Airplane Story by Maurice Bourne


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Airplane Story by Maurice Bourne

Courtesy of Maurice Bourne, a one Legged Air Commando, then a Crop Duster.
Edited by David Barth 30 August 2013.

The sun had slipped away.
And this unique night was to become a formidable enemy.

I was banging along in a high-wing Piper PA-18 Super Cub, less than 100 feet above the ground, the rain pelted hard against its worn fabric skin, then poured into the cockpit from the windshield's edges.
In a matter of minutes, the temperature dropped 25 or so degrees. And the darkening low overcast was now ragged and boiling in weird-shaped waves.

As I blundered into the darkening desert, I was following an asphalt road I pretty much knew like the back of my own hand.
Still, it was a little disconcerting in in the way the scrub seemed to be reaching up to grab me down into the dirt.
I never should have launched out!
I had not even bothered to check the weather.
And I was unaware that a cold air mass had been imprisoned up on the arctic ice by an anomalous fluke of jet stream. The super-cold air was finally was swept off the ice pack . . and pointed toward the Texas Rio Grande.

I was now flying right into the teeth of that 'Blue Norther' as it slammed into the warm, moisture-laden air of the Gulf of Mexico.
Busy with routine problems of my day crop dusting, I'd just climbed into my old airplane and headed out.
Slowly, it occurred to me . . that only a fool would be sitting 'up here' . . on such an awful night.
BUT there I was!
Staring into the lightning-slashed darkness. Getting knocked around all over the place by the swirling currents. And my hand began to squeeze the Super Cub's stick's grip . . fit to kill.

"WHAT AM I DOIN' UP HERE?"
I'd been flying airplanes sensibly for years. BUT this was the type of insanity that got pilots killed. I had badly hurt myself leaping out of a crippled combat airplane in Nam . . so . . I KNEW THIS SCENARIO!

As I tried to stay clear of the swirling low overcast, keeping the airplane's greasy side down in mounting extreme turbulence, I desperately searched for a spot . . . . TO PUT THIS 'THING' DOWN!

Only because I was familiar with the area, my 'brilliant idea' had been to stick like a leech to that curvy, black top road I was keeping a handful of feet below. On both sides of the road the country was unpopulated brush country. To make a forced landing, any significant distance from the road, would have been like tossing the airplane into the vacant ocean.
But as the darkening violent weather became worse, I knew I was going to have to stick the airplane DOWN . . Very soon.
My fear was about equaled by disgust in my having blundered into such a losing . . no-win situation. The 'real pilots' like Chuck Yeager with steely eye, would have pulled off something heroic, now. They would've landed safely in a farmer's barn yard, then graciously accepted the farmer's invitation to join in the family at dinner, attended by a beautiful daughter, looking at her hero with star-glazed eyes.
But not me.
I was a 'tramp' crop-duster pilot, Scared to death and cold-soaked in icy water violating the edges of a leaky cockpit.

I just wanted . . . 'on the ground!'
Because I knew the country well, I knew there was a 200 foot high radio tower, about five miles ahead . . 100 yards off the asphalt's East edge.
The thick storm was approaching from the black top's West edge.
Closing in fast.
I was forced to zig-zag around the bursts of rain and dark fingers of cloud. But then found myself on the same side of the road as that radio tower. Somewhere immediately ahead.
The airplane plowed deeper into dark torrents congealing in its path, and I struggled with truly rough air.
Without much warning, the black showers morphed into almost solid rain water.
My airborne time was nearly gone!
It was very dark. I knew I couldn't allow myself to lose visual contact with the ground, just a handful of blurry feet away, for more than one maybe two seconds.

The Super Cub wasn't rigged for blind flying. It only had a badly-calibrated fluid compass - plus an occasionally functioning airspeed indicator.
I also knew now, that like it or not, this airplane would soon be on the ground.
But as the pilot, I resolved, if necessary, to fly the thing all the way into the desert dirt rather than being LATER described as:
. . 'SOME DEAD JERK - WITH A TERROR-SHOCKED LOOK ON HIS FACE WAS FOUND STRAPPED UNDER A SEAT BELT IN A CRASHED LIGHT PLANE'S PILOT SEAT.'
So . . I bit down the panic rising in my throat. And I pressed very slightly lower. And began a shallow right turn away from the radio tower. Quickly glancing over my shoulder, I saw complete black had swallowed me from behind.

Any choice for a 180 degree turn to evade had been snatched away.
The cautious shallow turn, took me back over the narrow, hilly, twisting road with telephone wires crowding its shoulder.
Nearly as bad . . gale force cross-winds made it impossible to ' pull off ' any successful landing on the road.
I abandoned my plan of getting the airplane on the ground without wrecking it.
My goal now was to get the airplane on the ground, and still be able to walk out and find a telephone. I had rather take my chances of going into the random mesquite trees . . than attempting to 'stick it' on the road - in that fierce cross wind.

My only plan now was to roll out of this turn, directly into the gale, then just stall the airplane out into whatever 'the black' could toss at me.
While bumping around up there, I'd said a prayer. It was very humble . . and to the point: "Lord, I know I'm the biggest jackass You've ever let live. And I promise I won't keep asking You for these little favors.
But could You help me out just one more time, please?"

Perhaps He agreed . . 'cause when I slid back over the road, a lacy net-work of bright lightning revealed a long open path where bulldozers had recently scratched out a jagged right-of-way.
I ruddered the airplane's nose to where it needed to be, chopped power, and I dove for that jagged space in the dirt.
My airspeed was way . . TOO HIGH!

But worse . . V-E-R-T-I-G-O! . . GRABBED ME BY THE THROAT.
I lost all visual reference outside the airplane.
My last intelligible thought, was that I was drifting too fast to the left.
And I jammed the airplane into rough alignment with my brain's last image of that crude bull dozer cut.

Then I struck . . H-A-R-D!
And while driving the Super Cub into the unforgiving dirt slash, the airplane didn't even flare. It ricocheted like a hockey puck, then caught a freak vertical wind shear line trying to flip us inverted. So, I slammed the throttle to the firewall.
Too late. It was crashing.

There was nothing left for me to do. So I just sat in there, under the belt, in the steel tubing cage, as the airplane destroyed itself against the roughly-carved dirt and broken rocks.
On the second impact, the right landing gear folded and tried to come up in the cockpit, just as the dying airplane pivoted as the Super Cub's right wing plowed into newly-cut tree stumps.
Effortlessly, the wing folded back . . like it was on a hinge. The engine mount collapsed. And I could feel its steel tubing wrapping itself around my one good leg . . as the aft fuselage rotated around as it buckled . . absorbing the final momentum, just as the engine tried to rotate under my body.

I sat there, not thinking about much . . watching the 'lightning show.' Then I slowly realized, with the engine's abrupt silence . . that my new world was noisily roaring in the thunderstorm's frenzy.

As I wormed my way out of the wreck, I heard scatter-shot hail drumming against the wiped-out Piper's cloth-covered wings.
My probing hands discovered only minor traces of gore . . then my body trembled as the icy gale made itself known across goose bumps on both bare arms.
But . . I was A-L-I-V-E!

I stopped, for a moment, and glanced back at the twisted hulk. Maimed and tiny in the gloom.
I raised my eyes to the tormented, screaming night storm . . and I sincerely prayed: "Thank you, Sir!"

Maurice Bourne