunts) we were part of a small group who are mates to this day. He was always "in the ****" but extremely popular with the staff and other cadets - because he took the heat off us. I think he had a regular reserved position on the 0500 punishment parades every morning.
He was caught red handed in the cadets mess one evening up on a table doing an impersonation of the distinctive characteristics of the colonel who unbeknown to him was standing off to the side. Anyhow, as he says of his unbelievable luck "If it was raining arseholes I would be hit with a c--t" and the colonel invited him to partner his daughter who was visiting for a dance.
The next morning he was at the colonel's house seeing the daughter off back to university.
Colonel "I chose him to partner you because he dresses so well"
Daughter " And so quickly too."
Duke stayed out of the colonel's way for the rest of the course.
Shortly after the sad period of Barry Mayhew's death so well related by Duke, there was a huge summer ball at the officers mess at RAAF Point Cook. State Governor, mayor, admirals and generals were invited. Duke brought a girl who, if she fell flat on her face would look like a Piper Cub on Tundra tires. Anyhow, the lesser mortals stuffed down the back of the room got sick of foxtrots and waltzes and pooled together to bribe the band (against strict instructions from the base commander) to play some "proper" 60's music.
I seem to recall it was during a Stones number that Duke and the watermelon girl were swinging wildly when he lost his grip and she flew through the air, crashed into the band, displacing the drummer and his gear into a heap over the back of the stage.
Much to the horror of the Governor's wife and delight of the Second Lieutenants our heroine's low-cut dress had exceeded VNE and I think inspired the band (when they finally got sorted out) to launch into "Great Balls of Fire".
All 6 Army Officers, 5 of them completely? innocent, were banned from the Air Force mess for 3 months - thanks mate!
If anyone is interested there are lots more stories - particularly in PNG, Duke might not like to relate himself.
[ This Message was edited by: treefrog on 2003-12-19 18:02 ]
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Whenever I was required to fly to company HQ in Ottawa I would use Westjet as they operated out of Abbotsford , a mere thirty minutes away.
This neccessitated a change of aircraft in Calgary.
On one trip I had a need to visit the comfort station. I wheeled my suitcase to the second stall as the first was occupied and then with a lot of clumping and banging I managed to include my suitcase while I performed my dailly ablutions.
I heard a voice from the next stall, "Hi. How are you?"
Well I am not the type to talk to strangers , especially seated on a toilet at the airport , but , rather embarrassingly, I answered, "Well , not so bad I guess"
And the stranger says "What are you up to?"
Talk about a dumb question. I was really starting to think this was a little wierd so I said "Like you I guess I'm catching an airplane"
The stranger says "Look honey! I'll call you back , some arseh*le in the next stall is answering every question I ask you"
He He He He He He
Whenever I was required to fly to company HQ in Ottawa I would use Westjet as they operated out of Abbotsford , a mere thirty minutes away.
This neccessitated a change of aircraft in Calgary.
On one trip I had a need to visit the comfort station. I wheeled my suitcase to the second stall as the first was occupied and then with a lot of clumping and banging I managed to include my suitcase while I performed my dailly ablutions.
I heard a voice from the next stall, "Hi. How are you?"
Well I am not the type to talk to strangers , especially seated on a toilet at the airport , but , rather embarrassingly, I answered, "Well , not so bad I guess"
And the stranger says "What are you up to?"
Talk about a dumb question. I was really starting to think this was a little wierd so I said "Like you I guess I'm catching an airplane"
The stranger says "Look honey! I'll call you back , some arseh*le in the next stall is answering every question I ask you"
He He He He He He
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Dear Duke Elegant
Thank you so much for your writings. I treat myself to a weekly "catchup" on Sundays as I regard the story you are tellng a bit like a favourite book and I want to eke it out to make it last forever!
I realise that your energy for writing might be sapped by feelings of unwellness but please know that whatever you can manage will be greedily read! You have a reading public now, yanno!
Thank you so much for your writings. I treat myself to a weekly "catchup" on Sundays as I regard the story you are tellng a bit like a favourite book and I want to eke it out to make it last forever!
I realise that your energy for writing might be sapped by feelings of unwellness but please know that whatever you can manage will be greedily read! You have a reading public now, yanno!
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I wrote this whilst on my trip to Australia four months ago.
My holiday so far provides me with many moments for reflections and visits to my past. I left my relatives in Brisbane to spend two days with retired Army major Laing K***y and his still beautiful wife. I had written a short history of our acquaintence but it looks like he has beaten me to the punch. I think he faked that speech for the Air Force Association in order to ensure my departure. He did indeed give a speech to commemorate the flight of well know Australian aviator Bert Hinkler who flew a WW1 Avian bomber from England to Australia.
My friend Lang re-enacted that flight a few years ago in a replica Avian and National Geographic followed the whole adventure, and an adventure it was. It is worth exploring the archives of National Geographic for this feat.
I boarded the electric Tilt Train (7 hours Brisbane to Rockhampton) that streaked across some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. I had done this trip 53 years ago by steam train to Cairns and it took two days and two nights and we were filthy with coaldust on arrival. On that journey , my dying Grandmother was taking my brother Dougie and I to live with my stepmother and father that I never knew. I sadly lost both my Grannie and my brother within two years and experienced extreme lonliness that precipitated enrollment in boarding schools thereafter. (stories to follow)
The years have soffened the bitterness of the past and instead of wallowing in self pity , I secured well being with forgiveness thereby forming a true loving bond with my stepmother who I was on my way to visit on this trip. Prior to my Dad's death , I forgave him too and was blessed with the last years of his life.
Well , after a few glasses of wine with my stepmother , the stories started to flow and one name in particular emerged , that of the infamous Dr Eddelstein , a doctor of the Jewish persuasion who has apparently been stripped of his licence to practice a few years ago; I may have helped him lay the cornerstone of his short lived empire.
1969 ... or thereabouts.
SOMETIMES AN AVIATOR HAS TO MAKE SACRIFICES.
My restless soul had been set free by my Army courtmartial.
Whilst plundering the Trans Australia Airlines inventory of air hostesses I similtaenously ran out of money.
Since bullsh*t was the intellectual mainstay of the era I was well qualified to present myself as the catch of the day but first I had to find a job. I secured a job mowing lawns around Coogee Beach from 8am to 1pm and then spent the afternoon surfing. At night I had a part time job in a bar that I expertly fitted to match that of the TAA hostie schedule.
Most of the landscape customers were little old ladies or widows of considerable wealth. , one of whom took a fancy to me. I'd often joked to my friends that my plan was to find a rich wealthy old tart with a
bad cough and put my d*ckie in the till , so to speak.
"Come in for a cuppa" she wheezed. She'd already scrubbed up and bathed in cheap industrial perfume and the tea tray and scones were delicately placed upon the table in the courtyard. I sipped tea under her randy stare as she manouvred for the kill by leaning forward to share the beauty of her breasts that looked like two oranges , one in each foot down at the bottom of a pair of panty hose. She was certainly a leading cause of erectile dysfunction so I stammered moronlike but to no avail. I was scared .. I had to flee somehow ....so I did the honourable thing and bleated, " I'm a poofter ... er ..I'v got a date tonight ... er ... gotta go ... he's such a bitch when I'm late." So I quickly gathered the tools and fled to the waiting truck where my mates howled with laughter .. they knew she was as toey as a roman sandal and had set me up.
More to follow .. over!
I wrote this whilst on my trip to Australia four months ago.
My holiday so far provides me with many moments for reflections and visits to my past. I left my relatives in Brisbane to spend two days with retired Army major Laing K***y and his still beautiful wife. I had written a short history of our acquaintence but it looks like he has beaten me to the punch. I think he faked that speech for the Air Force Association in order to ensure my departure. He did indeed give a speech to commemorate the flight of well know Australian aviator Bert Hinkler who flew a WW1 Avian bomber from England to Australia.
My friend Lang re-enacted that flight a few years ago in a replica Avian and National Geographic followed the whole adventure, and an adventure it was. It is worth exploring the archives of National Geographic for this feat.
I boarded the electric Tilt Train (7 hours Brisbane to Rockhampton) that streaked across some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. I had done this trip 53 years ago by steam train to Cairns and it took two days and two nights and we were filthy with coaldust on arrival. On that journey , my dying Grandmother was taking my brother Dougie and I to live with my stepmother and father that I never knew. I sadly lost both my Grannie and my brother within two years and experienced extreme lonliness that precipitated enrollment in boarding schools thereafter. (stories to follow)
The years have soffened the bitterness of the past and instead of wallowing in self pity , I secured well being with forgiveness thereby forming a true loving bond with my stepmother who I was on my way to visit on this trip. Prior to my Dad's death , I forgave him too and was blessed with the last years of his life.
Well , after a few glasses of wine with my stepmother , the stories started to flow and one name in particular emerged , that of the infamous Dr Eddelstein , a doctor of the Jewish persuasion who has apparently been stripped of his licence to practice a few years ago; I may have helped him lay the cornerstone of his short lived empire.
1969 ... or thereabouts.
SOMETIMES AN AVIATOR HAS TO MAKE SACRIFICES.
My restless soul had been set free by my Army courtmartial.
Whilst plundering the Trans Australia Airlines inventory of air hostesses I similtaenously ran out of money.
Since bullsh*t was the intellectual mainstay of the era I was well qualified to present myself as the catch of the day but first I had to find a job. I secured a job mowing lawns around Coogee Beach from 8am to 1pm and then spent the afternoon surfing. At night I had a part time job in a bar that I expertly fitted to match that of the TAA hostie schedule.
Most of the landscape customers were little old ladies or widows of considerable wealth. , one of whom took a fancy to me. I'd often joked to my friends that my plan was to find a rich wealthy old tart with a
bad cough and put my d*ckie in the till , so to speak.
"Come in for a cuppa" she wheezed. She'd already scrubbed up and bathed in cheap industrial perfume and the tea tray and scones were delicately placed upon the table in the courtyard. I sipped tea under her randy stare as she manouvred for the kill by leaning forward to share the beauty of her breasts that looked like two oranges , one in each foot down at the bottom of a pair of panty hose. She was certainly a leading cause of erectile dysfunction so I stammered moronlike but to no avail. I was scared .. I had to flee somehow ....so I did the honourable thing and bleated, " I'm a poofter ... er ..I'v got a date tonight ... er ... gotta go ... he's such a bitch when I'm late." So I quickly gathered the tools and fled to the waiting truck where my mates howled with laughter .. they knew she was as toey as a roman sandal and had set me up.
More to follow .. over!
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One day I spied an ad in the morning paper looking for a pilot so I submitted a resume and was surprised when I was called for an interview at a medical clinic. There were two other candidates amongst the patients and I could tell by their watches that they were Air Force. I found out that one was a Hercules pilot and the other a Caribou pilot so I had little chance and jobs were scarce. I was rewarded with disdain when they learned I was an ex Army aviator but I was called in first. There conducting the interview was the pudgy little Jewish Doctor Eddelstein. who was about my age.
"I'd wager that he was not successful in squiring the ladies." thinks I as I cunningly devised a plan to secure the job which entailled flying a doctor in Eddelstein's employ from Walgett to Lightning Ridge every day in a Piper Arrow.
The interview was going OK when I purposfully let it slip that I lived amongst the hosties and they would be unhappy at missing the rogering roster of the Duke and sure enough he blurted out that the job involved regular trips to Sydney and he giggled excitedly as he imagined himself as the Dukes right hand man in the art of the hostie romp.
The tide had turned in my favour for sure.
He tried as he might to entice me to take the job, "I have a Lambourgini ... and,..and ... a flat at Coogee Beach," he blubbered. I let out some more line and then "Well now! What about pay?" says I.
I was cockly now as I tapped into his uncharacteristic generousity. I had aced the job , and, as I strode out past the two Air Force professionals I proudly suggested that they piss off and maybe they should take my lawn mowing job.... and especially the address on Oceanic ... he he he..that of the old tart.
It was a slack job and suitable quarters were hard to find in Walgett but I secured a dusty, noisy little flat furnished with a matress and some boxes upon which was a radio.
The doctor who worked for Eddelstein was none other than Dr John O'Gorman , an ex Australian Wallabies rugby player with a cute Mexican wife Juanita.
I'd fly him to Lightning Ridge every day to a clinic manned by a tough, non ladylike , hairy legged nurse who cut and polished opals out the back of the clinic. Most people lived underground in a room hollowed out in their opal mines to escape the heat. It was a wild place governed by the code of the west thereby providing a steady supply of wounded miners at the surgery.
There were occasional charters out to Western Queensland for sheep and cattle agents and the landing areas were usually dried salt pan lakes. And hot! Bloody hot! Rough air, dry thumping air.
Back in my Walgett flat one evening I recieved a phone call from Dr John. "Come up to the house," he invited , "we are having a party. "
In polished riding boots and mock oilskin pants I arrived at the house and was led in to a very small party. Three people, all pleasantly drunk, the doctor, his wife and a stunningly beautiful blonde lady in a fur coat.
"A little better setup than the old trollop in Coogee." thinks I.
The ladies wanted to dance so I obliged. And close too...much to my pleasure as the lady cuddled up and cooed in my ear. The docs child was at a baby sitter so they retired early for a bone session leaving the godess sighing contentedly as she pawed over my pantherlike body.
"Take me to the pub for some excitement," she said tongue exploring my ear. I couldn't refuse but I warned her of the ruffians and wild clientelle downtown in that grotty bar but she remained steadfast.
The place went silent as we entered , the dashing dandy and the countess in the fur coat.
I looked about .. we were the only ones not wearing a large hat ... and we certainly were the only ones with a full set of teeth.
There were sheep shearers, railway men , labourers who humped wheat all day and lots of abbo's.
The barmaid asked if we were in the right place as the mumbling turned to smart comments with learing stares. The abbo's stirred and moved closer for a better look.
I strutted confidently and answered "It is indeed my sweet" as a blush swept over her twenty pound face.
The white wine we were served was an affront to the civilized world.
"You look nervous," my temptress whispered,my Tzarina, "I like excitement." At this she glided in front of me and slowly opened her fur coat .. just for me.
Lord Thunderin' Jesus .. there is a GOD!
Naked. Starkers. Heavenly .. pert little ski jump titties .. like little puppies noses .. tight curly blonde well manicured bush...
I had impure thoughts.
We left breathlessly for my little flat in the Jaguar ....
We bent our backs to the passionate strains of the night.
We were having breakfast from the menu of the Karma Sutra when I spied the time ... "Hell! I exclaimed, "I have to fly a charter in fifteen minutes and the customer pick up is in Coonamble" ... I dressed in a blur. It sure didn't take her long to dress now did it?
On the way to the airport she 'fessed up that she was married and that her husband had cheated on her and her mission was to punish him.
Successful mission I'd say.
I was caught in the crossfire but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Oh! The sacrifice.... an Aviators life can be hell.
I did a quick walkaround and entered the cockpit of the Arrow with my petite, delicate bird perched upon the wing making sure I spied the lily. I waited for the regular F27 to land and it taxiied in and the steps were rolled up to the door down which came the passengers.
"My God!," she exclaimed "my husband". And down the steps came the large ex Wallaby rugby player , now a famous lawyer in Sydney.
I half pushed her off the wing towards the Jaguar , started the airplane engine and ever so gallantly , I fled.
One day I spied an ad in the morning paper looking for a pilot so I submitted a resume and was surprised when I was called for an interview at a medical clinic. There were two other candidates amongst the patients and I could tell by their watches that they were Air Force. I found out that one was a Hercules pilot and the other a Caribou pilot so I had little chance and jobs were scarce. I was rewarded with disdain when they learned I was an ex Army aviator but I was called in first. There conducting the interview was the pudgy little Jewish Doctor Eddelstein. who was about my age.
"I'd wager that he was not successful in squiring the ladies." thinks I as I cunningly devised a plan to secure the job which entailled flying a doctor in Eddelstein's employ from Walgett to Lightning Ridge every day in a Piper Arrow.
The interview was going OK when I purposfully let it slip that I lived amongst the hosties and they would be unhappy at missing the rogering roster of the Duke and sure enough he blurted out that the job involved regular trips to Sydney and he giggled excitedly as he imagined himself as the Dukes right hand man in the art of the hostie romp.
The tide had turned in my favour for sure.
He tried as he might to entice me to take the job, "I have a Lambourgini ... and,..and ... a flat at Coogee Beach," he blubbered. I let out some more line and then "Well now! What about pay?" says I.
I was cockly now as I tapped into his uncharacteristic generousity. I had aced the job , and, as I strode out past the two Air Force professionals I proudly suggested that they piss off and maybe they should take my lawn mowing job.... and especially the address on Oceanic ... he he he..that of the old tart.
It was a slack job and suitable quarters were hard to find in Walgett but I secured a dusty, noisy little flat furnished with a matress and some boxes upon which was a radio.
The doctor who worked for Eddelstein was none other than Dr John O'Gorman , an ex Australian Wallabies rugby player with a cute Mexican wife Juanita.
I'd fly him to Lightning Ridge every day to a clinic manned by a tough, non ladylike , hairy legged nurse who cut and polished opals out the back of the clinic. Most people lived underground in a room hollowed out in their opal mines to escape the heat. It was a wild place governed by the code of the west thereby providing a steady supply of wounded miners at the surgery.
There were occasional charters out to Western Queensland for sheep and cattle agents and the landing areas were usually dried salt pan lakes. And hot! Bloody hot! Rough air, dry thumping air.
Back in my Walgett flat one evening I recieved a phone call from Dr John. "Come up to the house," he invited , "we are having a party. "
In polished riding boots and mock oilskin pants I arrived at the house and was led in to a very small party. Three people, all pleasantly drunk, the doctor, his wife and a stunningly beautiful blonde lady in a fur coat.
"A little better setup than the old trollop in Coogee." thinks I.
The ladies wanted to dance so I obliged. And close too...much to my pleasure as the lady cuddled up and cooed in my ear. The docs child was at a baby sitter so they retired early for a bone session leaving the godess sighing contentedly as she pawed over my pantherlike body.
"Take me to the pub for some excitement," she said tongue exploring my ear. I couldn't refuse but I warned her of the ruffians and wild clientelle downtown in that grotty bar but she remained steadfast.
The place went silent as we entered , the dashing dandy and the countess in the fur coat.
I looked about .. we were the only ones not wearing a large hat ... and we certainly were the only ones with a full set of teeth.
There were sheep shearers, railway men , labourers who humped wheat all day and lots of abbo's.
The barmaid asked if we were in the right place as the mumbling turned to smart comments with learing stares. The abbo's stirred and moved closer for a better look.
I strutted confidently and answered "It is indeed my sweet" as a blush swept over her twenty pound face.
The white wine we were served was an affront to the civilized world.
"You look nervous," my temptress whispered,my Tzarina, "I like excitement." At this she glided in front of me and slowly opened her fur coat .. just for me.
Lord Thunderin' Jesus .. there is a GOD!
Naked. Starkers. Heavenly .. pert little ski jump titties .. like little puppies noses .. tight curly blonde well manicured bush...
I had impure thoughts.
We left breathlessly for my little flat in the Jaguar ....
We bent our backs to the passionate strains of the night.
We were having breakfast from the menu of the Karma Sutra when I spied the time ... "Hell! I exclaimed, "I have to fly a charter in fifteen minutes and the customer pick up is in Coonamble" ... I dressed in a blur. It sure didn't take her long to dress now did it?
On the way to the airport she 'fessed up that she was married and that her husband had cheated on her and her mission was to punish him.
Successful mission I'd say.
I was caught in the crossfire but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Oh! The sacrifice.... an Aviators life can be hell.
I did a quick walkaround and entered the cockpit of the Arrow with my petite, delicate bird perched upon the wing making sure I spied the lily. I waited for the regular F27 to land and it taxiied in and the steps were rolled up to the door down which came the passengers.
"My God!," she exclaimed "my husband". And down the steps came the large ex Wallaby rugby player , now a famous lawyer in Sydney.
I half pushed her off the wing towards the Jaguar , started the airplane engine and ever so gallantly , I fled.