Quarterdeck Lessons

By David Reed

When you’re young, in your very early twenties, and in the United States Navy, you learn to deal with a lot of boredom when standing a watch on the quarterdeck. This is where sailors leave from, and come onto, the ship when

it’s tied up to a dock. There are always three people on watch on the quarterdeck- the Officer of the Deck (OOD), usually a Chief Petty Officer or Junior Officer. What the OOD says, goes. He has the final word on who can and cannot cross his Quarterdeck. Next is the Petty Officer of the Watch. Usually, an E4 or E5 Petty Officer, he gets to carry this very heavy .45 Semiautomatic pistol all the time in a holster. It’s fully loaded, per regulations. Finally, there is the Messenger, a junior ordinary seaman. The Messenger usually runs and gets coffee for the OOD and the Petty Officer.

So, we’re in a foreign port, tied to the dock. I am on the 8 PM to Midnight watch on the Quarterdeck as the Petty Officer of the Watch. Lots of guys (two thirds of the crew, actually) have gone ashore for some evening fun down by the beach bars. It’s been pretty quiet so far. It’ll get busy later when they all come back drunk. We drink a lot of coffee, do a lot of standing about in our dress white uniforms. Around nine o’clock a young fireman, some young junior apprentice, comes up, starts babbling on and on about some nonsense. We all just stand there, staring, listening, not moving. I mean, what can you say? Finally, he walks away. We exchange glances and go back to drinking our coffee.

 Around ten o’clock, a car pulled up quickly on the dark pier below. It’s some local guy it turns out, who really doesn’t like the US Navy being here, and he is so full of alcohol he’s ready to tell us what for. He staggers out of his car, yelling obscenities in his own language at the Messenger who had gone down to the trash dumpster on the dock for a minute. All three of us are like, “what the hell…?” Then he starts coming up the gangway, a big guy, full of piss and vinegar, screaming at us. By pure reflex I find my hand on the gun handle, getting a good grip. Holy crap.

 The man starts yelling at the OOD in the local language, who yells back and holds up his hand for him to stop, but the man keeps coming, angry, yelling. I’m thinking to myself in a blur, what am I going to do? Do I draw on this guy? No, don’t draw unless you’re going to fire, I think; that’s what someone said before. My hand grips the gun handle tighter; it unconsciously eases out an inch. Suddenly he’s near the top, still screaming at us. I’m looking at the Chief, then back at the man, my eyes rapidly moving left and right. My hand wants to pull the gun out now! I fight the urge; still, it rises another inch. I unconsciously take a stance, slightly sideways, feet apart, just like we do at the range. I’m thinking to myself, Stop. Please stop. Stop yelling, stop threatening! I feel the steel gun trigger on my index finger; The voice in my head is yelling silently, “Pull it out! Cock the slide back! Point it at him! Don’t wait!” With every bit of my being, I resist, but I can sense that is about to change at any moment. Get ready, get ready, get ready…

 The angry man pauses near the top, one step from the top rung, still yelling, screaming, making threatening gestures with his fists and his whole body as he does. He’s very, very emotional! I’m very, very scared shitless! I’m so scared I’m in fully automatic mode now, finger firmly on the trigger, keeping the gun barely in its holster. I’m thinking, “I’m gonna have to shoot him, I’m gonna have to shoot him…” I know now what my next move is.

He looks at me, back to the Chief, yells a few more things, then starts to back-up, down the steps. Even as he begins to back up, I’m still in hair-trigger mode. Finally, I start to breathe again.

 The angry man gets back in his car and speeds off. We all stand there, me with a firm hold on that gun handle still. The Messenger comes running back on board. I broke the moment by saying something like, “Damn! I almost shot that guy!” The Chief smiled at me, chuckled. He says to us finally, “It happens sometimes in ports like these. You don’t shoot him unless he steps on board. Then you can shoot him.”

 “Well Chief, I damn near did.”

  He let’s out a deep sigh, then we watch the taillights disappearing. Hand still trembling, I very, very carefully remove my fingers one at a time from the weapon, and put the flap back over it. We go back to leaning on the railing. I lean back against the table, stare out into the darkness, heart pounding in my chest. We all just stand there for a minute, nobody saying anything. Then just like that, everything was normal again. Calm, quiet discussion about what happened. More coffee, please, Mike. I consider the fact that this man didn’t have a weapon in his hand; was unarmed as far as I knew. I could have just knocked him down to the deck and held him until the Master-At-Arms showed up. But when there is a gun strapped to your hip, and a man is screaming at you from eight feet away, that’s not what you’re thinking. You’re thinking this gun is going to protect you. Stress has a way of making you take the easy way out. Yet, I will forever remember that, for one terrifying moment, I held this man’s life in my trembling gun hand. For just a very few moments, a complete stranger stood on the brink of violent death, with my finger on the trigger of his eternity.

 It was these thoughts that ran through my mind every time I stood another watch on that Quarterdeck. Life and death decisions. His life; his death. We stare into the abyss, not knowing what’s coming in the next minute, blissfully unaware. Tonight, though, I have learned an important lesson: There are things that will come out of the abyss at you, terrifying you, forcing you to make hard decisions fast, decisions that can cost someone their very life. When you’re twenty-something, life is all about lessons.

 

Late One Night

By David Reed

 It's 1985 and I find myself in north Florida fresh out of the Navy and with the flimsiest of flying jobs. I am 31 years old, and hopeful; I just couldn't hardly pay the electric bill. I wasn't sure this flying idea was going to work at all.

The people I worked for, this couple, they had a really nice airplane, called a Beechcraft Baron 56TC. In the small airplane world, it's a rocket built like a tank. The business was called Capricorn Aviation because the owner was into astrology. Now, we had this contract with some other business that, if one of their airplanes broke down, we'd fill in for them. Didn't happen very often, but when it did, I could pay part of one bill.

One Saturday night, everyone is gone to the party restaurant, while I'm finishing up at the airport, the on-call guy. That's means no drinking, you. I'm sitting in this small trailer, doing paperwork, when the phone rings. It's the boss, Mrs. Fletcher, at Bennigan’s.

"Sunstrand wants us to take some stuff down to Orlando Executive, Kale Aviation. It's coming to the airport, be there in maybe ten minutes. Take the Baron if you want."

First thing I do is file a flight plan. Here to Orlando Executive Airport is less than an hour, plenty of gas, get on the desktop and file it. Second thing was something else. See, there was this girl, Karen Fisher. She was working on her private pilot license thanks to dear old Dad's money, and I was her instructor at Capricorn Aviation. Flight plan filed, I next called Karen on her cell phone. She answered. I told her what I was doing and "...if you want to go along, you gotta be here in like ten minutes."

Shot in the dark for me, for sure. I never thought for a second she would show up. For one thing, she was only like 18 years old and it was a Saturday night. Still, if she wants to seriously become a pilot then this is a great opportunity. Or not. As I'm pre-flighting the Baron, this car comes racing up, screeching to a dusty halt a few feet behind the airplane. Holy cow, it's Karen! I'm......speechless.

We shared a smoke, then sure enough this little truck pulls up and hands us a small box. Off we went, flying in clear skies down to Orlando Executive Airport. In about 45 minutes (too soon- Karen was always a funny girl to be with) we landed, taxied to Kale Aviation. Some guy in a small truck took the box and we were done.

I showed her where we get free coffee in the crew lounge. I sat in a big Lazy-Boy chair, so nice! Suddenly she's sitting in the chair too, wiggling in with me. I froze of course, not a clue what to do next. We rocked back and forth a little, then got up. Ended up just walking out to the airplane. I suddenly remembered I hadn't filed a flight plan home, but the skies were clear and warm, so the heck with it, we'd just go by ourselves. We started up, taxied that beast of a machine out and took off for home. The sound of those two big engines is beautiful indeed.

Soon as I leveled off at 3500', Karen turns to me, headset on. "Wanna play a game?"

"Uh, um, ok..." I said, not sure what to expect next from oh-so-good-looking Karen. A full moon lit up the sky behind her. She leaned over, said into my ear without the microphone, "I'll kiss you, but you have to let go of the controls while I do. See how long we can go."

Yes, my eyes were as big as saucers. I'm kinda laughing, holy cow! I paused. Wait, ok, eighteen is legal, right? But this night, the hormones won in a landslide victory. I said, "Ok, sure!" She took out her gum, leaned over. I moved my microphone away, let go of the wheel and she proceeded to kiss me. I watched the panel out of the corner of my eye, as the 'other thing' was happening between our lips. Talk about distracted! As the airplane started to tilt, I stopped kissing, righted it back to level, and presto. We went right back at it again.

Second time, I'm just really, really enjoying this. But seriously, who wouldn't be? When I start to reach for the control wheel again, she instead grabs my hand and presses it firmly against her right breast. What airplane? I nudged the right rudder with my toe a little, helping things stay put. Our passionate moment lasted just a few, several, ok, many seconds. Finally, we stopped, I landed with this huge grin on my face. We went our happy, separate ways.

Then a day or two later, a job suddenly popped up that I just couldn’t afford to refuse. A week later I left Jacksonville. Never saw Karen again. But Karen, I sure do remember late one night with you. 💕

Dispatch Fuel

I'm a thirty four year old airline captain at a small regional airline in Minnesota. It's been a long time getting here, and I'm happy to be here. I'm just not a fan of these Minnesota winters, when the temperatures drop far, far below freezing. I fly to different cities in the upper Midwest five days a week. This evening I'm standing at the window to dispatch. The dispatcher is a young handsome guy, with two young & attractive assistants on ether side. He says, "Oh yeah, 5819 to Appleton," like he was reading it, slowly. "Boy, when that earlier flight cancelled, all their passengers got rebooked onto your flight. Computer does that automatically, you see. So you're full, thirty three adults. Green Bay is your alternate, right babe?" The girl on his right giggled, "if you say so!" He hands you your dispatch release form. You glance past all the figures and notes and check the fuel line. 2200 pounds. I looked up at him, eyes squinting in my best Clint Eastwood squint. "twenty two hundred pounds? You have got to be kidding me?" 

Hey quickly replies, "Hey, Green Bay is close and works as an alternate, so twenty two hundred will work. Now, I got other flights to dispatch here..." and he swings around to the girl on his left, inspecting closely what she has, which is way more interesting than what I have.

I head out, tell the fueler to make it 2400 lbs. I'm flying with Mike Kaminski tonight. Younger than me (who isn't?), he's good at the job. He's recently married so he's pretty quiet. I guess most newlyweds are, as the reality of what they just did sinks in. Together we get all set to go in our cockpit. All 33 passengers, hands clenching coats tightly, begin boarding in the cold, windy darkness. Finally, doors closed, engines started, We taxi out to the nearest runway. Getting all preparations done like a two-man symphony, in minutes we are accelerating down the runway, then banking sharply right over downtown Minneapolis, turning back east towards Wisconsin as we climb slowly into the icy darkness above.

The bit of tailwind along the way is helpful. We get near Appleton just over an hour later. The weather is reported as at landing minimums, in blowing snow. Oh great, we arrived in the middle of a freakin' blizzard. Now, the only way into Appleton is on the approach to the west runway, which means flying to the airport, then past the airport seven miles, turning around and flying the approach back in. This all takes time and fuel. We hit that electronic glidepath all configured for landing and right on speed. We tracked the electronic glidepath and course needles carefully down on the autopilot, right down to 100'. Nothing. Not even a runway light. We can't go below 70' so I disconnect the autopilot, pitch up while adding full power. "Bleep! Bleep! Bleep!" Three bleeps indicate the autopilot is off. Flaps up, gear up, we quickly climb upward into the snow. 

With the landing lights on, the snowflakes look like millions of white streaks, like when Star Wars goes to ludicrous speed. It's been our constant view for almost twenty minutes now. Mike calls Green Bay approach and tells them we need to fly the ILS over there at Green Bay. They give us a vector for the approach to the southwest runway. This means flying a few minutes to Green Bay, then seven miles beyond, turning around again and flying the approach into Green Bay. This is burning up a lot of fuel. We are listening to the weather on the second radio (Sky obscured, one half mile, blowing snow wind blah blah bad) while reconfiguring the navigation radios on both sides, getting the autopilot back on and answering Mike's checklist callouts. Somehow we get it all done in time and again we find ourselves inbound on yet another instrument approach. Throughout the last hour my eyes are looking at the fuel gauges. Technically, to go from Appleton to Green Bay and have legal reserve we need 1200 lbs of fuel. That's 600 pounds per side. Which ain't much on those gauges, but it's exactly what we had when we started over to Green Bay. But wow, those gauges are way down there.

We get turned around northeast of Green Bay, fly the approach to runway 24, right by the book. 200'. Nothing. 100'. Nothing. Crap! Autopilot off, pitch up, full power, begin to bring the flaps and gear up. The control tower says "Flagship 5819, contact Green Bay departure now." Mike switches to departure. Time for an executive decision. Oh do I hate this. "Departure control says, "Flagship 5819, state your, uh, intentions?" 

"OK, tell him we want to do the approach again." Mike does and I think the guy could tell from Mike's voice that we were seriously jammed up. We're on reserve fuel now, forty five minutes and counting down, that's a gallon every ten seconds. An honest to God Come to Jesus moment this is, but my mind is too busy to even know it yet. They bring us back around, flying this big rectangular pattern in the sky, back to the approach. On the way I lean over and discussed it with Mike. "OK," I said, "Here's what we'll do. At seventy feet I'll disconnect the autopilot, pitch up just a little and reduce power just a little and we'll fly it right on where the glideslope meets the runway. Then we'll stop using the course needle to keep straight." Mike said, "Yeah, ok, the runway's covered in snow, so it should be soft enough..." And in a minute or two we were turning in on the approach. Again. It's now almost nine pm. Star Wars madness races past in front of us. Deep breaths. "Stay calm ," I tell myself.

Same as before. Everything steady, very stable. I'm holding the control yoke in my left hand, feeling everything it's doing, my nerves sensing what it needs to keep her steady. My hand is sweaty but I keep a firm grip, trying to be one with the airplane. Mike calls out, "Five hundred above," then "Minimums," then "One hundred." A moment later I disconnect the autopilot. "Bleep bleep bleep!" I pull a bit of back pressure with my left arm while my right hand eases the power levers back some. Then......... Woomph! She touches down nice as can be on the soft snow. I put the nose down, carefully work to keep the nose pointed straight, watching the course needle still. Into reverse, we slowly begin to lose speed, then we're down to taxi speed and we both breathe a deep sigh of relief. I then taxi slowly to the left, looking for a runway light. We find one, go to the next, then find a taxi light and turn there. slowly we creep along the taxiway when suddenly the ramp lights appear, the terminal appears, and the blizzard stops. Blizzard gone. Sky clearing. You have got to be kidding me.....