Fire in the Sky

The Sun - Nov 25, 2011

     The last few days have been quite mild, even allowing a brief opportunity to photograph the sun through my solar scope moments before Old Sol set behind our neighbour’s house across the street.  You can’t see any flares around the periphery but there are numerous sunspots and at least one large filament and, if you know what to look for (whoops, wrong place for a preposition), you can see flares on the surface.  But I digress.
     I just received one of my favorite author’s, Guy Vanderhaeghe’s latest book, A Good Man.  Guy has won many prestigious prizes, including the Governor General’s award and was nominated for the Giller Prize for his prose.  In his book, The Englishman’s Boy, he was able to switch venues from Hollywood in the 30’s to the Cypress Hills in Alberta and Saskatchewan in the 1880’s and still keep the book interesting, informative and entertaining.  I suppose it helps that I am very familiar with
Fort Benton and the Battle Creek, a favorite fly fishing spot back in university days.  Maybe I’ll try his method, as some of the memories from much later times keep invading my thoughts and perhaps they should be put into print before vaporizing like so many others – I can harken back to early times later, though probably lacking Guy’s expertize and facility.

Intrepid and youthful aviator

      The night my airplane caught fire:  Pilot Log: February 5th 1970.  Solo night cross country navigation exercise.  It started out to be a beautiful night; cold and clear as  often it is in Manitoba wintertime.  I was heading eastwards at 7000 feet in the L-19 (you use odd altitudes flying eastbound).  I marvelled at the dazzling stars and constellations like Orion and the aviator's friend, Ursa Major (Big Dipper), and was able to pick out the lights of Rivers, my departure point, as well as Brandon, Portage la Prairie and even Winnipeg, in addition to a multitude of smaller rural settlements dotting the prairie landscape.  The snow covered fields glistened below, amplifying the lights of the habitations and I was as content as an aviator could possibly be - Antoine St Exupery would have approved.
     Then, it started to snow - just a few lonely flakes at first but rapidly increasing, partially obscuring visibility.  Closing one eye to maintain night vision, I briefly switched on the landing lights and noted the white streaks passing in front and over the plane and shining my flashlight out the side windows, seeing the snow flashing by at 100 miles per hour under the wings.  Should I turn around or press on?  I could, at the very least, vaguely pick out lights on the ground and, what the hell, I was a military pilot, after all, and had some instrument training on the L-19 and Beech 18 Expeditor (we called it the Exploder or Bug Smasher).  Perhaps I knew enough to get me through as the weather forecast called only for occasional scattered snow squalls and I should be out of this soon.
     I checked the temperature and pressure and other gauges, ensuring that all systems were in good health, and made certain that the compass and artificial horizon gyros were uncaged.  I began to concentrate on my attitude, altitude, heading, etc., all the things that a pilot must do to stay alive in IFR (instrument) conditions.
     Then it happened!!  At first it was barely noticable - a small blue flash that made me look up from the instrument panel for a few seconds.  Then nothing.  Again another longer and larger flash and that got myattention again.  I began to feel a bit uneasy but settled back to the task of handling the airplane and navigating.  I had strayed off course a few degrees but put the aircraft in a gentle bank until the compass indicated that I was back on track.  I relaxed again, but then blue flames began to arc through the propeller disc and sweep back along the cowling to the cockpit frame.  Now the snow flakes showed up as bluish streaks in front of and beside the aircraft without the requirement for an electric light.  "Damn it, we’re on fire!!", I thought and I could feel my heart pounding.  Hardly anything engenders so much fear in an aviator (or a sailor for that matter) as an onboard fire!  (With me, fear of heights comes surprisingly pretty close - honestly!)  My mind raced and I could feel the dampness of sweat running down my back despite the cool environment inside the cockpit as my previous composure and enjoyment evaporated and was overcome by a sense of foreboding , terror and helplessness.  My parachute began to feel much less uncomfortable behind my back as it reminded me that it was there.  I began to think about emergency procedures.  I didn’t relish the thought of bailing out at night over the prairie when the temperature was minus 30 outside, but what the heck, I was a trained military paratrooper ( I’ll tell you about that in a future episode) and jumping would be preferable to going down in flames and perishing in a heap of burning metal and avgas! Besides, I was attired in my down filled winter flight garb and fleece lined aircrew boots, as I always dressed as though I might have to stay outdoors all night. “Get your act together Flight Lieutenant Skjenna,” I reminded myself – "calm down and start acting like an aviator rather than like a frightened lamb."

L-19 Bird Dog

     But hold on a minute!!  My thoughts began to clear and I realized that these flames were blue, not yellow and orange like burning fuel, and I couldn’t for the life of me smell smoke or feel heat.  Then I thought back to St Exupery’s romantic aviation experiences.  He had described an episode where he beheld St Elmo’s fire in flight and I realized, thanks to my appetite for reading, that was exactly the phenomenon I was witnessing and the flames became wondrous and beautiful things and I smiled inwardly and relaxed.  I wouldn’t have to jump after all and survival was almost guaranteed, depending on my flying skills!  One can’t hope to describe the sense of relief when realizing that you are not in mortal danger and would live to fly another day.  I manouvered the plane back to the correct heading and altitude and I pressed on into the night and out of the snow.
     Mission accomplished, I headed westward back to Rivers (at an even altitude this time), descended, and lined up on the runway lights, making one low pass to regain depth perception, and flew my final approach, holding the aircraft in a three point attitude with enough power to keep from stalling but allowing for a gentle descent until feeling the wheels gently kissing the runway.  Then, taxiing in and flipping on the oil dilute switch, I idled the engine for a few minutes as prescribed, feeling a sense of great wonder, gratitude, accomplishment, contentment and, most of all, relief.  At that moment, I realized that fear could be conquered and that I could overcome the fogginess of the mind that comes with danger with a clear head and logical thinking, factors that would, in still another story, allow me the presence of mind to rescue a young boy who was in harm's way and prevent him from dying in a terrible flaming accident.

“No single event can awaken within us a stranger whose existence we had never suspected. To live is to be slowly born.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Flight to Arras