Lighter than air
By Clive Chatfield
Chapter One
(Please note that copyright of this work remains with the author)
The envelope, hand-addressed in a neat, cursive and totally unfamiliar script, was postmarked CORBY NSW 2533. Mystified, I eased a finger under the flap and opened it. Under a street address in Corby and dated Wednesday, the single, handwritten page came straight to the point:
Dear Mr Worth,
I have been advised that you might be seeking employment in the light aviation industry.
I have a position available for an experienced CFI/Manager in a charter-freight/flying-training business at Corby Airport.
Should you be interested in this position, would you please call me on the number below and reverse the charges.
Yours sincerely
(Mrs)J. Garreth.Below her signature, she'd added a phone number with a New South Wales STD prefix.
I read it through a second time as I wondered, first, who'd told Mrs J. Garreth I was fresh out of a job; second, did she know why; and third, what made her think I'd be interested in trying to eke out a living in an aviation business in a small country town away up the other side of Dubbo and the best part of a thousand kilometres from my comfortable pad in south-suburban Melbourne? The population couldn't have been more than four thousand and, at the best of times, a flying school in a town that size couldn't possibly boast more than half-a dozen students; in other words, I'd be expected to spend most of my time carting freight around the outback in God alone knew what kind of clapped-out pile of junk she'd managed to get an airworthiness certificate for. No thank you, Mrs J. Garreth!
It was Friday and I'd been unemployed exactly a week. I wasn't really concerned about my prospects of finding another job. Sure, around Moorabbin airport, it was generally accepted that Don Worth, Chief Flying Instructor of Progressive Flying Academy, had been sacked; Bruce Carter had seen to that! According to him and a convenient witness he just happened to have with him, I'd disgraced myself at a company party the evening before. He hadn't officially made public the details of my alleged sin, but, as far as I knew, there wasn't a soul on the airport who wasn't fully conversant with them. Not being entirely sure what had happened myself, although I had a damn good idea, I didn't try to refute the tale. Actually, the way I saw it, he hadn't sacked me, anyway - I'd beaten him to it by quitting; but that was only because he'd been having trouble finding his voice after I'd flattened him in his office next morning. That event was widely known, too, despite his attempts to hush it up in case anyone got too inquisitive. Significantly, no charges of any kind, civil or criminal, arose from it - or, for that matter, from what allegedly had occurred the evening before.
A rumour questioning my ability as an instructor and integrity as CFI followed almost immediately, but I didn't bother challenging that either; anyone who knew me at all well would have known that was garbage, probably generated by the flattenee. In fact, I'd had an offer from one of the other schools first thing on the following Monday; but it wasn't for CFI - CFI's at Moorabbin were in short demand, anyway - and so, since I was far from suffering a financial crisis and was quite prepared to shop around, I thanked them politely and said no.
I had no regrets over flattening Carter but I did regret having to quit the academy. It was only one division of Progressive's operations and it hadn't been noticeably affected by the takeover that had placed Carter, a director of the new company, on the board of senior management. Despite the hassles that went with the job, I'd enjoyed working with the rest of the staff. I'd hand-picked my instructors, we had a damn good record and, no matter what anyone might have thought, there was none I really regretted taking on...until that Thursday and that bloody party!
Still, it had freed me to take the extended holiday I'd been idly contemplating for the past several years; which is another way of saying there was nothing to stop me escaping while I waited for the ripples - and my embarrassment - to die away. With Melbourne's July weather pattern running true to form, Queensland had begun to look particularly attractive and I'd been browsing through a touring guide when the mail arrived.
I'd half-decided to travel via Dubbo and spend a couple of days in Coonabarabran, and an alternative route from Dubbo which wasn’t much further would take me through Corby. While Corby didn’t rouse my curiosity - I imagined it was much like any other small town in that part of New South Wales - I had the guide open under C and so I put the letter aside and turned to the entry:
CORBY NSW: Population 4050, 410 km NW Sydney. Located in the Central west district of New South Wales. Noted for cattle and horse studs. Bowls, golf, horse-racing, swimming, water-skiing.
Attractions: Historical Police Station and Court house, Warrumbungle National Park, Lake Corvale National Park, Corvale Dam.Three motels, two hotels and a caravan park were listed.
So I'd understimated the population by fifty. Big deal! I re-read the letter. Garreth - not a common name, but I was sure I'd heard it before and, furthermore, associated with flying. Garreth...Corby... Of course!
BASI, the Bureau of Air Safety Investigation, publishes Asia-Pacific AIR SAFETY, a quarterly magazine circulated to all pilots and throughout the industry generally. Apart from detailed articles on various aspects of aviation safety, often illustrated by the analysis of a specific incident, it includes a section, Aircraft Accident Reports, based on information extracted from accident data files. It takes the place of Aviation Safety Journal, better known as the Crash Comic. As do most pilots, I read it cover-to-cover. My copy of the recent issue was within reach. I reached.
It had happened six months earlier and the report read:
16 Jan. 9-, Cessna 182P, VH-UEW
Charter - passenger/cargo operations, destroyed, C2F
35 km SE Coonamble NSW
Commercial, 6875 hoursThe pilot was accompanied by another member of his company, an experienced commercial pilot with instructor rating. They had carried a passenger on a private charter flight from Corby to Carinda and were carrying freight, a portable generator, on the return flight. Prior to departure from Corby. the pilot-in-command had ascertained that conditions for visual flight were marginal at times due to raised dust and that a sigmet was current for severe turbulence below 10,000 feet. Both flights were conducted under visual rules and, some 35 kilometres south-east of Coonamble, the pilot reported concern regarding security of the cargo. He stated he was reluctant to continue the flight and was about to make a precautionary landing on a convenient gravel road. No further communication was received.
An immediate search was conducted and the wreckage was located close to the flight-planned track soon after.
The aircraft had struck the gravel road in a wing-level, 30-degree nose-down attitude, under full power and with full flaps. It had skidded along some 45 metres before overturning and catching fire. The entire cabin area and inner wing sections were destroyed. The body of the co-pilot was found some distance forward of the wreckage. Acrylic fragments indicated that he was thrown through the windscreen.
Subsequent investigation revealed a broken elevator cable. It had been attacked by sulphuric acid, the break occurring in the vicinity of the battery. It was not possible to determine the condition of the battery itself, nor of the cradle.
It appears that the aircraft stalled. This could have happened if the cable broke when the pilot applied pressure to the control yoke to counter the effect of drag when full flap was selected on short final. The approach speed would have fallen rapidly. In the conditions that prevailed at the time, a lull between wind gusts could have contributed towards the stall. Evidently full power was applied in an attempt to recover. At the low altitude with only the elevator trim for control, this failed.
Several factors considered relevant to the accident followed, the principal ones being criticism of the two pilots for not ensuring the security of the cargo and criticism of the standard of periodic inspection of control cables, particularly those passing under the battery compartment.
It jogged my memory and I recalled the media reports at the time. The company, which closed after the accident, had been operated by the two pilots, both named Garreth, related as uncle-nephew. I'd made a mental note only because I'd wondered, since they were the sole pilots in the small business, what had led them to fly together, particularly on that day. Although that was reported to be the exception rather than the rule, surely two experienced pilots would have realised that such weather conditions were a perfect set-up for Murphy's Law to prevail?
I glanced through the brief letter again. CFI or not, I certainly didn't want the job Mrs J. Garreth offered and I was tempted to screw the page up and chuck it in the waste basket. On the other hand, Mrs J. Garreth had begun to intrigue me. I wondered about her age. Presumably one of the pilots, probably the older, had been her husband. The accident must have been devastating for her and I couldn't help wondering why she'd decided after six months to try to pick up the pieces and start again.
Maybe... Well, was I going to get off my butt and head for northern latitudes or wasn't I? I didn't own an aeroplane and I'd already decided not to hire one but to make a total break and drive my car instead; so, was I tracking via Corby or wasn't I? And if I was, was there any good reason why I shouldn't call on Mrs J. Garreth? After all, since she'd gone to the trouble of making the offer, it would be only polite for me to do her the courtesy of taking a look at what she was offering before saying thanks but no thanks. I needed the weekend to get myself organised but I could leave on Monday. Why not? I put the letter down again and reached for the phone.
She waited for the STD pips to stop and said, "Hello; Jan Garreth speaking."
Her voice surprised me. It was clear and warm and it invited response. I wasn't sure what I'd expected but it wasn't that. Maybe she was younger than I'd thought. "Don Worth, Mrs Garreth," I said.
"Oh! Oh...yes...of course...Mr Worth." She sounded uncertain and I wondered if she was regretting having written to me. Perhaps she'd hoped I wouldn't reply. "You...you must have just received my...my letter. It-it's good of you to...to call back so...promptly. D-does this mean you...that you're considering m-my offer?"
I wondered what she'd say if I said, 'No way!' "Well," I said, "I have to start by saying I'm not all that anxious to leave Melbourne."
I was offering her a let-out, but she sounded almost disappointed as she said, "Oh! I-I suppose it really is a long way to come... But would...would it be possible for you to...just to have a look at what we...what I want to do here. You might have heard of the...the accident -"
"Well, yes, I know something of it, and -"
"Of course, I would pay your expenses if you decided not to accept."
I tried not to show irritation. I was only going to call on her because Corby happened to be on my way. "Certainly not! It’s no cost to me. I'm about to drive north on a holiday and I’ll be visiting Coonabarabran. Corby’s hardly out of my way. You caught me just in time. If the letter had arrived on Monday, you’d have missed me." I didn't think there was any percentage in adding that, but for the letter, I’d still be trying to make up my mind.
Her tone brightened. "Oh, but how wonderful! You will call in, then?"
"Certainly." If only to put a face to the voice! "Is Tuesday okay?"
"Tuesday's wonderful! Is twelve o'clock suitable? I'll meet you at the hangar. Do you know where the airport is?"
"Twelve's fine and let's say I don't anticipate having any difficulty finding the airport."
"Oh!" She gave a kind-of half-laugh. "Of course you won't; it was silly of me to think you might need directions. I look forward to meeting you."
We signed off and I hung up thoughtfully. She'd seemed anxious enough to meet me and I wondered just how much she really had heard about me. Maybe she'd make further enquiries over the weekend - it was what I certainly would have done in similar circumstances. Maybe I'd get a phone call from her before Monday to tell me she was awfully sorry but the offer was no longer available. Not that it mattered much; I'd made the decision at last and, Mrs Jan Garreth or no Mrs Jan Garreth, come Monday, I was northward bound. I wondered idly what Jan was short for.
