It was a cool spring day in March. I had been flying solo above the North Dakota countryside. I had been practicing some maneuvers, a few stalls and such. With only a handful of hours in my logbook, I was inexperienced enough to forget a cardinal rule: Always pull on the carburetor heat during these kinds of maneuvers. The carburetor had iced up, causing the engine to stall.
I was 19 and would be entering the Marines in a couple of weeks. It was 1952, and Korea was the next stop, I was sure of it. This was my last chance to fly for a long time, and I loved to do stalls. I'd made a number of stupid mistakes during my short flying career, although at the time the resulting close calls hadn't frightened me. I was young and, like many young men of my day, believed that I was indestructible.
I flashed back to the previous winter when I had carelessly taken off on an overcast day. I didn't realize that the visibility was zero above 50 feet until after I was flying blind. I did the only thing I could think of. I banked 90 degrees to the left and counted silently as I estimated the necessary distance before banking left another 90 degrees. Then, in my mind's eye, I was flying the normal downwind leg of the traffic pattern. Soon it was time to make the third 90-degree left turn, but there was another problem. I knew there were tall trees, stacks of hay, and farm equipment on the ground below. If the ceiling held to 50 feet, I would see them before it was too late. If not?
I didn't think I had a choice. I had to drop down to what I hoped would be a point near the end of the runway where another 90-degree left turn would bring me onto final approach. I gingerly pushed the nose down, my eyes straining out of their sockets. Still nothing but white. I made the final 90-degree left turn and prayed. Had I judged the distance accurately enough to find the runway? I made the turn and pushed the nose down even further...dropping...dropping...searching...searching. There it was. Straight in front of me. I couldn't believe it. I wasted no time getting back on the ground. A close call to be sure, but I wasn't about to let myself think about what might have been.
Another time I was landing at the unfamiliar field of a nearby farmer who provided fuel for the flying club. It looked like there was a poorly marked landing strip between a hangar and the farmer's home. As I made the final approach across a road, I saw a thin black line running across the windshield - a power line. I shoved the nose down, just missing it and finishing the landing. Of course, I wasn't on the landing strip. It was just a grassy taxi area to the gas tanks. The farmer was angry, and I was apologetic. The farmer quietly said, "We all have to learn, but them that don't git buried six feet under." Food for thought.
Now I realized that I hadn't thought about it enough. Here I was on the spot again...alone with no power. The previous year, another member of the club had crashed an airplane while trying to stretch his glide over power lines. The memory of that accident filled my mind as I glanced at the airspeed, which was falling fast. This airplane had a reputation for dropping like a rock, so I pushed the nose down sharply to regain airspeed. I pulled up and over a power line, kicking the airplane into a right turn to line up with the distant stubble field. I was dropping too fast, but I was committed now. Forgetting best glide speed, I pulled the stick back to my belt buckle, trying to keep the nose up and stretch the glide. Wham! The wheels slammed into a plowed field, making one huge, froglike leap before stopping on the edge of the stubble field I had been aiming for.
I climbed out and checked for damage. I knew why the engine had stopped, so I didn't hesitate to restart it, not realizing that I shouldn't fly until the airplane had been inspected by a mechanic.
I was near the road, and I looked to see if any cars were passing by. I would be embarrassed if anyone had seen me. I had to get out of there. I pulled the prop through to start the engine, then got back into the airplane and stood on the brakes while pushing the throttle forward. When the plane fairly vibrated, I released the brakes. The airplane catapulted forward and leapt off the ground. As I rose above the field, I saw a deep ditch come into view below. If the plane hadn't lifted when it did, it would have been a disaster.
I forced myself not to think about it and made a beeline back to the airport, landed, tied down, and walked into the empty warming shack. It was then I began to shiver and shake. As I relived the experience, I reached an inescapable conclusion: Someone was watching over me. I had a guardian angel.
Over the next few days I kept to myself. In a small town like mine you never got away with much. Surprisingly, no one mentioned seeing me land, and it wasn't front-page news in the Chronicle. Apparently, I had gotten away with it. I went flying one last time before leaving for boot camp, applying the principle that if you fall off a bicycle you should get right back on. I didn't like to consider the possibility that my guardian angel would get tired of protecting me, but I decided that from now on, I would use my head and make her job easier...just in case.
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