HARD CLOUDS
By
Ron Fox
The Beech 18 was a little ungainly and without grace on the ground, sort
of like a fish out of water. It could be tricky to steer, especially if there
were much wind. It’s radial piston engines sounded a little raspy and
uncoordinated at or near idle and it’s dual tail would wiggle when the wheels
went over bumps in the concrete. But in the air the ugly duckling would
turn into a swan. The airplane in the air looked like it should there, looked
like it was in it’s element. It became graceful and streamlined and, for it’s
day, pretty fast. It could carry a hell of a load without complaint and it was
built tough for the bush with it’s tall landing gear and tailwheel. It could
land in a very short distance and could take real punishment. It was an easy
airplane to maintain and, if a good round-engine man could be found, could
be kept running well with little expense. It was the perfect smuggler’s
airplane. That’s why we saw so many of them on the border.
Art was an old-timer from the days of the army flying- sergeants of
World War Two fame. He was a tail-dragger who loved the beast, as he
called the Beech 18 and he was good in it. Long retired from the army, he
longed for the exciting days of yesteryear as well as a living wage. He had
come to Brownsville on a whim. While visiting the Confederate Air Force
Museum which in those days was located in Harlingen, he had heard of all
the old aircraft which were based in Brownsville and had also heard that
good money could be made flying them. Walking along the flight line at the
Brownsville International Airport he was taken back in time to the old days
when he used to fly machines like this every day while in the army.
Stopping by our hangar, he noticed one of our mechanics working on our
Beech 18 and he spoke to him about the prospects of getting a job. Andy,
our mechanic, was an old-timer too. He had a knack for caring for round
engines, (radial piston engines), and were it not for his own advance age,
would not have given Art another thought. After reminiscing for a while
with Art, Andy told him to stop by our office/warehouse which was off the
airport property. We often received inquiries in this manner so it was no
surprise when Art walked in one day and asked for a job. What surprised
us was his age coupled with his enthusiasm for flying. There was
something about how his eyes shined when he described to us only a small
part of his flying experience that made us take heed of his desire to get back
into the cockpit. Art was the type of aviator who would just as soon die in
an airplane than in bed in some old folks home.
He was the type of person one doesn’t meet all that often so we gave him
a shot. He proved to be a little rusty on the controls and had forgotten a lot
about all the details necessary for a successful flight, but he made up for
these deficiencies with enthusiasm, skill and guts. We all liked him and
decided to make him part of our “family”.
When Art flew as co-pilot on our DC-3’s, he didn’t do too well. He was
not a good follower of procedures and didn’t like the role “playing second
fiddle,” as he called it. As captain of a Beech 18, no one really knew how
well he followed procedures, but he got the loads through as well or better
than most everyone else. When other pilots were bringing back their loads
due to bad weather, Art was getting his through.
Art was like a born-again Christian. Vigor returned to his step. Humor
once again became important to his life. His personality opened up more
and more the longer he flew the border and he was truly enjoying himself.
I guess it was because he had nowhere else to go that he stayed on the
border longer than most of us.
One afternoon I learned from Gus that Art had crashed in the mountains
west of Jalapa. It seems he was “pushing” the weather trying to get into the
Jalapa Municipal Airport. There were several cloud layers at different
altitudes, some broken, some overcast. Approaching the point of no return
on his fuel, he was desperate to locate the airport and had drifted too far
west in his search. West of the Jalapa airport, the mountains began rising in
elevation.
Breaking out of one cloud layer and finding himself in a layer of clear air
above another cloud layer, he decided to punch one more cloud bank to see
if he could locate the airport. The last cloud layer he punched, punched
back. It wasn’t a cloud at all. It was a fog shrouded mountain top.
Art hit the mountain top in a flat descending attitude at full cruise speed.
He had no warning of his impending crash whatsoever. One minute he was
flying and the next, when he entered the cloud (fog), his airplane
immediately struck the ground and began to quickly disintegrate. The
airplane literally exploded into thousands of pieces and parts of the
airplane, some large, mostly small were scattered about along with his cargo
of car stereos, TV’s, VCR’s and blenders over a pretty large area. When
Art woke up barely conscious, he found himself trapped helplessly in a
large section of the cockpit with no wings, no tail and no cabin around him.
He noticed several Indians walking about the widely scattered wreckage,
picking up some of the goods which miraculously escaped serious damage.
They were obviously delighted with this unexpected Manna from Heaven,
seemingly oblivious to Art’s tragedy.
Art called out to them as best he could and a couple of Indians came
over to where he was trapped, amazed that he was still alive. Earlier while
he was unconscious, they had noticed what they thought was his lifeless
body, covered in blood and looking rather mangled, trapped in the
wreckage. Without a word, they moved some of the entrapping wreckage
and picked him up and moved him about fifty feet from the smoldering
piece of cockpit. Soon afterwards, the remaining piece of cockpit caught
on fire, probably due to the leaking nose fuel tank which had caught fire
due to the sparking of electrical wires in the instrument panel.
Art had been left there for quite a while before a police van showed up
on the scene, probably due to the fire which was spreading in the brush
around the wreckage. He was unceremoniously thrown into the van and
taken to jail. He was not aware of how long he had spent on the floor of
his jail cell before a doctor was brought in to look at him. It was at this time
that he was immediately moved to a local Jalapa hospital.
For the next five months Art suffered through five operations for internal
organ damage and internal bleeding as well as several re-settings of broken
bones. He was fortunate he was kept in a hospital instead of jail the entire
time. Gus had several meetings with the local police and judiciary over this
period of time without success. When the local powers that be realized that
he had no money to buy himself out of jail and that he had no relatives who
could sell assets to get him out, and that Gus was not able to put up any
money for his freedom, they acquiesced to the behind the scenes persuasion
of Mr. C in Vera Cruz to let him go.
Gus brought Art back to the U.S. a mere shell of the man who had
flown into Mexico just five months before. It was eerie, but Art had come
down to the border as an old man, washed up and through with flying. He
left the same way. The business was in serious decline at this point and Gus
told him to go home. Gus had brought him out without any prospect of
personal gain. He brought him out because he was one of Gus’s pilots.
That said a lot about Gus.
The last time I saw Art, he was living with his daughter in Fort Worth.
He had never regained his old weight or vigor, but was happy for the time
he had been able to fly again and told me he wouldn’t have traded that time
for anything. He said it was adventure of the highest order and that
most people who were lucky enough to get one shot at it would never
dream of getting two. He had two, and for Art it was worth the price.
Copyright 1998, BUSHPILOT, all rights reserved.