I didn't write this, but about twenty years ago, I could have...

Ask any military strategist which soldiers have the best training and they’ll tell you, “the ones with combat experience”. Find yourself in need of surgery and one of the first things you’ll ask is “how many of these surgeries have you completed successfully?” But what about flight?

Against all logic, when someone in the world of aviation finds themselves in need of pilots, the first thing they ask is “how cheap will you fly?” In response to this strategy, the only people that bother to interview are 300-500 hour pilots fresh out of a 141 robot pilot school. This is how you end up with doomed cockpit recordings that include the open and sad admission of the pilot’s fear of and inexperience with weather of any type. Yet even this wouldn’t be so tragic if it wasn’t for the fact these pilots are usually flying with at least fifty people behind them. But it's hard to blame the pilots. They are merely following the industry and being knowingly placed in bad positions by management and flight schools that are all too willing to take advantage of them until someone dies. So how then does a pilot get real, blood chilling, palm sweating, and “I can’t believe I lived through that” flight experience? I have a suggestion: cargo.

One block of ten years ago, on any given thunderous summer night or snow chilled morning, you could find me flying along in some refitted 1930’s people mover hauling car parts to various strange airports in far away countries; Newark and Detroit City come to mind. There, hidden in the darkness of some rusty remote of the field, amid the humid smell of oil mixed with dirt, could be found the real professors of aviation. Their names, mostly forgotten now, included everything but Boeing and Airbus. Sadly, and in unbelievable swiftness, models known to all at the turn of this century have been relegated to museums or smelters. Thus in similar fashion, dust gathers on the wings of experience and fire burns away the evidence that pilotage, as much as design, carried these frames through the years. Where once these machines lived easily to sixty, today thirty is a stretch. And with the short life cycle comes a quickening; the speed at which quality is lost to quantity and skill is forsaken in the name of market share.

Back then controllers had skill too. I remember one in particular who was sitting comfortably in his chair, staring at monochrome monitors, and sipping coffee, or so it was imagined. There on that that night over East Texas, a crew of two, myself included, confronted a common problem; where to punch through. Like so many other infinitive nights, in the tanks was eight hours of fuel for a planned seven hours of flight. Ahead two firmly defined lines of squalls moved eastward as the glowing prop tips screwed us toward our northeast destination. Confronting the controller was a growing back log of diverted and red eye airline flights that simply could not find a good way through. It was a bad night. Tornados were reported everywhere, everything was claimed level five and with each internal illumination of a cell, transformers could be see exploding out from under the shadow of one ugly line of crap. With each blue arc, the question gained weight. How do we get through?

Sitting comfortably in his chair, but asking questions, it was clear to us the controller needed the same answer.
Behind us, attached to the cockpit door of “140” was a sign. Around its border, silver tape that once held it fast now had the look of bark. Brittle, wrinkled, and flaking off, the tape itself had become one with the door and in that time, the sign it held had grown into the structure like fencing into a tree. There, its bright red letters with black background spoke volumes; “Beware of Dog” it said, and any pilot worth his salt took pride in it.

Every field, study, or organization occasionally finds itself in need of people who are willing to get the job done. When these times exist, the first people everyone looks to are those who are expendable, willing to work in the rain, take some punches, and push the rules to the extreme limits of their viscosity. Why? When the temperature gets hot, the pressure rises, and tolerances must be held, the ability to keep your wits and hold together is a necessity or you’ll fail with a bang. In aviation, these people are known as “Freight Dogs” and on this night, a controller sitting comfortably in his chair spotted the one green dot he needed and asked an all too familiar question, “Nobody’s going through, would you be willing to test it out and tell me how it is?”

In response, both of us instantly laughed so hardily that the trash bags draped across our legs fell to the floor. Heck, this was like asking Fido if he wants to chase cars and his question, a mere formality, had been cleverly crafted to acquire the response he needed. In return, we asked for permission to turn in any direction in a certain block altitude and headed for the weakest spot in the line. Using the ADF needle as a strike finder and observing what we could with our eyes, an agreed upon point of no return was found and into it we went.

Almost immediately, static discharges erupted from our machine and the smell of ozone pervaded the cockpit. The radios went next. Nothing but static could be heard and the increasing rad iance of St. Elmo’s fire on the prop tips urged us to brace for a coming strike never did. Looking back, it would have been nice to have merely been popped by a bolt from above because not long after the static receded, BAAM, BAAM, BUUUAAAAM we hit turbulence. Now I’m not talking about Delta’s definition of turbulence that is classified as a pea under the mattress. I’m talking about the “I can’t believe I lived through that” type that thankfully disappeared as quickly as it came. Yet despite its severe brevity, it served a clear purpose; to trumpet the arrival of another level of hell.

And sure enough the hell, no that’s hail, came and from inside the metal skin that had survived war, passenger service, and decades of cargo before us, what seemed like a thousand hammer blows per second, on the cockpit alone, made me question which parts would make it home intact. Then in an instant, it too was over. Breaking out the other side of this line left us alone in a valley of fire smack dab between two mountainous ridges of squall lines defined by constant overlapping lightening. From outside of these lines, no one dare enter. And from inside the empty theater, we didn't dare exit. Above were the stars and below the street lights and there we flew, our speed and direction matching perfectly to the forward motion of the lines. When asked how it was, we responded that “it was fun but we don’t think it would be a good idea for anyone else to try it.”

Sometimes in aviation you need a few expendable strays to get the job done and on that night that’s what happened. Then as soon as one of us realized we’d probably be in the clear for the entire flight, we decided to flip a coin. If the looser was still awake enough, he would keep flying us toward home. The winner? Well he got to go to the back, string up the hammock, and sleep (I’ll leave it up to you to decide if this is true or not).

That’s how it worked; you were a pack. You looked out for each other, taught each other, fought the good fight together, and when all was said and done you were better pilots for it. Admittedly in cargo you never start out with the nerves or knowledge to handle this kind of stuff, but in the end, if you survive, you've gained it and with only you or your partner's life on the line, not fifty or more paying passengers. That’s why when I’m asked about learning to fly, I am unable to suggest a 141 school. I’m just not sure how a 172 in Florida can replace this experience.

JD,
Well done, now days decisions are made in commitee's of suits who have less time in the business than most of us have aligning our navs.
I will give them credit for succeeding in usurping the authority of the professional aviator and spawning a new breed that manages an aircraft from thousands of miles away with a modem and a desktop computer crammed full of logistical software.
The truly sad part of it is the contempt you see in their eyes when you challenge their collective authority, their only defense when confronted with their deadly errors are, "we didn't violate federal regulation".
The bottom line is the putrid state of our nations air transportation system, it is the sum of their misguided, incomprehensible and illogical management and regulatory efforts.
The nuerotic methods that are regulating and managing our aerospace have culled the brilliant minds that forged our industry. To paraphrase Gordon Bethune, "now days you are only as good as your dumbest competitor". I used to cringe at the decisions that came down the pipe but now I just shrug my shoulders and laugh.
I am convinced that when this crisis comes full circle there will be oppurtunity for future Rickenbackers, Six, Trippes, and Hughes' to pick up the pieces and start over. They will need that freight dog spirit.
Lord, have mercy on us until that day comes.

Great posts guys.

I just finished reading a book I picked up at a garage sale titled "Tiger Tales", which is the story of the Flying Tigers freight operations, and company history. Most of the book is made up of quotes from the people doing the job, and is a compelling and very real narative. Freight dogs all.

As an ex aerospace guy I am just sickened by this computer game approach to aircraft design and flight operations which seems to have gripped the industry.

My BIL is a United captain flying '67s. He started out flying bush out of prudhhoe. He has been cheered and applauded by passengers a number of times when getting on the ground during "impossible" situations. He cannot and will not be replaced by any computer.

We have to have PILOTS!

RG

Yep I agree.

Stepping up to soapbox uninvited!

Once more an example of some mba (does not deserve upper case) OR MA/MS IN MANAGEMENT knowing so much more than some dumbass pilot with 5-10,000 hours.

"After all in school they told us that . . ."

"They" had a PHd and had never done anything, but go to school and learn management theory and write paper about, "How It Should Werk".


Stepping down off of soapbox and putting on the Nomex!

You won't need the Nomex here.

I watched incompetent management destroy Southern Air Transport, one of the most unusual airlines that ever existed. They lost sight of who was out there, dealing face to face with clients and doing the dirty work, so they imploded.

I have no idea about the "new" Southern Air, a 747 outfit out of Windsor Locks. They are apparently hanging in there.

Greed, arrogance and stupidity drove SAT into it's grave. I was fun while it lasted.

I am afraid that there are going to be more.If you guys want to see the pinnacle of greed and incompetence take a look at Glen Tilton the chief F/up in charge at my airline.

Wonder what they have to say about the other sched carriers????
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5YGc4zOqozo
This one is too much. He really nails them!