Texas – Part Five
Fortunes, Misfortunes, and Strokes of Luck
In 1968 the nation was on fire. The military was in the death grip of a vicious and deadly war in Vietnam, while here at home countless violent protests and demonstrations were decimating college campuses and several large cities. Lyndon Baines Johnson, finally beaten down by the incessant drumbeat of rebellion to his policies and disloyalty in his own administration, announced that he would not seek, nor would he accept, his party’s nomination for reelection.
In late August, amidst a plethora of devastatingly destructive and violent anti-war and civil rights demonstrations in some large cities, the Democrat Party held their National Convention in Chicago. Mayor Richard Daly, determined that his city would not fall prey to the violence and destruction that had descended on other big cities like New York and Los Angeles, deployed 12,000 city police and 15,000 state and federal officers to maintain order on the streets in and around the convention center.
Inevitably, within a few hours thousands of protestors marching in support of Senator Eugene McCarthy, a committed anti-war presidential candidate—while at the same time demanding the complete withdrawal of U.S. troops from Vietnam—clashed with a multitude of baton-swinging and teargas-lobbing law enforcement officers. Total chaos quickly ensued. In the melee, not only were the demonstrators severely beaten and gassed, but so were newsmen and medical personnel sent there to tend to the injured.
Inside the hall it was not much better. Political supporters of Senator McCarthy lodged a challenge against the faction supporting the war. The loud and raucous debate between the two groups suddenly intensified and quickly spiraled out of control. Fistfights broke out and delegates and reporters were knocked to the convention floor. Mayor Daly, a staunch supporter of the war, stood and yelled obscenities in the direction of the dais and had to be physically restrained by his group of burly bodyguards.
Eventually order was restored and the delegates committed to then Vice-President Hubert Humphrey—whose platform was to maintain the status-quo—won out. He went on to win the Democrat nomination for president and ran unsuccessfully against the Republican candidate, Richard Nixon.
All of this turmoil, including the bloody war being waged overseas and claiming dozens of active duty personnel of all services on a daily basis, was completely lost on…well, me. I don’t recall ever worrying or losing a minute of sleep about suddenly receiving orders sending me to some exploding airbase in Vietnam, or being called up and shipped out to quell a riot in some flaming city like Philadelphia or Dallas.
Thinking back on those days I recall that the three main areas of concern on my mind were, (1) taking and passing the Civil Service Air Traffic Controller Exam (which I was scheduled to take in July); (2) taking and passing my Single Engine Land Private Pilot Exam; and, (3) selling enough shoes to finance my flying activities.
To me, the Vietnam War, to which I had lost some of my dearest and most beloved friends, was nothing more than annoying background noise in the daily hub-bub of my otherwise complicated life. During my duty days at Bergstrom, when not building or striking tents and radar equipment or policing up cigarette butts and chewing gum wrappers, all my crew could talk about was how so-and-so just got orders to go to Danang, or what they would do if one of them got called up to go to ‘Nam. ‘Man, I would just shit if I got those orders…’ seemed to be the most popular response among my crew—immediately eliciting vacant-eyed head-nodding and a few random ‘fucks’ here and there.
“How ‘bout you, Sarge?” they would occasionally ask me. “What the fuck would you do if you got orders to go to ‘Nam?”
“I don’t have time to go to ‘Nam or anywhere else,” I would casually respond. “Too fucking busy working and flying. Besides, I get out in December. Last I heard they ain’t sending short-timers over there.”
“Shit, sarge, you’re one lucky bastard. Plus, you ain’t no lifer, are you?”
I put down my flight training manual, which I carried with me in spite of being ordered not to. “Well, considering the Air Force has been poking me with the short end of the stick for almost eight years, I think the smartest thing I can do is to get out and seek my fortune elsewhere.”
“Fuck, you got it made, Sarge. In a few months, you gonna be flying some cool airliner and making all kinds of money while most of us are gonna be getting blown up in ‘Nam. Fuck.”
“Nobody here is going to ‘Nam. By the time the Air Force figures out who we are and where we’re at, we’ll all be civilians. Take my word for it.”
***
I finally made that phone call to the Federal Aviation Administration at the Austin Airport in early July, and spoke to a nice lady who claimed that she didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about getting hired to be an air traffic controller. She instead suggested that I call the Civil Service Commission and ask them. After asking for and getting the number, I hung up and did just that.
When I made that next phone call I was told that it just so happened that the FAA had just opened up testing for several options within the air traffic control (ATC) field, and that they (the Civil Service Commission) were presently administering entrance exams for various ATC options. I was then asked if I was interested in taking the ATC exam. I immediately said yes.
After giving my name, address, and social security number, I was told that within a few days I would be receiving a series of forms in the mail. Once they received the completed forms I would be notified of the next examination date. Before I terminated the call, I asked if there was something I should study to prepare myself for the exam. I was told that it would be better if I came to take the exam totally unprepared.
The exam lasted eight hours: four hours in the morning, then thirty minutes for lunch, followed by another four-hour session in the afternoon. We were given no other breaks except individual bathroom breaks. There were about thirty people taking the test, and as was typical for the era we were all male. The test was divided into four parts—three of which seemed to me to contain questions of a psychological nature.
For example, one question in the first section asked which newspaper headline would interest me the most: one announcing a national rise in interest rates, or one stating that a mad, rapist killer was on the loose. I chose the gory headline, of course. All of the questions were in a hypothetical format, such as—if this or that happened to you or a loved one what would your response/action/feelings be?
Another section tested one’s ability to predict logical number and/or letter patterns—such as: 1-2-3-4//1-2-3-4-5//1-2-3-4-5-(fill in the next logical number). Of course, the sequences were much more complex, consisting of series of numbers, letters, and shapes. We were also shown drawings of three dimensional shapes such as cubes, triangles, and circles, and were asked to pick the correct depiction of its two-dimensional shape.
The third section consisted of simple time and distance problems. I assumed this section had more to do with air traffic control than any of the others. The last section was made up of several nonsensical narratives. Following those there were about twenty true-false, and multiple-choice questions, asking for the reader’s interpretation of the foregoing narratives. Since I hadn’t really understood what the narratives were talking about I was at a loss on how to answer the questions. Ultimately, I decided to answer each question with the first thing that popped into my head.
By the time we were done with the exam and released around five in the evening I was mentally exhausted. My head was spinning and I actually thought about stopping somewhere and imbibing in a few adult beverages before heading home. But I had promised Mr. Sims that regardless of what time the exam was over, I would come in and work at the shoe store.
The results of my ATC Exam came by mail about two weeks later from the Civil Service. I had scored a 95 percentile, plus five points added for being a veteran (since I was still in active service they took into consideration my first four-year enlistment) for a final score of 100 percentile.
The accompanying letter advised that my name had been placed on the Air Traffic Control Register as a potential selectee for the Flight Service Station option. On my test day we had been briefed that the Air Traffic field consisted of three options: (1) Tower/Approach, (2) Enroute Center, and (3) Flight Service Station. If our test scores were successful, our names would be placed on one of the registers representing each option. The higher the test score, the lower our names would go into the sequence—and that was a good thing, as the FAA drew potential candidate names from the bottom of the list.
Also, our names would not necessarily be placed onto the individual registers according to our scores, but according to the agency’s current need. Thus, if the FAA needed more employees in the Enroute option rather than the Flight Service option, then the name and score would be entered into that option. So basically, it was a crap shoot.
When I read that I’d been placed on the Flight Service Station register (FSS) I was perfectly happy. That career field consisted of providing pilots with preflight weather briefings, airport information, and disseminating NOTAMs (Notice to Airmen), and advising of air traffic hazards along routes of flight. What they didn’t do was actively control air traffic; that is, assign routes, altitudes and control flights via radar. And I was just fine with that.
As a fledgling pilot, I had experienced more face time with Flight Service personnel at the various airports I’d flown into than with the air traffic controllers in the towers. It was there that I filed my VFR flight plans and got my weather briefings, so I was thoroughly familiar with what the FSS did and not so sure what the tower controller did when they weren’t barking at me on the radio. So in that regard I was comfortable that, if/when my name came up and I was hired, I would be able to do the job.
The letter also said that the starting salary grade of an FSS employee was as a GS-6 (Government Scale 6). Although I wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, what I was sure about was that it had to mean that I’d be earning more money than what I was earning in the Air Force.
While the receipt of the letter from the Civil Service was a relief to me and Kaz, I knew that it was not a guarantee of future employment by the FAA. There were just too many variables. First, there had to be existing vacancies in the career field that I’d been placed in; second, since names for vacancies were selected from the bottom up, and new names with higher scores were continually being added to the bottom of the list, there was always a chance that my name would never get low enough on the list to be picked.
Knowing that the odds of my being selected anytime soon were long, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I still had about five months left in my current enlistment anyway. If somehow the FAA appointment didn’t come through I would go on with my flight training—with the hope that I could continue to fund it by working long hours at the shoe store.
Over coffee one morning I happened to mention my taking the FAA exam to Sergeant Kent. At first, he seemed a bit shocked—carefully putting his coffee mug down on the steel-topped table before coaxing a fresh Marlboro out of a half-empty pack with a few taps on the heel of his hand.
“FAA ATC test, huh?” he asked, striking a small wooden match and lighting the cigarette bouncing between his lips as he spoke. “And here I was thinking, (long drag)…you were going to re-enlist so you could continue to take your flying lessons and maybe sew another stripe on your sleeve. You’re due for a nice promotion to technical sergeant soon.” He leaned back in his squeaky armless office chair and tilting his head back blew a billowing cloud of gray-white smoke up into the dead air of our tin-roofed building.
“Well, no. I know we haven’t talked about it too much, but after what the Air Force has done—or not done—for me, I don’t see much of a future staying in.”
He chuckled, tapping his cigarette’s gray ash into the small silver ashtray already filled with this morning’s butts. “Well, to me it looks like the Air Force has done quite a bit for you already. I doubt the shoe store would let you take off every day to get the amount of flying time that you’ve accumulate for the last few months…and continues to do so.”
“Yes, you’re right. Let’s just say a career in the Air Force just doesn’t fit into my future plans.”
Since Sergeant Kent was what the grunts on my crew would describe as a “lifer”, I decided that that was no way I could ever make him understand what I’d gone through for the last eight years, or what I envisioned my future to be. I looked at my watch and decided that it was time for me to gather up my crew and take our first morning walk around the building in our never-ending hunt for stray gum wrappers and discarded cigarette butts.
***
The second letter from the Civil Service Commission arrived in late September. As I looked at the white envelope, my name and address peeking out from the clear cellophane window, I wondered if I could’ve been selected for assignment so soon. If so, this was going to be a disaster. I was still in the service and not scheduled for discharge for another ninety days, and there was no way I could accept a position now. Maybe if they delayed my assignment for another three months, I thought hopefully, and even then, it would be a bit dicey—depending, of course, on where the Flight Service Station for which I’d been selected was located. Anywhere in Texas would probably work, but what if the assignment was out of state—way out of state? The back of my quickly drying tongue began to sense the bitter taste of bile.
“Well? Are you going to open it to see what it says?” Kaz’s inpatient voice startled me.
“Huh? Oh…sure…yeah. Let me see what it says.” I hastily tore open the end of the envelope and carefully pulled out the folded stationary.
As I read the first few lines my heart sunk. The news was worse than I’d imagined. In part, it read:
“…and as a result of our recent reassessment and revision of the current Federal Aviation Administration’s Air Traffic Controllers’ Placement Examination, we have readjusted your final score of 95% (which includes an award of 5 points for your military service), to 105%, again including the 5 point military veteran bonus.
“Because of your readjusted score, your name has been removed from the Flight Service Station Specialist Option register (FSSS), and placed on the Air Traffic Control Specialist Option (ATCS) register.
“Please note that the Agency will select candidates for ATCS positions based on the numerical score achieved on their exams. Thus, candidates with higher ranking scores will be eligible to be selected before those with lower scores. To improve your chances of being selected earlier you may reconsider retaking the exam.
“Congratulations, and we wish you success in your future endeavors.”
Kaz, taking note of my slumping shoulders and disappointed demeanor asked, “What does it say? Is it bad news?”
“Yes.” I said simply.
“What happened?”
“My name was removed from the Flight Service Station option register.”
“Why? Why would they do that?”
“Because of my score on the test.”
“Was it too low? I thought you said it was a ninety-five percent plus the 5 points for your veteran’s service!”
“Well, it was. But now it’s been readjusted to a one-hundred and five percent.”
She cocked her head and looked at me quizzically. “OK, I don’t understand. Why they take you off the list if your score went up?”
“OK, this is what happened. Apparently because the test was so hard they were having a lot of people fail. Many of those who failed filed a lawsuit saying the test was unfair and too difficult to comprehend, so the Civil Service Commission revised the test to make it easier. So to make things fair those of us who took the original test, we had our scores reevaluated and re-scored based on the easier test. So, my score went up—and when it did the score was too high for the Flight Service Station Option. Now they’ve moved my name to the Air Traffic Control Option.”
“Oh. Is that bad?”
“Well, I had my heart set on being a Flight Service Station specialist because I feel that I’m really suited to that job. I don’t want to be an air traffic controller because I just think that’s too technical of a job. Besides, I don’t really know what they do.”
“But don’t you talk to them when you fly from the airport?”
“Yes, but besides giving me permission to take off and land I don’t know what else they do. I know the job the flight service guys do because I see them when I file my flight plans and talk to them when I get my preflight weather briefings. I know I can do that job. I don’t know about the controllers though.”
“So, now what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I guess I could call the Civil Service Commission and ask that my name be moved back because I don’t want to be a controller.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. Want me to go get the phone book?”
“No, I know the number. I think I’m going to call them now.” And I reached for the phone.
After speaking to several different people, I was finally transferred to a lady who was in charge of testing. After listening to my plea, she curtly informed me that there was absolutely nothing that could be done for me.
“If, and when, you get notice from the FAA that you’ve been selected as an ATCS candidate”, she said in a light Texas drawl, “you can then refuse the appointment. But until then honey, there is nothing that I, or anyone else, can do. Besides,” she added, “you do know that controllers make more money than FSS specialists, don’t you?”
“Well, with all due respect,” I said, “I don’t really care about the money. I just want to be successful in the FAA—and I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a controller.”
“You never know, darlin’, you just might end up surprising yourself. You really scored high on the test sections that relate to air traffic control, so my suggestion would be to accept the appointment when you get called and go from there. Then if after a while you don’t like it or you think you’re not going to be successful in the training, you can ask for a transfer to the FSS option. The trick is to get your foot in the door, don’t you see? Tell you the truth, it ain’t easy getting hired into the FAA so if you are, I’d take full advantage of the opportunity.”
“OK, thanks for your help.” I said, a bit disappointed as I hung up. I turned to Kaz and told her that we’d just have to play the cards we’d been dealt.
An Air Force Surprise
Since my solo flight in September I had been extremely busy—well, busier than normal. Our squadron had been asked to step up training and several of our lower-ranking airmen had already been shipped out to Vietnam. Because I had to train the new replacements, my workdays started to take a toll on my mid-day flying as we sometimes worked right through our lunch.
At the same time, Mr. Sims had decided that we should all tune up our salesmanship techniques in order to set some sales records during the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday season. I didn’t mind the extra money, but because I wanted to be sure to be ready to take my Private Pilot’s certification prior to my upcoming Air Force discharge, I begged off coming in to work early on Sunday mornings and scheduled myself to fly two to three hours in order to make up for my lost weekday flying sessions.
When I wasn’t flying or selling shoes, I was hitting the books to make sure I could answer whatever questions the Check Ride pilot decided to ask whenever I went up for my pilot’s exam.
One sunny morning as I drove onto the base to start my duty day, I decided to stop at the administrative building to check my mail. I didn’t do this very often as most of my mail was normally delivered to our home, but as I approached my mail slot I saw that there was a large official-looking manila enveloped stuffed into it.
I pulled it out and saw that it had been mailed from Air Force Headquarters in Washington D. C. I quickly assumed it had something to do with my upcoming discharge so I didn’t open it right away. Starting my car, I noted that I was still a bit early for my shift so I grabbed the envelope from the passenger seat and ripped open the seal.
Orders! The envelope contained three identical sets of orders reassigning me for twelve months to Kotzebue, Alaska—a remote radar station located on the far northwest coast of the state. My assignment was to begin on February 3rd, 1969, and I was being granted home leave the entire month of January. My whole body turned cold and my mouth turned as dry as sand.
For a few moments, all I could think of was having to leave my wife—again—and having to spend another year of my life in loneliness and isolation.
Then…my brain came to! WAIT!! They can’t send me anywhere in February, my mind screamed out. By then I’m a goddam civilian and completely out of the military. Because I had served two full enlistments they couldn’t even make me join the fucking reserves! No way!
I balled up my fists and banged on the steering wheel of my little red sports car, trying to blow out the tension that had instantly built up in my body.
I rammed the stack of paper back into the envelope and pushed myself out of my car, heading towards the stairs of the administrative building. By God, I thought, I’ll be talking to someone about this shit…and right now!
Re-entering the large marble-floored lobby, I re-traced my steps back to the mail room. I knew that somewhere in that complex of offices and cubicles there had to be an administrative officer, and that’s who I needed to speak to.
After a few minutes of walking I finally found the offices that housed the administrative personnel attached to my wing. I cautiously opened a door and stepped in.
A young airman in full dress blues was sitting behind a desk in an area that I assumed was designated to be reception. Since I outranked him I didn’t worry too much about being diplomatic.
“Hi, I need to speak to someone about a set of orders I just received in my mail box.”
“OK…uh…Sergeant DeLeón,” he said, scanning the name embroidered above my right breast pocket, “what is it you want to know?”
“It’s complicated. I need to speak to an administrative officer.”
“Well, if I know what it’s about I could probably point you in the right direction.”
“OK, I just got these orders in my mail box—sending me to Kotzebue, Alaska, on a twelve-month remote assignment, and it just so happens I won’t be able to go.”
“Can I take a look at them?”
I handed the envelope over to him. After pulling the orders out and reading through them he looked up at me and said, “These all seem to be proper. Besides, they come from USAF Headquarters in Washington, D.C. so, they’re legit.”
“They may be legit, but I won’t be able to go.”
“May I ask why not?”
“Sure, my enlistment ends on December 15th, so I will be a civilian by February.”
“Oh….in that case let me go talk to the first sergeant and see what he says. Let me take a copy of these orders if you don’t mind.
“Sure, here you go.” I pulled the first copy from the stack and give it to him.
I didn’t have long to wait. A few minutes after the airman disappeared behind a door after knocking and being admitted he came back out, still carrying the set of orders in his hands. He looked at me a bit sheepishly and said, “The sergeant says he can’t do anything about this and that the orders are correct. You’ll have to be in Alaska on February 1st.” He stuck the set of orders out for me to take.
Resisting my first impulse to bitch-slap the airman’s sheepish little grin smack off his face, I instead quickly regained control of myself and asked simply, “OK, could I just talk to an administrative officer, please? I’d like someone, preferably an officer, to look me in the eye and tell me that as a civilian I am duty-bound to obey Air Force orders.”
He slowly lowered the sheaf of papers and looked around. “Well, I guess I could see if Lieutenant Rainwater is available.”
“Lieutenant Rainwater?”
“Yes, he’s just a junior officer—a first lieutenant—but you won’t need to make an appointment with him. He’s usually not too busy. You want me to check to see if he’s available?”
“Yes, please…” I said, resisting the urge to clench my teeth. He turned and quickly walked away and into a maze of small office cubicles.
Finding his way back in a couple of minutes, the envelope and my orders gone from his hand, he said, “The lieutenant will see you now. He’s studying your orders. Follow me.”
I walked behind him, and finally arrived at a small cubicle where a tall, thin, blond-haired officer sat. He was studying my orders intently.
“Sir. Sergeant DeLeón to see you.”
I snapped to attention and popped a smart salute. Without looking up, he half-heartedly returned my salute.
“Good morning, sir. Sorry to bother you with this so early in the day.” Again, without looking up from the stack of orders he motioned me to a metal chair sitting next to his desk. I sat down, keeping my back rigid and off the back of the chair.
“So,” he finally said, “you say you think these orders are not official?”
“No sir, they are official; and I’m sure that the Air Force has all intentions of sending me to Alaska next February. That’s not the problem.”
“He looked up and for the first time looked at me. “Well then, what is the problem?”
“Well sir, as I explained to the airman when I first came in, I am due to be separated from the Air Force in December, so by the time these I’m supposed to be in Alaska I’ll be a civilian.”
“Oh…” He turned in his chair to face me fully. “So, you’ve already put in your paperwork for a December discharge?”
“Yes sir, I have.”
“And, when do you become active in the Air Force reserves?”
“I won’t be in the reserves, sir.”
“Sergeant DeLeón, you have to serve at least two years in the reserves after your discharge—you know that, right?”
“Yes sir, but I’m completing my second four-year enlistment and I won’t have to sign up for the reserves.”
“Oh! I didn’t know that. Well now, that puts a little different spin on this. Have you discussed this with your commanding officer?”
“No sir. I just received these orders today. They were in my mail slot when I arrived to work this morning.”
“I see. Well…”
“Sir?” He was back to studying my orders intently.
“OK, well I don’t see what can be done about this. These orders originated from Headquarters USAF, in Washington—so normally nothing can be done.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means that legally you’re bound to obey these orders. No one in this command can change or abridge these orders.”
I looked at him and wanted to say something, but nothing would come to my mouth that didn’t contain a vile curse word.
He looked back at me and smiled—sheepishly.
I stood up and retrieved the packet and the manila envelope from his desk. “Well sir, just so you know: Respectfully, I have no intention of obeying these orders next February. So I guess the Air Force will just have to come find and arrest me for being AWOL.” I stood up and looked around his cubicle, finally seeing what I was looking for. “May I sir?” I asked as I pointed.
“Uh, yes…sure.” He said, probably not sure what I was talking about.
I took a couple of steps and dropped the packet into his trashcan. I turned, saluted, and without another word, quickly exited his cubicle.
As I walked back out into the hallway, I was surprised that I wasn’t being pursued and apprehended by a pair of burly Air Force policemen. I made it to my car and headed in the direction of my squadron, not sure what was going to happen to me the following February.
Private Pilot SEL (Single Engine Land)
September and October flew by for me. Besides putting in many hours at the shoe store during those cool fall evenings, I was fine tuning my flying skills for my impending pilot certification by piling up as many hours as I could during my lunch time and on weekend mornings. By the end of October, I had accrued well over thirty hours in the Cherokee’s cockpit by executing what seemed to be hundreds of touch-and-go landings at Bergstrom, and making tedious round-robin flights to San Antonio, Hondo, Galveston, College Station, Houston, and Dallas.
After a couple of final flights with my instructor a few days before, during which he ran me through the various types of landings and maneuvers which were required for certification, we reviewed procedures for engine out; did various landings such as, short field; soft field; cross-wind, and tail-wind. He made me perform accelerated and inflight stalls, and even gave me thirty minutes of instrument flying—my outside vision obscured by a hood resembling a welder’s mask. Having completed the exhausting process to his satisfaction, he pronounced me as fit and ready to take the written and flying exam.
The day finally arrived: Thursday, November 21, 1968. It was a sunny, cloudless day, the temperature reaching a moderate 79 degrees as I pulled into the Aero Club parking lot. I noted that both of the Cherokee 140 airplanes that the club owned were there for me to choose from for my flight from Bergstrom to Austin Mueller Airport. I chose my favorite of the two, tail number, N8438R, hoping that because I had done so well in that particular airplane, my pilot certification would also go well.
Just before I walked out to pre-flight my airplane, I noted that my pilot log book showed that I had accumulated a total 43.2 hours in the air. As I turned onto to runway 35L, and introduced full power for my take-off roll, I felt that maybe another ten hours of flight instruction might’ve been nice even though my flight instructor had congratulated me for having so few hours.
After having mostly flown in and out of Bergstrom during my training, with its ten-thousand-foot long and three-hundred-foot wide runways, Austin Mueller Airport looked woefully small. As I turned final, I was cleared to land on runway 35, which was 5,006 feet long and 150 feet wide. I wasn’t sure that was enough concrete for my type of landings. Surprisingly, I did just fine and after I touched down was able to easily turn left onto the first taxiway. I glided to a smooth stop on the tarmac in front of the General Aviation Building as I had been instructed.
Having safely secured my airplane, I entered the grey, low-roofed building and walked up to the briefing counter and waited until the attendant finished filling out a completed flight plan.
Finally, he looked up at me. “Yes, may I help you?”
“Yes, hi. My name is Frank DeLeón, and I’m here to take my Private Pilot exam.”
“Sure. Just a minute. You do have an appointment, right?”
“Yes, I was told to arrive at 1PM, and to check in when I got here.”
“OK, just a sec. I’ll see who’s the check pilot assigned to you.” He turned and started to walk away—then he quickly looked over his shoulder. “What was the last name?”
“DeLeón.”
“OK.”
I looked around the large room and noted that it resembled the Bergstrom Aero Club. Lots of maps, a radio chattering in the background, pilots coming and going—some being debriefed by their instructors—and a hint of aviation oil and gas in the air.
A gruff voice caught my attention. “Say, you the student from Bergstrom? DeLon?”
“Yes, DeLeón.” He was tall and tanned, muscular, probably in his late forties, and was wearing khaki pants, and olive drab cotton shirt, under a thin brown leather flight jacket. Perched on his head was a tan baseball hat with the name, “JACK”, embroidered on the front. He stuck a beefy hand out.
“I’m Jack! Jack Webb, and I’ll be your check pilot today.”
My blood froze. In the sixties, Jack Webb was a famous television actor who played a dour, business only, detective in New York in a series called, Dragnet. He was known for never cracking a smile, and his famous, go-to line, while interrogating suspects, was always, “Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts!” He delivered that line through a cloud of cigarette smoke swirling from the Lucky Strike which was constantly glued to his lips.
“Oh…hi…” I managed to stutter out.
“Yeah, but just remember—I’m the real Jack Webb—not that god-damned goofy-ass actor!” He said, punctuating his little joke with a resounding slap on my back.
“Yeah, OK…” I said, still a little terrified.
He motioned for me to follow him as he walked toward a small office. On an old wooden desk, I saw a small sheaf of papers. “Here,” he said, “sit here and take this written test. If you know anything at all about flying you’ll be able to finish this in about ten minutes. Let me know when you’re done. There’s a pencil there.”
I sat down and looked at the first page. “OK.” I said.
As he walked out, he looked over his shoulder and said, “And don’t cheat. Just because there’s all that shit on the walls of my office doesn’t mean you get to look at them!” Then he slammed the door shut.
As terrified as I was, I wasn’t about to even look at anything other than the papers in front of me. I figured he’d pop in just to see if I was cheating. (Just the facts, ma’am. Just the facts.)
***
He graded my test, which had consisted of weight and balance problems, meteorology, CG (center of gravity) calculations, and my knowledge of navigational aids and VFR chart symbology interpretation. After making several marks on my paper he announced to no one in particular, “You aced the damned thing! Now let’s see if you can fly as well as you take paper tests!”
He watched me as I began to preflight my airplane then abruptly said, “OK, you just flew this thing over here from Bergstrom so if there wasn’t anything wrong with it when you landed an hour ago there shouldn’t be anything wrong with it now. Let’s go punch some holes in the sky!”
He did pay very close attention to me as I read off each item on the checklist on pre-start, start, and taxi-out. Since I wasn’t very familiar with this airport he pointed out an area just short of the active runway where I could do my run-up and magneto checks. Before I knew it we were in the air.
“OK,” he said, as I trimmed the aircraft for climb out flight. “You’re gonna do me some dead-reckoning navigation now, so climb up to sixty-five hundred feet and plot me a course to Hondo, Texas.”
I leveled the airplane at altitude and re-trimmed for level cruise flight. After leaning out the fuel mixture for maximum cruise I took up an initial heading of two-hundred and ten degrees (south-south-west) for Hondo. “I’m setting a two-ten heading until I can plot a more direct course to destination,” I told Jack, who seemed to be distracted by the beautiful flat brown and green Texas landscape.
“Uh-huh,” he said, still looking out his starboard window. “When you figure that out, tell me our time enroute, and our fuel burn. Don’t forget to figure the winds into your calculations.”
“I won’t.” I said, a little insulted that he’d think I’d forget that. I found Hondo on the sectional and folded the map so it would fit on my half-sized clipboard. Within a few minutes I had plotted a route direct to Hondo and had calculated the time enroute.
“Looks like a heading of two-one-three degrees at this altitude, and one-plus-ten enroute (one hour, ten minutes).”
“How you gonna know you’re on course?”
“Well, there’s a water tower depicted on the chart here,” I pointed to a small figure on the chart, “so on our course it should be just off to our right in about five minutes.”
“OK, how about highways?”
“No real large highways, but there’s a main road from San Antonio to Hondo…” I looked out my window and spotted the highway. “So that should help in keeping me on course.”
“Providing you don’t run into a cloud layer, right?”
“Yes sir. As a VFR pilot I have to maintain a constant view of the ground and stay clear of clouds.”
“Right answer. OK, let’s turn this hog around and get us back to Austin. I wanna see how you handle landings. So, without referring to your sectional how would you navigate us back?”
“Uh, I tune in the Austin VORTAC (navigational aid) and fly an inbound radial. That should guide us directly back to the airport.”
“Right again. Let’s do it.”
***
As we approached the airport Jack seemed to take a keener interest in what the airplane was doing. For the last fifteen, or so, minutes he had been nothing more than a casual observer as I did my best to stay on the inbound radial to Austin. By my calculations we were just about eight miles southwest and now flying at five-thousand-five-hundred feet—the correct VFR altitude for our direction of flight.
“All right,” he said, stifling a healthy yawn, “how far you think you’re from Austin?”
“About eight miles. I’m getting ready to start a slow descent and call the airport for clearance into the traffic pattern.”
“Right-o! Tell’um we’re going to be making multiple touch-and-go landings.”
My heart skipped a beat and I wondered just how many landings we were going to do. “Sure, OK.” I said. “Austin Tower, N8436R, six miles southwest, descending to pattern altitude and requesting multiple touch and go’s.”
“N8436R, Austin Tower, roger. Report entering downwind, runway 35 right, wind three-six-zero at 8 knots, altimeter 3012.”
“N8436R, roger.”
Jack hoisted his large frame upright in the Cherokee’s smallish passenger seat, grunted, and said, “OK, I want you to set the airplane up for a short field landing. Be sure you tell the tower that you’re a student pilot on a check ride so he’ll know what to expect.”
My body absolutely froze! The first landing, and he wants me to make it a short field! That was my absolute worse landing of all the ones that I’d learned. It called for me to set up the airplane for a steep full-flap, high-speed, descent—finally flaring the plane ten to fifteen feet above the runway and touching down right on the numbers! During my training with Marshall I had yet to properly execute the landing to his satisfaction—either landing too long, too hard, or too fast. As I descended down to pattern altitude I resigned myself to failing the check ride.
I scanned the pattern and verified that there was no traffic. Reducing power, I descended into the right traffic pattern. “Austin Tower, N8436R, entering right traffic pattern at pattern altitude.”
“N8436R, roger. Report turning base leg.”
“N8436R, roger.”
“OK, remember,” Jack said sternly, “line up the aircraft on centerline, drop full flaps, and center the nose on the numbers. From that point on, you’re controlling your speed with the elevators and your rate of descent with power. If your nose pushes up beyond the numbers it means you’re going too fast so you’ll need to pull back on the yoke to slow down. Concurrently, if you’re nose drops below the numbers you’re descending too fast so you’ll have to add power to slow your descent. Remember, a short field landing means you have to land with a minimum of rollout. Got it?”
“Yes, yup, got it.” I wanted him to be quiet so I could concentrate on what I was doing. At that point my multi-tasking skills were being pushed to their absolute maximum. As I concentrated on keeping the runway numbers, 35R, square on the nose, I realized that they were located at the absolute beginning of the concrete runway. At Bergstrom, the runways were so incredibly large (mostly designed to handle the monstrous B-52s that had been stationed there in the early sixties) that a huge 30-yard over-run had been added to the either end of each of the runways, and painted in a bright yellow cross hatch mark design. Then ten yards after the over-run, the huge runway numbers had been painted in. Not so at Austin.
Here, there was grass, and then the runway started—the numbers painted a bare five yards from the start of the concrete runway. If the landing was short of the numbers there was an excellent possibility that the main gear would land on grass. If that happened, there was a more than good chance that the gear would be ripped off as the concrete runway’s six-inch height above the ground smashed into the wheels. More often than not, when executing my short field landings at Bergstrom I landed short—in the yellow hatched area. If I did that here, no telling what was going to happen.
I was not only going to fail my check ride, I was about to kill Jack Webb.
“Steady, steady…” Jack softly hissed as we descended. “Don’t forget, your flare-out is going to have to be over-exaggerated to quickly bleed off airspeed and stall as your gear hits the runway.”
The runway numbers began to grow larger and larger, but I held them right on the nose! Suddenly my instinct told me to pull back hard on the yoke, inducing an exaggerated flare-out. The numbers disappeared under the plane, and I clenched my teeth, waiting on the sound of the gear ripping off! Instead, I heard a sweet, soft squeal as the two main gear tires kissed the hot concrete.
“Beautiful! Just god-damned beautiful! Jesus!” Startled, I turned to see Jack slapping his huge hands on his hunched-up knees. “Holy shit! That was the best god-damned short field landing I’ve ever seen. Shit!”
I didn’t know what to say. I was just glad I was still alive.
“Fuck!! OK, clean up the airplane and climb up to pattern altitude! Tell the tower you want another touch and go.”
“OK…uh.” I fumbled to grab the microphone speaker from where it had slipped—under my crotch. “Austin Tower, N8436R, request departure, right turn to remain in the pattern for another touch and go.”
“Roger, N8436R, cleared right turn pattern altitude, report turning base and final. Wind three-four-zero at nine knots, altimeter 3012.”
“N8436R, roger.” I pulled the flaps in, applied full power, and rose back into the sky.
I stole a look at Jack and he was grinning like a kid. “OK,” he said, “let’s do another one of those! That last one was fabulous!”
My heart sunk. This time I would surely kill us. He had no idea that that last successful landing had been nothing but pure luck. No way I could ever do that again; and now I really wanted to pee.
“N8436R, turning final to runway 35 right, touch and go.” I said, thinking that those would probably be my last words on earth. The tower mumbled their acknowledgment and cleared me for the touch and go.
“Let’s nail this fucker!” Jack said, enthusiastically. His last words too, for sure.
I felt the rate of descent was too steep and I cautiously added power. The numbers grew to their abnormally gigantic size again, and I pulled forcefully back on the yoke.
Squeak!
“HOLY SHIT! YOU FUCKING DID IT AGAIN! HOLY SHIT!”
I pushed the nose down, and while rolling slowly down the runway, asked meekly, “You want me do to another one?”
“NO! Give me the fucking airplane! I wanna try one!”
“OK, your airplane.” I took my hands off the yoke and pulled my feet off the rudder pedals. He pulled the flaps up and added power.
“Tell the tower we’re gonna do another one.”
“OK.”
I knew we were really were gonna die on this approach. He set up the airplane too close in and the rate of descent was too great. He added power to slow our sink rate but it was too late. I saw the plane’s nose swallow up the numbers and we were still nowhere near the surface. Jack cursed, pushed the nose over, and we began a gentle porpoise maneuver. The wheels banged onto the concrete and we bounced back up into the air. Nose down again, and we bounced once more. We did this three or four times. He finally got the plane under control near midfield.
“FUCK!” He said. “Your airplane.” I pulled flaps in and applied brakes to slow our speed.
“Another one?” I asked.
“Fuck no! Tell the tower we’re done. Take that next taxiway and let’s get back to the GA.” (General Aviation building).
As I pulled the throttle full out and cut fuel flow, killing the engine, he kicked open the door. The cool air swirling into the cockpit reminded me just how sweaty I was. “Secure the plane and then come on in. I’ll sign you off on your logbook. Congratulations, you’re a private pilot.”
The entire flight had lasted eight-tenths of an hour—or 48 minutes.
But, I had prevailed. And now, after all the effort that Kaz and I had put into this endeavor, I was now, Frank DeLeón, Private Pilot (SEL), Certificate #1890712.
