Flight of the Forgotten. Mark A. Vance
I’m old enough to start right now.”
“Oh my! Fly? Fly what?” she asked apprehensively.
“Little Cessna’s first and then jets!” I announced emphatically.
“Jets? But aren’t jet pilots trained in the service?” she asked nervously.
“If that’s what it takes, then that’s what I’ll do.” I declared, watching her look away in distress. “What is it?” I asked, trying to sense her thoughts.
“Come here a minute, there’s something I want to show you.” she ordered, rising from the table and leading me down a small hallway. Halfway down, she pointed to a large photo on the wall and asked, “Do you know who that is?” as I stared at the photograph and nodded.
“Buster.” I replied, as we both stared at the photograph for a moment.
“Do you know what happened to my brother?” she asked, fighting back a tear as she brushed a hint of dust from the photograph.
“I know there was a crash, but not what really happened to him.” I said carefully, eyeing her, waiting for a response.
“We never found out. His bomber blew up on the way home and the whole crew was killed.” she finally said sadly, wiping her eyes. “And now you want to be a pilot?”
“Well …” I stammered, suddenly at a loss for words.
“Today is the anniversary of his crash. Twenty-six years ago and it still feels like yesterday.” she said, staring again at the photograph as I suddenly felt more awkward than ever.
“It doesn’t have to be like that, Grandma … it’s … it’s … something I have to do.” I finally managed, as she looked at me suspiciously.
Eventually though, my grandmother surprised me by declaring, “Well, I suppose I can stand it if you say you have to do it, if it’s your true calling in life. But promise me you’ll be careful and you won’t fly in outer space. I don’t think I could handle that.” she said, squeezing my hand for emphasis.
“You’ve got a deal, Grandma, no outer space and I’ll be real careful.” I promised, hugging her to seal the agreement. “Did anybody ever try to find out what happened?” I asked, nodding at the photograph.
“Nobody ever knew.” she said sadly, adjusting the photograph again as it sat in its place of honor on her wall.
“He’s okay, Grandma. Buster’s with me all the time.” I said softly as she stared at me curiously for several moments. “He’s the reason for all of this.”
September 22, 1971, Houston, Texas
“Well, what do you think, Mark? Can you get it around the pattern without killing yourself?” my flight instructor asked, eyeing me intently. “Let me feel your pulse first.” he ordered, reaching across and feeling my wrist as I held the throttle firmly. “You’re okay … a little excited, but that’s normal.” he said reassuringly, keying the microphone and announcing, “Cessna 11523 is full stop this time.” as he watched me work the controls awkwardly. When I turned the little trainer onto final approach, he reminded, “Now remember, I’ll be standing right over there.” gesturing at a point near the end of the runway. “Plan on four touch and go’s and one full stop, unless you hear from me. After you let me off, go through your checklist just like we practiced and take all the time you need. Do a run-up, and don’t forget to talk on the radio.” he ordered as I nodded in response.
When we finally landed and taxied over to the side of the runway, my flight instructor exclaimed, “Okay, that’s good, I’ll get out right here!” as he unstrapped his seat belt and opened the door. “Good luck!” he added, shaking my hand firmly before stepping out and disappearing. As I latched the door behind him, I paused for a moment to glance around the tiny cockpit. I had never felt more alone than I did at this very moment. Leaning forward and carefully releasing the parking brake, I began taxiing the little Cessna to the run-up area. Suddenly, I wasn’t alone anymore at all.
“We’ve both been waiting for this moment for some time. Come on. You can do it. You’ll be fine. All you have to do is concentrate.” Buster said to me as I stared in shock at the ghostly figure beside me. “There’s a first time for everything. No need to worry. I’m here for you.” he insisted. “It’s just a step on the way. You want to be a jet pilot someday, don’t you?” he prompted as I kept staring at him for several seconds.
“I want to be a jet pilot.” I echoed.
“Well, then?” he said as I began to recover from the initial shock of his presence and started running up the engine.
“I’m just here to help. Don’t be afraid of me. It’s going to be fine.” he said reassuringly as I nodded and tried to follow the checklist carefully.
When I finally finished and taxied onto the runway for takeoff, the sensation of having him beside me as I pushed the throttle forward is still very real to me. It was after all, my first solo flight, a monumental event in any aviator’s life and one I was sharing with my lost uncle. I wasn’t old enough to drive a car and yet here I was the pilot in command of an airplane. As we raced down the runway, I pulled back carefully on the control wheel and felt the tiny Cessna trainer lift off and begin climbing. I can still remember thinking, “Okay, now I have to get this thing back on the ground. My life depends on it.”
“I’m right here.” my uncle reminded. “Nothing is going to happen. Concentrate … concentrate.” he encouraged as we circled the pattern for my first landing.
“Carry a little extra power on this one. Keep the nose up. Easy … easy.” he encouraged as the tiny trainer touched smoothly and I applied full power for the touch and go.
“Not bad.” he remarked as we climbed back into the air.
Minutes later, after my second successful landing, I was feeling completely at ease and actually enjoying myself as he and I flew around the pattern together again and again.
“I’ll always be here whenever you’re flying.” Buster said reassuringly as he continued coaching and guiding me. “You have nothing to fear in an airplane.” he said, as I nodded in understanding.
Minutes later, when I finally made the last landing, I brought the little Cessna to a smooth stop and began taxiing over to my instructor.
“This is where I leave you now.” my uncle said softly. “Remember, you’re going to be a jet pilot someday.” he reminded before vanishing from sight.
When I reached my flight instructor, the man was grinning from ear to ear. Opening the cockpit door, he exclaimed, “Congratulations!” and shook my hand firmly as he climbed back inside the cockpit. I then taxied the tiny Cessna to the parking area, shut the engine down and thought about what had just happened. Buster had been with me the entire time, coaching me, encouraging me, directing me. It wasn’t really like a solo flight at all. With my lost uncle in the right seat, I had just flown around the pattern five times.
“Can I give you a lift?” my flight instructor asked as we tied the airplane down and finished the necessary paperwork.
“Sure, if I can throw my bike in the back.”
“Your bike? Oh, that’s right. You don’t start driver’s training until next summer.” he teased as we began walking toward the parking lot. I remember glancing back repeatedly at that little Cessna that day, wondering if the life I’d chosen was part of some larger plan involving Buster himself. He’d just said he would always be there whenever I was flying.
February 17, 1977, Seaplane Charter from New Orleans to Lake Charles, Louisiana
They say that people who fly the “bush” are either the world’s best pilots or the world’s craziest. I guess at the time I thought