STATIC IN THE AIR

in the summer of 1976, sparked by a small group of Quebec nationalistic pilots and some ATC controllers calling themselves Le Gen D'air, a demand was made that the French language be allowed in the operation of aircraft flying in Canada.

CALPA pilots went on strike for what they believed was a threat to safety. The use of French in what is de facto an English speaking industry was absurd and was against the language policies of iCAO (international Civil Aviation Organization) a UN organization to which Canada is a signatory. CALPA had the support of most commercial pilots in Canada even many of the French speaking pilots. The strike lasted nine days and severely impacted aviation in Canada causing financial losses for the airlines, their customers, their pilots and collaterally the ground employees. Personally, my faith in CALPA was restored...they supported something on moral rather than selfish grounds. As usual, the government of the day dithered and danced arriving at a solution that satisfied neither party. There is no doubt that the issue caused discord in the cockpit far longer than many admit to.

in the spring of 1977 the radio operators in Canada went on strike for higher pay. Not an aircraft moved in the Canadian federation just like in the USA after 9/11. They effectively paralyzed aviation movements in Canada stranding passengers and crews alike. Along with three other crews, we were stranded in Windsor, Ontario for three days before the company decided the strike was for real and would likely last a long time. They decided to bring crews stranded in the US and overseas home. Other Winnipeg crews were stranded in Vancouver. The plan was for us to take Northwest Airlines to Grand Forks (GFK) North Dakota sixty miles south of Winnipeg (WG). The crews stuck in Vancouver would motor down to Seattle and catch Northwest there and meet us in GFK. Two charter buses would take us all to Winnipeg. A third bus would bring passengers also stranded in GFK. There were a few extra civilians and they came on our bus. Our first stop was Happy Harry’s Bottle Shop. By the time we got to the border the Canadian Customs inspector got on the bus, took one look down the aisle, threw up his hands in disgust and sent us on our way without even a cursory glance. When the bus door opened at the WG airport an empty gallon bottle of rotgut wine plopped out and rolled away down the street. The relatives of the stranded passengers meeting the buses were not impressed especially when one of the pilots hurled an expletive at one of the relatives. The next morning Flight Ops set the phones a buzzing. Nobody was fired even for smashing through the closed gate in the parking lot.

More labour Strife

The iAM, (international Association of Machinists) and flight attendants would strike in the seventies and eighties but aside from small losses of pay and a few unscheduled days off they were inconsequential to most pilots. Some members of CALPA married to flight attendants did complain we should have given the F/A’s more support citing safety. My solution as Council 7 Vice Chairman was to supply 24’s of beer to the F/A’s pep rallies. When the F/As’ went on strike the company called for volunteers from other department to take up the slack... a few accepted...making them scabs. On the other hand a few romances bloomed involving divorce and marriages.

History

The Lockheed Tristar or better known as the L1011 was Lockheed's last shot at the airliner market and while it was an outstanding airplane there were maintenance problems with the Rolls Royce RB211 engines that ultimately put Rolls Royce into bankruptcy. The British government would not allow the prestigious engine builder to fail and the company was nationalized and would later see the RB211 become the Rolls Royce Trent considered to be the most advanced turbine to be built and now powering, among others, the AirBus series of aircraft. Air Canada first put the type into service in 1973 and operated as many as 40 of them until 1992 when the last of the Tristars was retired.

rudderless in gimli the last flight of cf-ths air canada 637 13

Late August 1983 in Winnipeg proved hot and muggy. Stretched out on a lawn chair in my back yard i studied condensation droplets dribbling down the side of the tankard holding my first icecold beer of the day. The phone rang. it was my good friend Gerry Norberg.

“Jim” he said, “have you still got a Viscount endorsement on your licence?”

“Yes i do Gerry. What’s up?” i replied.

Gerry breathlessly explained. “The Western Canada Aviation Museum now owns the former Trans best seat in the house

Canada Air Lines hangar at Winnipeg and will use it for the home of their historic aircraft. Their Vickers Viscount, the largest aircraft in the collection, is stored in a former RCAF hangar up at Gimli.

He continued catching his breath, “The plane was flown up there from Montreal last year but now two of the four engines are time expired and to make it airworthy for a flight to Winnipeg they need to swap two engines with Beaver industries.”

“And?” i interrupted.

“They need someone to fly it to Winnipeg.” He blurted out and added, “They don’t have the money to pay anybody.”

“Hmm.”, i mumbled stalling while i mulled over the possible unintended consequences of the oblique request.

Back in the days when cars had fins, an aircraft endorsement was not required to act as co- pilot and restrictions like recency and currency did not exist yet so i countered to Gerry, “How about coming along for the ride?”

Without hesitation, he answered, “Sure.”

“That settles it then. Let’s do it but when?” i enquired.

“ Oh but by the way,” he hesitated before adding “they had to take the rudder off to get it into the hangar so as soon as they finish changing the engines and put the tail back on … probably three weeks.”

Gerry and i drove up to Gimli to have a look. Seeing the aircraft, my heart sank. The forlorn scene looked hopeless. Sundry bits of airplane scattered over the hangar floor, two of the four engines missing and the silly looking Viscount with half its tail feathers missing. i had second thoughts.

We would have to test run the engines at full power so we would need to blast down the runway to take off speed, check the power, especially the two swapped ones, then stop before we rattled off the end. Two problems with that; if there was a wind it had to be right down the runway for without a rudder we would have insufficient directional control and after years of sitting how reliable were the brakes?

Two weeks later, we returned to find all the bits back in their proper places … except the tail. However, the weather and maintenance gods smiled and the test run proved satisfactory at full power with no overheats. What a weird feeling rolling down a runway well beyond rotation speed fighting a pilot’s natural instinct to pull back on the control column and become airborne.

With the tail at last in place, the day of the big event, September 17th 1983, dawned bright and clear with a strong south wind that blew straight down the departure and arrival runways. Despite this, trouble lay ahead. Gerry arrived at my door at 10 am to drive up to Gimli. My Dad was lurking around the house, as he liked to do on Saturday mornings to hang out with our four kids. We had a problem. if we drove to Gimli in my car, we’d have to leave it there and drive back up to get it after the flight.

My wife, Joyce had things to do that day and said, “Don’t look at me. i don’t want any part of that airplane nonsense.”

Dad chirped in, “i’ll drive you up, drop you guys off and be back in Winnipeg in time to photograph your grand entrance.”

Gerry and i exchanged worried glances. We both knew driving to best seat in the house

Gimli with Dad in his eighties was likely to be the riskiest part of the adventure. We did our best to appear grateful as we reluctantly accepted his offer. i noticed all four kids declined the outing.

The trip up was uneventful. Not one motorist noticed Dad had left a turn signal on for the entire journey or if they did, had suppressed the urge to blow their horns, give Dad the finger or wave their fists as they passed us at our sedate 45 mph speed.

We arrived early deciding to lunch at a popular café near Gimli’s waterfront. i can’t remember what Gerry or i ordered but i had good reason to remember that Dad ordered a salmon sandwich. He took the first bite and began to choke. He stood up. i stood up. Gerry sat immobilized. i felt every eye in the crowded place upon us. i quickly reached over Dad’s head from behind, clasped my hands together balled them into a fist and gave a tug. Nothing happened. Dad was still gasping for breath trying vainly to speak. Now desperate, i gave my mightiest possible heave. Out popped first the offending salmon bone then his dentures. Neither misguided missile struck other diners. Dad reached down, picked up his teeth, sat back down and calmly resumed eating his sandwich while Gerry and i sat leaving our plates untouched and tried to look as if nothing had happened.

The tail of the Viscount had been removed in order to get the plane into the hangar and the chief engineer said "the gear down locks are a bit dodgy." so we flew to Winnipeg with the gear down just in case.

On the ride to the hangar Dad complained of a pain in his side but bravely said, “i’ll be okay i think you’ve only broken my rib. Don’t hundred percent sure they will come down again for the landing at Winnipeg,” He grumbled. “i think the down locks are a bit dodgy”.

Disappointed, i graciously agreed to his request. i could not risk the hundreds of volunteer hours he and the museum team had done to restore this aircraft to flying condition for the worry i’ll meet you in Winnipeg.”

Just before climbing aboard, the museum’s maintenance chief warned, “Look boys i`d rather you didn`t bring the gear up after take-off. i`m not one sake of my ego to do a high speed, victory fly past on arrival at Winnipeg. The homecoming epitaph of THS would have to be like the dedicated service the venerable Vickers Viscounts had performed for Air Canada, its flight crews and mechanics over its active lifetime … steadfast, reliable, and unpretentious. i climbed into the left seat and with difficulty overcame a sense of nostalgia for the five years i had spent flying this airplane and its sister ships west across the Canadian Prairies and Rocky Mountains to the coast and east paralleling the Laurentian Shield spanning Ontario and Quebec. i didn`t realize it at the time but these were the best years of my flying career. There was an eerie, alien strangeness in the cockpit layout that i had not anticipated. As Gerry clambered into the right seat and began reciting the liturgy of the checklists the old black magic came back and by the time we taxied out to the runway i was at home again at last.

The take-off was nothing like i remembered nor were the control responses. Thirteen years of hydraulically augmented controls and positive take off rotations on the DC-9 and 727 left me unprepared for the seemingly strange liftoff. We had a strong wind right on the nose, that and the resulting low ground speed gave the sensation of rising horizontally similar to an elevator so unlike the pitched best seat in the house up, nose high attitude of a jet. in the climb and cruise, there was not much attitude difference. My one regret was that the museum, with its limited financial resources meant i dare not, with a clear conscience, waste their valuable fuel to allow Gerry much time at the controls on the forty minute flight. A couple of short turns either way and that was it. We made a staid low pass over the meager welcoming crowd … the speed governed by the gear extended limits. The approach speeds and landing attitude were not unlike those of a jet and we landed smoothly.

We taxied in, i set the brakes, reached over and pulled all four HP cocks to ``fuel off”. There is something about the shutting down of engines after a flight. it has a death like finality about it like putting an exclamation mark at the end of a sentence. As the ear-splitting whistle of the Dart engines winding down echoed off the surrounding buildings into the inevitable deafening silence that follows the cacophony of flight, nothing stirred in the empty aircraft. These last few precious moments of complete silence before the clanging and clashing of opening doors and hatches by interloping groundlings were a time for reflection.

True to his word, Dad had made it back in time to photograph our sedate wheels down fly- by. A professional RCAF photographer during WWii, the out of focus photo injured Dad’s pride.

He later said, “You know Jimmie that picture would not be blurred if you hadn’t broken my rib.” i guess i had been too frugal with the museum’s fuel not only robbing Gerry of some pole time but also creating a further problem. i don’t remember who the bright spark was that said, “Hey why don’t we start up THS and burn off the fuel instead by running the engines?”

After our rather anti-climactic arrival, Gerry and i stood around with our hands in our pockets trying to stay out of trouble. One of the museum people who was in charge of towing THS into its new hangar home mentioned that they were going to have to suck the remaining JP-4 fuel from the tanks otherwise it would be a fire hazard.

Some other genius piped in with, “Yeah lets taxi the thing around the field and … hey let’s take everyone who wants to go … for a ride.” it was all right for them but it was going to fall on my not-overly broad shoulders to execute the Uber ride, after all, i was the only one around qualified to do it. First, the ferry permit only stipulated one nonstop flight from Gimli to Winnipeg without passengers. Second taxiing on the ground with passengers was not prohibited. Third, it would depend on whether Air Traffic Control in the tower would allow it and if airport emergency services would be available. in today’s litigious environment, i would never have dreamed of doing it but back then i was starting to get a headache from over-thinking all the possible negative outcomes from unexpected circumstances so i said, “Sure. Why not?” i can`t speak for Gerry but i had a sense of intense sadness that this aircraft would never again share with its crews the ecstasy of a minuet with the gods of flight. instead, it`s destiny was to be poked, prodded and groped by the sweaty hands of curious strangers. My one hope was for THS to be the queen of the Royal Aviation Museum of Western Canada’s historic fleet and as such be cared for with the diligence befitting such an honour.

The duty supervisor from the tower must have been on his lunch break. in 1983, it couldn’t possibly have been a her. i guess whoever was in charge up there must have been as gaily cavalier as we were because they gave us clearance with free range over of the entire airport. My sidekick later said i was taxiing pretty fast but i can’t imagine myself engaging in such risky behaviour.

Aviation historians continue to understate the contributions made by the Viscount in particular to the economy of Winnipeg’s aviation industry and to Canada’s transportation system. While it is true that the many smaller bush planes did much to open the north it fell to the turbine powered Vickers Viscount to gift multitudes of westerners’ fast, efficient, comfortable and above all, safe travel throughout the west and beyond. indeed the Viscount connected many small cities within Canadian regions and in turn linked those regions to the larger centres, Vancouver Toronto and Montreal and to the USA. There is evidence that the Viscount significantly altered the travel patterns of businessmen and everyday Canadians. The Viscount’s hippedy-hop route structure improved intercity commerce and connected economically separated families more than any other aircraft in the dramatic shift from piston driven power sources for aircraft to turbines. i am gratefully proud to have my name as the last entry in the logbook of CF-THS and to have had Gerry Norberg as my co-pilot.

Years later as Dad walked me to the elevator in the former Winnipeg Veteran’s Hospital, Deer Lodge, now a senior’s residence, where i was visiting him from our home in Niagara, he suddenly grabbed my elbow and said, “Jimmie remember the time you broke my rib?”

“Yes Dad i remember” i replied and continued, “i think you, me and Gerry had a fun day. i’m really sorry i broke your rib.”

“it’s okay Jimmie it wasn’t really broken anyway … only cracked.”

We hugged, said good-bye and that was the last time i saw him.

After Hours

what do pilots do in their spare time?

I had a lawyer friend once ask me why I did it. He said, “I don’t go lawyering on my days off for nothing, to relax. Why do you fly on your days off and have to pay for it too boot?” ididn’t have an answer except i guess an unrequited love of the game. i flew a variety of light planes through to retirement and beyond. Flying with many F/O’s who’d been bush pilots and their heroic exploits on floats always piqued my curiosity enough so that i decided to try it on. A friend who owned a small air service, Neil Walsten, checked me out in 1979 on one of his Cessna 180’s CF-SLi, on floats for nothing...the for nothing part... appealed to my Scottish/Welsh ancestry.

With very little float time...i’d accumulated 7 hrs on floats, when a contractor, Helmet, who i’d never met before, with a lot of loose cash asked me to check him out on his factory new Cessna 185, C-GYZJ, on amphibian floats. The only time in the aircraft’s logbook was the ferry time from the factory to Winnipeg. i guess Helmet figured if i was an airline captain i should be qualified to do anything. That i had such little float time and zero time on a 185 and had not a minute even as a passenger on amphib floats seemed not to bother him. i have to admit the first take off on wheels at the Winnipeg airport did seem a little queer perched way up there. Everything went well on our first trip to The Pas and Cranberry Portage. i did my first landing on amphib floats with Helmet following me through. i underlined how very important the under carriage warning horn was...i couldn’t help remembering my Saskatoon fiasco. A water landing with the wheels down would be a disaster. He went off to the indian reserve where he was doing some work. Good. Now i could practice while he was gone. On my third landing i didn’t know that if the undercar- riage up switch wasn’t fully “up” the hydraulics would allow the gear to drop partially down. i did a short field or rather a short lake landing with landing run measured in inches instead of feet. Luckily, nothing broke and nobody saw the huge splash. Yet another of my unforgivable regrettable faux pas and poor Helmet was none the wiser.

Thatunrequited love of the game was certainly at play when a group of us got together to do some serious lake fishing. it wasn't difficult to put a title to this 'boys day out' episode: