Cockpit Capers

Roger Wilco, as if you didn't know, is a pen name. Because the young corporation pilot who wrote this factual article is still very actively flying, etc., he prefers his real identity to be kept a secret. As he told us, "The story you are about to read is true. Only the names have been changed, to protect – me." Over and out.

All Afternoon The Professor had put me through a series of psychological tests. I had walked blindfolded a prescribed route which crisscrossed the room; had stuck pencils in vertical rows of circles; tried to put round pegs in square circles; and had attempted to place an odd-sized lid on a small box. All to find out whether I was capable of flying a transport plane for one of the nation's largest steel corporations. But the professor – experienced head-shrinker that he was – fouled up. He should have had a nude babe walking back and forth in the room while I took the tests. It would've helped later.

After I started flying for the steel corporation it didn't take me long to discover that the professor and I both had a few facts to learn about the executive flying industry. There was one phase of this type of flying that all the psychological tests in the book didn't touch – the "cockpit playmate" kick as practiced by the feminine passengers who are turning the wild blue yonder into an aerial Casbah.

It came as a complete surprise to me. After four years as a pilot in the Air Force, flying everything from liaison puddle-jumpers to heavy bombers and jets, I thought I had experienced most types of in-flight emergencies. My concern was to adjust myself to the proper relationship between executive pilot and the top management personnel I'd be carrying. I kept reminding myself that I'd have to be very careful how I acted with my passengers. I'll admit the thought of meeting some lovely heiresses had crossed my mind, but I wasn't exactly starving to death for feminine companionship and I planned to keep my manner impersonal enough to insure that I'd keep my job. No horseplay or over-familiarity. How wrong can a man be?

After a week of refresher training in a converted C-46 and a thorough study of the corporation's "Flying Policy Manual," the chief pilot assigned me to the single-engine Bonanza used for short trips. He smiled as he handed me the flight form for the Bonanza. "You flew jets in the Tactical Air Command, eh?" he remarked. "The outfit that stays fast and loose."

I nodded.

"Well you sure have to be fast and loose on this job, too."

I didn't understand his meaning but I wasn't long in finding out that all "Warm fronts" aren't restricted to weather conditions. The young, supple daughters and daughters-in-law of the top executives, the gals who specialize in full length love affairs within the confines of a cockpit just slightly larger than an oversized hat box, can make the temperature inside a plane cabin zoom like a stratosphere-bound jet. I discovered this fact on my very first executive flight.

I prepared for this flight in the Bonanza with all the care of a Pan American captain heading for South America. I checked the weather, made a detailed pre-flight inspection of the plane, had my clearance ready and was standing at the aircraft waiting when the corporation's Cadillac pulled up. I knew in advance that I was to take a passenger to Washington, D. C., and I assumed that one of the top brass was going to the capital on business. Instead, a blonde as sleek and streamlined as a rocket ship stepped out of the car. She was living proof that they hadn't thrown away the Monroe-Mansfield mold. I didn't visibly drool but I definitely felt those primal stirrings. And I had to remind myself that this was business, business and not monkey business or wolf business.

Giving me a curt nod, she asked, "Is the plane ready?"

"Yes, ma'm."

"Then let's go. I must be in Washington by four P.M."

The chief mechanic helped her onto the wing and into the plane. I settled myself in the left seat, checked Blondie's safety belt as impersonally as I could manage, fastened my own, and started the engine. The tower cleared us to runway 28 and a couple of minutes later we rolled out for take-off. I let the Bonanza run up to 55 mph on its own, lightened the nosewheel a little and we flew off smoothly. Easing the manifold pressure back to 25 inches and setting the RPM to 2200, I started a climb to enroute altitude.

Everything was normal for the first 15 minutes. Blondie smoked a cigarette and watched the scenery while I checked the needles on the panel. The proximity of my beauteous cargo and the aroma of perfume and expensive clothes had my heart beating a little fast, but I was under control. Assured that I was making a good impression on my first passenger, I tried to relax. At 7000 feet I leveled off, closed the cowl flaps and readjusted the trim tabs. The check points passed rapidly and right on the nose. Everything was S.O.P. We were just passing over Johnstown, Pennsylvania, when this aerial wench got down to business.

"Snap on the Lear," she said.

That was the first indication I had that she was familiar with the plane. Not only did she know we had an automatic pilot, she knew who made it.

"Don't you like the way I'm flying the plane?" I asked.

"Don't be silly. Why waste your time playing with a control column?"

I didn't get it – not even then. I was a dope, and not the kind you put on the wing fabric, either. Reaching over to the panel, I set up "George" and snapped the switch. The next instant Blondie shed her safety belt.

"You better leave that belt fastened," I said. "It might get rough." I know my heartbeat was getting a little rough.

By this time she was easing out of her seat and moving towards me. "It might at that," she remarked.

She wasn't fooling. Before I could reply her mouth was pressed against mine, her tongue caressing my lips, her teeth delicately nipping me in a kiss that threatened to light the fire warning bulb.

"How was that, Honey?" she asked as she unzippered her skirt.

I tried to think what the manual said about this type of emergency but the flight instruments and engine controls lost importance as I gazed at her bare thighs.

I made one last effort in the interests of C.A.B. and my job. "I-er-ah had better watch the plane," I muttered.

"You do that," she said softly, twining her arms around my neck and pressing her lovely, luscious body hard against mine.

So from Johnstown until we were a few minutes out of Washington, D.C., the Bonanza took a beating. I learned some positions that I never knew were possible for a human body. By the time I contacted the tower at the National Airport I barely had strength enough left to land the plane. As I taxied to the ramp Blondie used her compact. When she stepped out of the plane she looked as fresh and innocent as a country girl on her first trip away from the farm. She nodded and disappeared into the waiting limousine. She didn't even say thank you – for my excellent piloting, I mean.

The day after the Washington flight, I was promoted to the corporation's DC-3. Evidently Blondie must have told her mother about the abilities of the new pilot because a guy usually spends a year or so in the single-engine planes before he moves up to the twin-engine category. The DC-3, among other features, had two full-length divans and I soon discovered they got as much wear and tear as the twin Pratt & Whitney engines out on the wings. Luxury was the keynote for this plane. Besides the divans there were a desk, a small bar and several swivel chairs for sightseeing. Luxurious living was evident, too, in the wives of corporation officials who used this aircraft. They liked the comfort of the divans and the unhurried pace of the larger transport which gave them more time to accomplish. what Blondie did. Besides, there are two pilots on the DC-3, giving these aerial love-bugs more variety.

"The comfort of the passengers is considered of first importance," the Director of Flight Operations told me emphatically as he briefed me on the transport. "You, as captain of the plane, are responsible to see that everything within reason is done to keep them happy."

I did.

The first two flights were uneventful. I took the president and his staff to Chicago, then flew the sales manager and his top men to E1 Paso, Texas, for a convention. But it didn't take long to find out that the DC-3 not only could dive, it could also turn into one.

It happened on my third flight as captain of the transport, a jaunt to Miami Beach. I filed my clearance under contact flight rules – I don't know whether the C.A.A. had in mind body contact or not when it named this type of clearance but on this flight it certainly was appropriate. Two executives and their wives boarded the plane.

"This will be a snap," I muttered to my new copilot, a young fresh lad still not initiated into the realm of playboy flying.

After making certain the passengers were comfortable I went into the pilot's compartment. I relaxed into the left seat and checked the more than 60 items on the check list as the copilot called them off. After we ran up the engines at the end of the runway and the tower cleared us into position, I motioned to the copilot to take the controls. "You (concluded on page 78) Cockpit Capers (continued from page 54 take it up."

He made a smooth take-off. After a 90-degree turn out of traffic, when I'd adjusted the manifold pressure and RPM for climb, I walked back into the cabin to see if the passengers were enjoying the ride. Just as I closed the flight deck door the nearest VIP called to me.

"Captain, Joe and I want to get off at Columbia, South Carolina. We're going hunting for two or three days. Our wives will go on to Miami and we'll meet them there later."

Just what the two men had on their minds, I don't know, but on the divan the two women were smiling broadly. Especially the light-haired spouse who was pleasingly plump in the right places, fore and aft, who warbled, "You must be the marvelous new pilot that took my daughter to Washington last week. She was so impressed with you." Her eyebrows arched slightly as she gave me a knowing smile. But then, so did her equally gay companion, a statuesque and well-upholstered brunette.

As I watched the two steel executives walk across the ramp towards the terminal building at Columbia I felt like a hungry man faced with a choice of a succulent chicken or a juicy steak.

Ten minutes out of Columbia, I got a bright idea. "Copilot,go check the cabin. Make certain that the passengers are all right," I said as I trimmed the DC-3 for level flight. As he opened the door, I added, "No hurry. Stay as long as you want."

He was a good boy, naive but ambitious. I felt proud of myself for giving him this chance for rapid promotion while relieving myself of the need to make a choice of divan companion.

It didn't work. In two minutes by the clock on the panel he was back. "They want you, sir. Something about the automatic pilot."

I never had a chance. What they lacked in fire and fury, they made up for in distance. From Columbia to Charleston it was the light-haired Mama; from Charleston to Jacksonville, her pal. The rest of the way to Miami Beach it was a free-for-all.

"All play and some work" helps a pilot up the ladder of success, everything else being equal. Naturally, you can't become an executive pilot without first having the experience and background required. A lush job in this field is the aim of every pilot that knows a blind approach doesn't mean coming home drunk. Yet the qualifications are rigid. Several thousand hours in the log book,an Airline Transport Rating, and a good score on the head-shrinkers' tests are necessary. But once you are chasing landscape contours in a business plane it doesn't hurt to examine a few feminine contours, too. I know because when the corporation leased a DC-7, one of the world's most modern transports.I was assigned to fly it although I was one of the youngest pilots on the payroll.

It was quite a bird, packed with electronic gear and a maze of gauges, switches, needles and buttons. And because of the long range of this four-engine transport, there were bunks for the crew members to use during their rest periods. At least, that is the idea in having them. On a regular airline like Pan American, for instance, passengers are prohibited from entering this compartment. On company-owned planes, though, the top brass and their wives go where they please. And whenever a female discovers that the high altitude brings out the mating urge in her, she takes off for the bunks.

Like the treasurer's wife on the NewYork to Gander, Newfoundland, leg of a trans-Atlantic flight recently. She slipped into the bunk compartment while I was drinking a cup of coffee. Before I realized what was happening she started disrobing.

"Hurry, Captain. I haven't much time." She was already barefoot up to her chin and stretched out on the lower bunk. Well, since her old man controls the purse strings and she tells him when to pull them, in all probability – and because she was a cozy looking doll – I eased in for a spot landing on the lower bunk.

Of course, not all the distaffers of the executive echelon were sex hungry, beautiful wenches – but a surprising number were. Enough so that, to my amazement, there were times when I felt I'd had it and hoped for an all-male flight. But I discovered that "pilot error" in executive flying lingo is when you say no. I learned that you don't just buckle a Mae West on a trim miss with a whim. You are expected to pat, caress and squeeze everything the life vest covers. When they are frightened, you hold them close every time the plane goes into a cloud. If a woman has trouble with a fixture in the aerial lavatory and calls for my help, I know she is going to slam the door shut and giggle about how clever she was in getting me alone.

No good pilot considers flying just a job. Partly, pilots fly because they have a sort of incurable disease. They needto fly as men need to breathe. Until I started flying an executive plane, I loved to fly. I still do, but now I'm beginning to believe that I fly to love. And though a plane's not the ideal trysting place in terms of convenience, you do meet a delightful class of lass who's willing to take the initiative – in order to conserve a hard-working pilot's energies, of course.