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Night
Flight
August
28, 1947
By Harvey Green
Historic
Background
On 3 September, 1945, a letter from the office
of the Chief of Naval Operations was received at Naval Auxiliary Air Station,
Quillayute, Washington, carrying the following information: The maintenance of
N.A.A.S., Quillayute in a full operation station is not now required due to the
change in Aviation Planning Requirements. Effective
15 September 1945, N.A.A.S., Quillayute will be reduced to a caretaker status,
which includes preventative maintenance and protection of government
property and there will be no aircraft operation at this station.
Thus, the sounds of war left
the sky over the little logging town of Forks, Washington.
Where once the familiar sounds of F-4F
Wildcats, F-6F Hellcats, T.B.F. Avengers, P-38 Lightening and the slow moving,
majestic K-type Blimps filled the sky---there was silence. No longer would the
hot shot, lovesick pilots buzz the Quillayute Union High School, creating havoc
with the school day, giving the Principal fits and sending the girls into a
dither. The sky over Forks returned
to the prewar status, a brilliant deep blue, towering white cumulus clouds, the
age-old sounds of nature, and from the distant hillside, the staccato sounds of
the Whistle Punk as he sent his message to the yarded.
The world was at peace once more.
The prewar grass landing strip just south of Forks, had early on in the
war been rejected by the Navy as an Emergency landing strip because of the lack
of space for expansion. During the
World War II years (December 7,
1941 to September 2, 1945) Civilian
Aviation had been suspended, and nature had taken back its own, covering the
Forks Airport with ferns, small fir
and Alder trees, tall grass and the
ever present Scotch Bloom with its familiar yellow blossom.
Post war civilian aircraft production was soon under way. Such companies as Cessna, Piper, Aeronca, Taylorcraft, and
Stinson were retooling and soon producing a variety of single engine light
aircraft for market to a population that was war weary, ready and eager to
embark upon the post war aviation boom. The
war had produced a great number of experienced pilots and it was from this vast
pool of airmen that the upcoming
civilian pilots were to receive their flight training.
The G.I. Bill of Rights, offered flying lessons to the veterans and this,
along with Americas fascination with the airplane, would spawn many small flying
schools, and grass airstrips would appear as quickly as the toadstools of the
field.
Night
Flight
It was the second week in July, 1946, when the sound of a small red Army
surplus Aeronca L-3C Grasshopper (NC 49054) from the Port Angeles Flying Service
broke the silence over Forks. The
plane circled Forks several times reminiscent of the
Bill conferred with four loggers (including my father, Morris Green) who
were taking flying lessons and a deal was made with the four individuals to put
up the money for the purchase of a new Aeronca 7AC Champion. Bill was to pay back the loans by giving them flying lessons
for their share of the plane. When
the lessons were completed Bill would have title to the airplane.
It was an exciting day when the bright yellow and red, Aeronca Champion
(NC1363E) landed on the field and both my father and I started lessons from Bill
for our share in the Champion.
At the ripe old age of 15, I took my first flight lesson on 19 July 1946,
which Bill logged as, “effect of controls, W.L. Bransfield, C-37922.”
By 7 August, I had logged 7 hours, 25 minutes of dual flight time and
early that morning I made my first 25 minute solo flight, consisting of take
offs and landings. In the
early morning of my 16th birthday, 30 December 1946, I passed my private pilots
license test and received License No. 658985.
By this time I had amassed, 19 hours, 5 minutes of additional dual and 52
hours and 5 minutes of solo time. A
portion of these solo hours were generated by flying cross country with Bill to
rent different airplanes to familiarize his students with various types of
aircraft. I had flown a number of
different aircraft by the time I had gained my license.
There was our old standby, the Army surplus Aeronca L-3C (NC49054) and in
addition, there was a second Army surplus Aeronca L-3C (NC84841), a Piper J-5
Cub (NC33086), Cessna 140 (NC89937), Cessna 140 (72664), Aeronca 7AC Champion
(NC1363E), and a Cessna 120 (NC72981). It was a lifelong dream come
true.
With such an interest in aviation it was inevitable that Forks would soon
have more airplanes per capita than any other town in the U.S., one plane for
every 90 persons. The close symbiotic relationship with N.A.A.S., Quillayute had
stirred the imagination of those who were interested in flight, and a most
important factor was the remote geographical location of Forks.
The closest town was Port Angeles, Washington, a distant of 58 miles.
With the rather primitive freight delivery system that the loggers were
forced to rely upon for delivery of parts, the plane often made the
My father often frequented Art's Place, a tavern along the main street in
Forks. A long time acquaintance,
Eugene Fraker, had approached my father and asked him to fly into Port Angeles
to pick up a truck part so that he could be back on the road in the morning.
At that time, my father did not have his private license, so together
they drove to the Forks Airport where I had just changed the oil on our Cessna
120 (NC77480). I was asked by my
father to take Mr. Fraker to Port Angeles where he would pick up the truck
part that was to be delivered to the airport.
I agreed to go, and had soon replaced the cowling and made a quick
preflight check of the airplane.
It was late in the afternoon of August 28,1947 when Eugene and I buckled
our seat belts and my father spun the prop.
We taxied to the north end of the airport
Upon our arrival at the Port Angeles Airport I noted that we had made
good time and had flown the distance in 30 minutes.
I taxied to the tie down area, and while I remained with the plane, Gene
ran into the office to pick up the truck part.
Much to his surprise he found that the part had not been delivered.
After making a quick phone call he returned to the plane and said that he
would have to take a taxi into town and pick up the part.
I tied the plane down and walked into the small West Coast Airlines
Terminal to await Gene’s return.
Within 20 minutes Gene had returned with the part and we began our return
trip to Forks. We followed the West
Coast Airlines DC-3 as it taxied out to the runway, and after it had taken off
we begun our takeoff run. This was
the last West Coast flight for the day, and following its departure the airport
closed for the night. It was late
as we lifted from the runway, I cut the pattern short, climbed to 1,000 feet,
trimmed for level flight, and set the cruise a little higher than normal in an
attempt make up some time on the return flight. The flight between the mountains
that surrounded Lake Crescent was
beautiful in the late evening light, and
as we continued we passed Riverside, Sappho
and Beaver School. Upon our arrival
over Tyee it was dusk and the cars below had turned on their headlights.
At this point, there seemed to be no cause for alarm as by cutting cross
country and entering the Forks prairie through the saddle in the mountains to
the north. At this point, the
distance to the airport was but a short 8 miles.
I made the gradual turn, aimed the plane’s nose towards the saddle and
began a shallow decent bringing the airspeed up to about 120 mph.
The engine droned on, Gene was silent as he looked down from his window
into the vast field of fog stretched out below.
The scene took on a surrealistic quality, as the thoughts began to race
through my mind. I would have to
stay calm! The Cessna’s instrument panel was sparse, and was not equipped with
radio, instrument, navigation or landing lights.
There were no flashlights on board and neither of us smoked so no matches
were available. The only
elements that I had going for us were, a good familiarity with the aircraft, the
terrain, and 194 hours of logged flight time. All of these factors were definitely a big plus for I could
fly by feel, sound and shear instinct. I’m
not sure if Gene fully grasped the desperate seriousness of the situation at
this point. He was not familiar
with airplanes; maybe it was to his advantage as I was frightened---and one
frightened person in a cockpit was surely enough.
A quick mental calculation was made on fuel, and as Port Angeles was the
nearest airfield, and possibly the
only field that we could reach with the available fuel, made that part of my
decision easy. How was the fog in
Port Angeles? Was the field clear?
Could the field lights be turned on?
Would it be wise to ditch in the Strait of Juna De Fuca off Port Angeles?
We seemed to circle the fog covered field for an eternity as I thought
out my options. I made my decision.
We would fly to the coast, follow the coastline to the north and the
rotating beacon at Tatoosh Island Weather Station.
(This island is just off Cape Flattery and the mouth of the Strait of
Juan De Fuca.) From there, pick up the beacon located at the Port Angeles harbor
and in this manner hopefully I could locate the Port Angeles Airport, which is
south of town. I was in hopes that
upon hearing the plane circle the field someone would turn on the field lights
and save the night. It was a long
shot, but at this point it was all that we had going for us.
As we discussed my plan, Gene and I weighed the options once more,
finally agreeing that it was our best chance to survive, and we decided to go
for it.
It was one of those times when peripheral vision seemed better than
looking directly at an object. I
turned from our circling pattern and quickly covered the 10 miles to the Pacific
Ocean north of La Push. As we
approached the coast we could see the faint glow of the green phosphorescent
waves as they washed the beach of the western shore.
The plane turned parallel to the coastline and with the glow out the left
window of the plane we continued north along the coast until we finally had a
visual on the beacon from Tatoosh Island. By
flying along the coast to Port Angeles, altitude was not as critical as flying
the mountain passes of the inland route. So
far…things were going well with the master plan, but of course, we weren't on
the ground yet! The entire flight
so far had taken on that dreamlike quality, with the feeling that you would soon
awaken and find yourself tucked safely in bed----but it just wouldn’t happen!
Much to my surprise when we made the eastward turn at Tatoosh Island and
headed into the Strait of Juan De Fuca, the phosphorescence continued along the
shoreline as though it had been sent to guide us on our way.
By now, Gene was
We made a wide circle around the beacon and dropped down to less than 500
feet, turning southward so that we could pick up any sight of the airport.
The night
Thoughts raced through my mind in an incoherent pattern, but the bottom
line at this time was to circle the area until moon rise and then try and locate
the field. In what seemed an
eternity, the moonlight finally bathed the tree-studded flatland east of the
shore and it was looking good. Once
more we flew towards the beacon, and started a 180 degree turn, dropping to an
altitude several hundred feet above the water and flying along the very edge of
the encroaching fog bank and searched for the moon’s light upon the runway.
Suddenly, there it was…the runway!
I immediately made a wide, shallow turn over the fog bank, aligned my
flight path with the now faintly illuminated runway and started my final
approach.
Once more peripheral vision was to play an important role as the runway
came closer and closer. I realized
that there would be no time to survey the runway.
This first landing attempt had to be right.
As we approached the west end of the runway I noticed that the dim
lighting condition had diminished my depth perception, and a quick decision was
made to attempt a three-point landing (Possibly not my smartest decision).
I cut the throttle back, eased the wheel back and stalled about three
feet above the runway. As the plane made hard contact with the runway, it hit at
about a 10 to 20 degree angle to the left and the spring steel landing gear of
the Cessna 120, jettisoned the plane to the right and off
the runway, cutting a swath through a small forest of three foot Alder
trees. An instant reflex kick of
the left rudder and brake brought the plane back onto the runway, past the numbers at the eastern most end of the runway.
We slowly rolled to a stop with the end of the field less than 10 yards out the
right window. Gene and I just sat
there for a long time, neither of us saying a word, with only the throbbing of
the engine in our ears. My shirt
and pants were drenched in perspiration, and I fully expected to see snow white
hair when next I looked into a mirror. The
plane was taxied to the tie down area where it was secured for the night. It was
great to be back on terrafirma once more, and, of course, alive.
But the nightmare continued in Forks.
My parents had been at the Forks Airport when we had been circling the
field. Upon hearing our departure
for La Push and the coast, Bill advised calling the Port Angeles Police
Department informing them of our predicament, and requesting that they be on the
lookout for our plane. For some
reason they could not manage to have the lights turned on the airport before our
arrival. Bill had been correct in his assessment of my decision process, and had
assured my parents that, “if anyone can figure it out, Harvey can.”
I’m sure that if he had been able to read my mind at any one given
moment, he may not have been so sure of his statement.
After securing the airplane, Gene and I looked for a telephone, but all
of the phones were locked inside the terminal.
We walked to Highway 112 and as we headed towards Port Angeles we found a
service station that was open. While
we attempted to call the Forks Airport, a highway patrol car raced past with
lights and siren, seemingly headed towards the airport.
All of the phone lines were busy to Forks, in fact we later learned that
there was an open line from Forks to the Port Angeles Police Department and the
Washington State Highway Patrol Office. As
we made our futile attempt to phone Forks Airport I saw the Highway Patrol car
heading back towards Port Angeles. I
ran to the side of the road and flagged him down, and told him who we were.
There was a quick radio call, and Forks was informed of our good fortune.
Once the telephone lines were clear I reached the Forks Airport and
talked with my parents. My dad
said, “I’m glad you are okay Harvey,” and I could detect a quiver in his
voice. My mother was crying when we
talked and was relieved at our safe arrival at the Port Angeles Airport.
I spoke with Bill briefly and he commended me for my decisions and skill
during the harrowing flight.
We caught a ride into Port Angeles with the Highway Patrol, rented a
hotel room, ate dinner and in an
attempt to wind down took in a movie. As
I lie in bed that night, I thought how fortunate we had been, and I was sure
that Bill’s early strict, regimented and persistent instructions had been a
major contributing factor in saving our lives.
Even after a half-century has passed, Bill’s words still ring in my
ears, always have a landing field in mind.
Often as Bill was instructing me he would cut the throttle, and I had
better be ready for an emergency landing. There
is an old saying among pilots which goes: “There
are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold
pilots.” That night’s flight
had not been a case of a bold pilot, it had been a desperate attempt to survive
an incident where God surely must have been present in the cockpit.
Truly, God was my copilot.
That evening's flight was
simply recorded in my Pilot Log Book as follows:
Date Aircraft Make-Model
8/28/47 NC77480 Cessna 120
From To Duration of flight Remarks
Forks P.A. 1:30 XC