Sojourners of the Sky Read Online Free PDF Page B

said the New York radar controller.
    “Roger,” answered the tower controller. Then, keying his microphone to transmit over the radio, the Idlewild controller said, “Clipper forty-two, contact New York radar on one two-two decimal four.”
    “Clipper forty-two, one two-two-four. Goodnight,” said John.
    On the ground at the New York radar control facility located at the Newark, New Jersey airport, Roscoe Jones watched as Clipper forty-two’s primary radar target suddenly appeared off the end of runway two-two. He had no idea what flight forty-two’s altitude was, nor of the difficulties they’d encountered during their takeoff. The only thing he saw on his scope was a bright green dot that he knew was a Pan Am DC6 enroute to London Heathrow. He would rely on his memory regarding which dots represented which airplanes while they were under his control. On a narrow strip of green paper, Roscoe noted the flight’s proposed route and altitude.
    Roscoe’s shift was nearly over and he hoped to get the Pan Am DC6 off his frequency as rapidly as possible. Though he didn’t much relish the idea of going home and dealing with a pregnant wife who was convinced that she was the size of a bus, he figured a few brews on the way there would take the edge off of his spouse’s hormones. He loved his wife deeply, but very much looked forward to the day when her familiar personality returned.
    “New York radar, Clipper forty-two is off Idlewild,” stated John. “We’re proceeding to Islip and climbing to eight thousand.”
    “Clipper forty-two, New York, radar contact. Report level at eight thousand,” ordered Roscoe.
    “Roger wilco,” responded John, advising the controller that he would comply.
    “Set climb power, G.R. The engines are yours,” advised Charles.
    G.R. set the throttles to the recommended horsepower for climb and then slowly pulled aft on the master propeller pitch control lever, increasing the pitch on each of the four propellers. Next, using one finger per propeller, he fine tuned the prop pitch using four small toggle switches on the center pedestal. Once everything was stabilized, G.R. adjusted the four mixture levers to reduce the fuel consumption of the engines. The last thing the flight engineer did was to open the engine cowl flaps, reminding himself to close them once the engine temperatures were back in the green. If he forgot, when the airplane’s speed increased they would cause the entire airframe to shake and everyone in the cockpit would know that he’d screwed up.
    With the most important tasks complete, G.R. stood and returned to his small panel where he could monitor the engines more precisely. Off and on during the course of the flight, G.R. would have to switch between his forward and aft positions in order to make any necessary adjustments.
    Once things settled down, Asa stretched out on the lower bunk; the same one that he and Lars had been sitting on for takeoff. Lars, being lower on the totem pole, took the top bunk. They each drew a small curtain around their individual rest area to cut down on the noise and ambient light. The two would rest as best they could until it was time to give the more senior crew members a break.
    Lars Larson had spent the previous four years as a DC3 mechanic. He worked hard, impressed the right people, and then managed to pull off a transfer into flight operations. Lars grew up in a very rough Providence, Rhode Island neighborhood--in a household that was often just a few dollars shy of being considered dirt poor. Lars’s father, an immigrant from Norway, served as first mate on the Jane and Irsla, an old wooden dragger that fished the waters off Block Island. Though Lars spoke Norwegian at home and near perfect English to his friends, to survive on the street he possessed the ability to forget there was an “R” in the alphabet. The selectively ignored letter caused his words to sound something like, “Paahking the caah,” when he spoke. He could