An early morning fog muffled our footsteps as my crew and I crossed the cobblestoned courtyard of the old German kaserne (barracks) toward our two helicopters. I could feel the occasional snowflake swirling through the gray morning mist stealing into my uniform, causing me to shudder and chilling me to the bone. I was a second lieutenant, barely out of flight training, returning home after one of my first missions.
Our flight crew consisted of two instructor pilots, the safety officer, and me. The commander, flight surgeon, and operations officer were also on board as passengers. These men had higher rank and more experience than me, and I looked up to them.
We readied for an hour-and-a-half flight over what had recently been East Germany. No weather radar was available to help the forecasters determine conditions over our route, and there was only one airport along the way. It was Sunday; that airfield was closed, so en route refueling was not an option. I asked if we shouldn't wait until the next day to leave but was told, "We must get home today."
As I attempted to start the engine, I heard only the pop-popping of the igniter plugs without corresponding ignition. Both aircraft failed to start because of frozen fuel lines.
One of the crew chiefs found a heater and extension cords. We connected them to reach my helicopter, warmed the engine, and thawed the frozen fuel lines.
Still the helicopter rebelled when we tried to start up; the rotor blades turned lethargically in their rotational swings. We cranked our engines for a third time with the crew chiefs using a modified prop start routine: One crew chief ran with the other balanced on his shoulders trying to keep hold of the blade as they circled the helicopter. Stopping short of the tail boom, the rider jumped off and the runner slid underneath. Slowly, the blades accelerated and within minutes we took off with our passengers and cargo of luggage, weapons, and bullets — on the verge of maximum gross weight.
We repositioned the aircraft to a nearby airport to top off the fuel tanks and call for a weather brief. Lacking radar or other information, the forecaster stated there were no clouds in the area and visibility was unlimited. The pilot mentioned that we had experienced snowfall, and the briefer put him on hold. He returned with a pilot report of snowfall and revised our official weather brief to include conditions barely good enough to fly. I mentioned that we should file an IFR flight plan but was told we had to go VFR to avoid routings at high altitudes, which would waste fuel. We had barely enough to get home.
We departed into a light snow. Nightfall soon brought low visibility and more intense storms. Flying the second helicopter, behind and to the left of the lead, I was suddenly snow-blind: Brilliant white flecks flew at me like a scene from Star Wars. The helicopter in front of me slowed suddenly and seemed to flash back past my window. On one side, I could barely discern the delineation between dark- and medium-gray lines across the horizon. Cautiously decreasing speed, I turned toward that singular bleak landmark wondering about the location of our other helicopter.
Over the radios, we asked each other, "Where are you?" The other pilot said, "I'm landing in a field." Still circling, I realized that the border between gray colors represented the end of a forest and beginning of farmland. Knowing that we had to land, I went for the lighter color.
Medium gray soon became white as we flew in for a landing in an asparagus field. We bumped over the mounds and furrows, settling to a stop. We shuddered to see our sister ship sitting uncomfortably close to us. Realizing that we could have had a collision, we shakily climbed out of the helicopter.
The crew chiefs removed the batteries to prevent them from freezing. Friendly locals guided us to the village gasthaus (hotel). As we warmed ourselves with strong German coffee and some beef stew, the storms lessened. We called again to check the weather, and this time got a report of fair skies.
Once again in lieu of radar the forecaster used our pilot report, giving us a weather picture favorable enough to depart. Instinct told me we should remain on the ground. Surrounded by pilots with more experience, I assumed I was being too conservative about this "normal" German winter weather and I went along with the planned flight home.
En route, everything bad that could happen did. Low on fuel and high on gross weight, we could not afford to turn on the interior heat. My feet on the metal pedals felt like ice blocks, and my hands became stiff on the controls. Cockpit panel light covers shrunk from the cold, popping out and blinding us with light. We jabbed our pens at the tiny bulbs, breaking them to maintain our night vision outside of the cockpit. Unfortunately, we also eliminated our ability to use those caution lights on the panel.
Suddenly, a biting wind billowed into the cockpit. A window had dislodged and fallen into the aft cabin "hell hole" on top of the ammunition. One of our crew chiefs climbed over the back and after some struggle got the window back into place.
We lost radio communication with our sister ship for almost a half hour, then eventually lost our navigational aids as well. With visibility too poor to navigate, I flew strictly by the last compass heading, hoping it would lead us home.
Finally, a light on the horizon signaled our return, but Low Fuel annunciators blazing forced us to refuel at an airport less than 10 miles from base. I emerged from the cockpit with a tremendous urge to kiss the ground.
We had no business living through this flight, but I thank God that we did. This learning experience helped me decide to never depend on the experts, but rather to evaluate their input and consider all other factors involved before making a decision for myself — . decision that is uniquely mine. Never again will I push my limits with fuel reserves, and I'll fly on an IFR flight plan if the situation dictates. Most important, I decided that the next time my gut instinct tells me to stay on the ground, I will postpone the flight or take an alternate route.
Kathleen M. Meilahn has accumulated more than 1,700 hours in helicopters and airplanes. She is a first officer for a commuter airline on military leave of absence flying a C-130 Hercules in the California Air National Guard. Meilahn was recently promoted to major.
An original "Never Again" story is published each month on AOPA Online ( www.aopa.org/pilot/never_again/).
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from the experiences of others. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
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