The Steel Weight

by Chuck

The shadow streaking across the ground reflected all of the doubts he ever had of himself as an aircrft pilot. Not a flier, but a pilot. A pilot is a technician and being such is by definition self trained for attention to detail of the craft. Now an overly helpful line boy and an interrupted thought process in the cockpit has placed him in the middle of the ultimate “What if sceniaro”.

In 1981 I accepted a job flying DDT on cotton in The Sudan on the continent of Africa.
It was a typical day flying cotton on the banks of the Nile River in Wad Medni, about 100 miles south of Khartoum. Early breakfast at the hooch, which was a leftover villa from the British Era, as were all the lime trees growing unattended now. After a season applying Nitram on Rape and Potatoes in Linconshire, England, Chuck picked up the contract to fly DDT on summer cotton in The Sudan. There was only one catch: He had to fly the aircraft from England to the Sudan. Forty four flying hours and two weeks later his wheels touched down on a lone gravel strip in Wad Medni, about 100 miles south of Khartoum on the western bank of the Nile. The mechs removed the ferry equipment and prepared the aircraft for the task ahead. A few days after arrival he was rearing to go. Out to the aircraft. Some early morning stretching in prep for the 12 hour day hanging in the straps of a C model Pawnee 235. The flying was ideal; great flying weather and few obstructions. What power and telephone lines the British had built were fallen down or otherwise sagging into the non-obstruction category. The fields were 90 acre parcels, all laid out adjacent and end to end and flying them was a cropdusters dream come true. Load up with 100 gallons of DDT and the trick was to takeoff, make a pass through one field and then another and bank into another in a large circle winding back up on final approach for another load just as the last gallon of chemical had been sprayed. It was a challenge keeping track of exactly which track of the field you had just sprayed on the previous run, indeed which field in your self-planned sequence of fields, and then returning to the strip before your partner, otherwise eat his dust on his takeoff. Chuck’s partner was Patty Mckay. Patty was a feisty little Irishman who had flown the length of the Sahara as well as the mountains of Sweden. When they weren’t working they were dog-fighting and Patty knew all the tricks. Trying to get Patty off his tail, Chuck would bank and roll, dive, but always Patty’s “rat tat tat, rat tat tat” over the radio or his infernal landing light blinking. It was hard to shake him. He came out of the sun and before Chuck had a chance to turn it was too late. “Rat tat tat, rat tat tat” . We were like Cato and the Pink Panther. Out of nowhere he would come with that infernal ‘ratt tatt tatt” over the radio. Both were capable duster pilots who could choose which rut they wanted their wheels to hit first on a landing. With over 100 landings a day in a typical season. Yeah. They knew how to fly an ag plane. We flew enough together off of the same strip that season that they didn’t really need a radio. They could read each other just by the tilt of their wing or the attitude of their craft, and the knowledge that neither was going to cut the other any slack flying within the definition of safe. There was one approach where both Patty and Chuck had finished their last gallon and were flying toward the airfield. Chuck from the tank end and Patty from the downwind end of the runway. Ordinarily they would land with the approach starting at the non-tank end of the runway without regard to the wind. This way they could land, swing around beside the chemical tank at the end of the rollout and be in takeoff position after filling another load. Cropdusters usually don’t fly on windy days; not enough control of the application. On this day, in the position Chuck was in he would be landing downwind, then do a 180 and taxi back up to the pump for a refill, all the time preventing Patty from landing because he would be on the strip, he thought. Chuck had Patty beat to the strip and there was no way Patty was going to land first. Yes! Patty would be eating dust this time on Chuck’s takeoff. “ I’m too close. Nothing you can do about it Sucker”! thought Chuck. After Chuck’s downwind landing while he was rolling out Patty flew directly over him in the opposite direction full flaps and short-fielded his aircraft right in front of the pump and was standing on the wing laughing when Chuck rolled up. “Aye Mate. It’ll be a cold day on the Nile before a Yank ever gets the best of Patty Mckay”, he quips. “You never cease to surprise me Patty. It’s a pleasure flying with you, you amazing little leprechon.” Patty taught Chuck to water ski. Water ski on the Nile. Water ski on the Nile while in an aircraft. “You have to lock the wheels Mate or you’ll burn the the wheel bearings out”. Water skiing a tail dragger is quite safe if done correctly. The approach to the water is very shallow, feeling for the surface with speed at around 100 kts. The wheels form an adhesive or hydraulic bond to the water. Needless to say the water surface must be glassy smooth to ski safely. Once the water-rubber bond is formed the pilot can let go of the contols. Low-hour pilots please do not try this at home…pilots with any brains at all please do not try this at home. The answer to the ‘what if’ question of “what if it quits now” is a given. Chuck skied the Nile in formation up and down the river, under bridges, water spraying from the wheels with Per Ane the chief pilot in his Ag Cat, and Patty and Cranley Leigh the Kiwi and the appropriately named Angus the Scot who moved to Sweden “because the language is similar and the girls can get their knickers off quicker” and the rest of the multi-national crew that was flying cotton in Wad Medni that fine summer of 1981.

So it was that one had to look out for oneself amongst these fellows: experienced aviators from the four corners of the globe. Twelve of them there were. Including an Indian who flew with his headset clamped over his turban, two look-a-like blond Swede boys whose every waking moment they got in town they spent entertaining the local ladies of the evening. Australia, Sweden, Ireland, India, New Zealand, and Finland. All natives of their country except Angus the expatriate Scot, whose only allegiance was to which ever female got naked first, and Chuck, the lone American. With only 1200 hours total flying hours logged compared to their 4000 to 12000 hours. Chuck had to be very careful. He was always conscious about being the low hour pilot, but also about representing the good ole USA and not being embarrassed by getting caught doing anything considered unprofessional. Water-skiing the Nile AND losing your engine? Yes. They would have considered that unprofessional. He had to stand alone over the dinner table against the Per Ane questioning his judgement in refusing to fly because of a small oil leak, bearing the silent and wondering stares of the rest of the pilots. His stock went up when, at a loss of anything else to do, Per Ane ordered the mechs to tear down the engine. “That’s the first time I have ever seen a transversal cylinder crack” , he said the next evening. Chuck could hear in his minds ear the pilots at the table that evening finishing what the CP was hesitant to admit: the very likely probability that the engine had less than 5 hours before failure. Good call for the Yank. These thoughts were in the forefront of his mind the next day with his newly repaired engine flying with Patty McKay.

A couple of loads into the morning Chuck perceived the engine drone sounding funny, something not right. As a ground hugger, crop dusters trained themselves to be ever mindful of the sound of their engine. There is little forgiveness 5 foot above the ground. Airspeed is one of the Ag Pilots only friends at that altitude. No altitude, no airspeed. “You’re in the water..Sharks in the water?…Oh Danny Boy the..” An engine will talk to the pilot and usually warn him, by sound or vibration, if not on the instruments, of trouble on his path. The mind filters out constant noise but a cropduster listens to each tic and hum of his engine no matter what else he is doing while flying. The engine talks and the pilot listens. It was such a subtle change. Even through the play dough earplugs, Chuck perceived something different. Maybe it was just because the engine had just come out of an oil leak repair. That could have been it. This engine had yet to prove itself and was material for constant suspicion and justified close scrutiny until such a time of dependable performance revealed itself to be a reliable member of the Chuck squadron. Maybe it was the air density that changed that day, but those little bells started tingling. Those little bells, ever so faint at first, that every experienced pilot starts hearing when ever the regular drum roll develops a subtly different tune, regardless of how random. Instrument check. Oil pressure good, temp normal for this outside temp in the Sudan Summer. No strange vibrations, just that little something that has changed. It’s probably because of the engine re-build and he is just noticing it. An exterior walk around and dipstick check revealed nothing unusual.
“Patty, I’m going back and have my engine checked out, something doesn’t sound right”.

The hangar was within site of the spraying strip they were working from that day. In the distance the small but ever familiar pattern of spray planes making their post run pull ups and turns were barely visible in the distance. The sun was bright. Not a cloud in the sky. Chuck flew the 10 miles to the hangar and set up on final for the gravel strip. The gray beaded quarter mile path growing ever larger in his windscreen. At this point sightseeing is over. The pilot is totally focused on the chore before him. Interesting animals copulating beside the runway, fast cars on the highway, pretty girls sunning themselves by their pools have to wait their turn for a change. CCGUMP +W . Cowls, coolers, gas, Undercarriage in this case to include flaps, Mixtures, Props + Wheels, Chuck’s addition to the age-old anagram for Wheels not locked after water-skiing the Nile Dummy! One wheel locked landing was plenty. Good thing the strip was gravel. He had released them on the second bounce with no one the wiser. There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots. Ok. But Bob Hoover doesn’t count because he will warp any pilots grading curve. Chuck knows that keeping the senses sharp in a flying environment is a constant chore. When he first started flying Chuck would say aloud to himself: “ I am flying an airplane. I am flying an airplane”, repeating his benediction occasionally throughout the flight. The flying environment demands near perfection and dead pilots cry from their graves: “Near perfection is not good enough”! At its very best it is totally unforgiving of complacency.

The crew on that contract consisted of pilots, mechanics and ground crew who assisted the mechanics and did general chores around the hangar, the line boys. The strip was gravel and the ramp beside the hangar, where the aircraft were parked at night was dirt. An aircraft could no sooner land and shut down before an overly helpful Pakistani was buzzing around opening up the engine cowlings for engine cooling and tying down the aircraft for the evening while enquiring if you had a good day and is there anything wrong with the aircraft. It was their attentiveness that almost sunk him that day. It’s a miracle that no one noticed. Or maybe someone did and became a secret, silent and smiling friend to the Yank that day. If so, salute. They all landed one after the other that evening. All lined up on final. Twelve aircraft slipping on to that gravel and dust strip beside the hangar and taxiing to tie down, greedily timed to coincide exactly with the moment after dusk when low visibility made VFR flying no longer safe. The acre, or hectare paid them, which was a little over 2 acres. Chuck timed it to land last, with a low approach. He taxied up to his parking place, fortuitously on the near end of the parking line. Pivoted the tail around for a perfect position, thinking. “Not a lot of room for error Chuck”. The plan was to jump out on the wing and wait till all of the aircraft were parked on the lee side and then heave the thing as hard as he could.

“Did you have a good day Mister”?

“Anything wrong with the Aircraft Mister?”

The line boy was unlatching the cowlings as the prop swung through its last arc. Except for him, that pesky line boy.

“No nothing wrong I had a good day”, he replied while scanning for other aircraft in the vicinity that could spot him. There were none. They were all down-line and engaged in some degree of bedding their aircraft down for the evening. Chuck exited the aircraft and stood by the cockpit as the line boy ducked to tie down the far wing, grabbed the thing with an adrenalin rush, lifted and heaved with all his might. It landed with a dull thud.

Immediately the line boy’s head appeared from under the leading edge of the right wing. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Chuck questioned.

“That noise, like the engine falling off the aircraft and hitting the bloody ground Mister”

“I didn’t hear anything”.

Blank stare and perplexed look. He swiveled a 270-degree arc and noted nothing out of place so he went back to tieing down the wing. Chuck jumped off the wing and began helping him, making small talk and trying not to sound too relieved before climbing aboard the bus for the ride to the hooch.



There was no weather to speak of. Just the normal beautiful day with a light summer breeze so he saw no need to tie the aircraft down for the short while he would be gone.

“I’m going to the hooch for a minute while you have a look ok”?

He turned to see Heike the Fin mechanic lifting the tail of an aircraft onto two cylinder blocks.

Heike nodded. “I’ve never met a man as strong as that guy. He’s a bull”, thought Chuck to himself.

“I’ll getdoo it as zoon as pozzible Shuck”

“OK Heike, you do zat”, thought Chuck as he started his walk for the house. Heike was a Fin and he had a beautiful blond, and slightly plump wife who he was always showing off with pictures of her standing in front of their idyllic country cottage holding a freshly cooked pastry, somewhere in Finland. Heike spent most of his off hours reading books with pictures full of dead Russians. Heike hated Russians. A great mechanic and a fun fella at the dinner table. He never talked about Russians. Just read books full of gruesome pictures of Russians however dead. All killed and strewn about in horrible final poses. After dinner you could find Heike in his bunk surrounded by books about dead Russians. He would have his nose stuck in one, daring you to interrupt him. He brought a book with him to work and during lunch he was off by himself in the shade; munching his sandwich and just silently reading his book full of pictures of “Ivans no longer wid us Ha Ha”.


“Dere’s nuttn wrong wid da Shuck. I ran it ubtoo vull power for over da minute an da verking fine. Good engine”, says Heike
“Good enough for me Heike. Thanks a bunch” Chuck was yelling over his shoulder as he ran toward his aircraft. It was sitting just as he had left it. The engine was hot from Heike’s runnup and the cowlings were unlatched. Chuck checked the oil out of habit, gave the engine a quick eyeballing and snapped them closed, did a quick cursory walk around and hopped in. Fuel, flaps, Mags on, Starter. The prop swung through two arcs and became a grey circle when the engine fired. Oil pressure check. In the green. Controls free. Good to go, daylights a wasting. Forward on the throttle and toward the strip. The rolling takeoff was normal enough. Nothing unusual. Power, feed in some right rudder to keep her straight, tail wheel up and ease the stick back to assume a take-off angle of attack on the wings. She lifted off.

“Hmm. Funny. Lots of forward stick. Didn’t he check the trim before takeoff. The trim indicator showed zero. Right in the middle where it should be. He cranked the trim handle on the left bulkhead until the pressure began coming off the palm of his hand. The handle wouldn’t turn anymore and he was still holding forward pressure. A quick glance revealed the trim indicator showing full forward trim. The aircraft is aft loaded for sure, but flyable. He began a gentle bank toward his destination. “I’ve got full forward trim and still holding forward pressure on the stick. Have to get this sorted out”, he thought. She is flying. Minding the pilots first rule of survival that he has drilled into himself since stepping into his first cockpit solo. “Still no problem the strip is available if I have to set her down. But what is causing the aft loading”. The friendly face of his overly-helpful line boy faded into view from his subconscious. “ Oh NO! “ He maneuvered the aircraft so its rippling shadow was in full view as it bee-lined heedless of fences and crop rows across the desert floor.

His first thoughts were how to remedy the situation without getting found out. That was the absolute first thing that entered his mind. Survival. Not that the taxi and takeoff were so normal that he hadn’t noticed. Not that despite 500 hours in the Pawnee, it occurred to him that the distinct possibility existed that he was a ham-handed Bozo who had no sensitivity for handling his aircraft. The aircraft was flyable. Not workable but it was flying within its operational envelope and there was no immediate danger of loss of control. There was an immediate danger of having to buy grease paint and a poka dot suit and a red wig to fit his new image if anyone notices what he had done.

“No need to land at the strip. I’ll just continue on and see if I can sneak in while Patty is away from the field.”, he thought. “If I land back at the hangar they will all wonder what is wrong and my goose will be cooked for sure”. He eased the throttle forward for 5 more knots of airspeed. Scanning the horizon, he could make out some aircraft in their typical working patterns; mere specs but visible. Their pilots were too far away and too involved in their back and forths, ups and downs to notice him.

But where is Patty? Patty is the immediate danger. Patty might not let the cat out of the bag, but that is a chance not worth a bet. Even with odds. The chances of becoming reduced to foreign accented dinner table conversation froze him with horror. He could hear the laughter. Like a dream where all you can remember is in pastels. They were all slapping their thighs, tossing their food to keep from choking and laughing, laughing out loud in foreign accents. Oh God! Foreign accents; and the “Yank” ..Clarabel.

As he approached the strip he noticed Patty working a field a few miles away. He wouldn’t be that far away from the pump if he were anywhere done. He jammed the throttle forward to max power. “The sooner I get there the better off I will be”, he said to himself. He knew that he would have to land hot. Hot means at a speed greater than normally necessary. No sense taking a chance on a hi-speed stall on approach. The strip was long enough to handle the roll out and he maneuvered for an up wind final. Keeping an eye on Patty, before he disappeared in the haze or the distant horizon. Speed and efficiency was of the utmost necessity if he were to secure his embarrassment from view before Patty showed up on final. No sooner had his wheels touched that he judged the distance from the pump so he could cut the engine. As he approached the pump the prop had swung through its last arc. He jumped out.

“What is that Mister? That what you are doing”. Chuck hid it behind the wheel of the chemical tank.
“Just keep it here and don’t tell Patty. It’s a surprise” I will pick it up at the end of the day”
Everything went according to plan with no one the wiser. In retrospect he could have done it differently, but he chose to carry it back to the base strip rather than taking the chance of having it missed and eventually discovered on the field strip, or worse, the loading master appearing in front of everyone and saying something like: “Captain Chuck! You forgot your surprise”. At the end of the day he waited and maneuvered so that Patty left for the hangar strip first. In the distance he counted aircraft heading toward the strip in the dusk. If he timed it right he would arrive just after all of the other pilots had parked and headed back to the villa. He saw the Land Rover, with Angus running behind as usual, turning the bushy corner on the dusty road just as he was on short final for the strip. The weight of the thing was such that he thought it would go through the floor on touchdown. As he taxxied up to his tiedown point the line boy ran to meet the aircraft. Damn! He was shutdown and out on the wing as the lineboy opened the cowels. As soon as the lineboy turned to duck under the nose for the otherside he lifted the weight and heaved it as hard as he could toward the tail of the aircraft.

"What was that Captain?' The lineboy's head was poking up at him from under the left side of the nose.

"What was what?" "That sound like a thud".

"Harrumph!" he replied.

Its been too many years to remember why they used huge hunks of scrap iron as anchors for aircraft tie downs on that strip. Maybe they had no other proper anchors available. The overly helpful line boys resist forgetting though. Especially the one that chained the tail of the aircraft down while Chuck had gone to the hooch. No. He’ll never forget him, and never stop remembering him in his prayers for the lesson he taught him.