Air Carolina, Part 3

By Ellis M. Chernoff

Photo credit as noted.

Flying the line for Air Carolina was a full-time job. For our salary, we were expected to cover scheduled flights six days per week and at least three round-trips per shift. Flying extra flights and a seventh day were not uncommon, but, did get pilots some extra pay. My preferred shift was the afternoon, giving me the morning to get personal stuff done. I also enjoyed night flying. When flying the Piper Navajos and Chieftains at night, you could see the glow of the exhaust system through a cowling grill. You could almost tell the fuel mixture and exhaust temperature by observing the brightness of the glowing pipes.

I also enjoyed hanging out with the night maintenance crew after I completed the last flight of the night and locked up the small airline terminal. With my prior experience working on general aviation planes and engines, I spoke the language of the technicians, and they enjoyed my company and insight into their work.

In addition to the fleet previously described, we also acquired an early production Britten-Norman BN-2A Islander. This plane had the same pilot plus nine passenger seat capacity as the Chieftain, but instead of two 350 HP engines, it had two 260 HP Lycomings like the Cherokee Six did.  A fat wing gave it plenty of lift, but it had fixed landing gear and was not much faster than the Cherokee. It was also cramped and loud, and did not have air conditioning. Waiting for takeoff clearance one hot summer afternoon, a lady in the back called out, “Hey Mister Pilot, turn on the air conditioning!”  She thought I was being cheap and not running it. I replied the plane didn’t have air conditioning, and she should be able to see that I was soaked in sweat just like everyone else. The Islander was generally on the Hickory-Charlotte run, so I only flew it occasionally.

We also acquired a late-model PA-34RT-300 Lance II. It was brand new on lease and had six very plush seats. Its handling characteristics were a bit strange compared to a Cherokee Six or older Lance models due to its “T-tail” configuration. Takeoffs were particularly tricky.

In 1978, I was tasked to be a charter manager in addition to my line flying duties. I would take phone calls and quote and schedule on-demand charters. Most of these flights were within the Carolinas and occasionally to Atlanta Hartsfield Airport. We had one pilot whose job was to fly these flights, which were often spur-of-the-moment affairs.

One day in October 1978, I was called in before my regular afternoon/evening runs to fly an extra section to Charlotte. For this flight, I drew the T-tailed Lance. After shutting down the engine in Charlotte, I would normally deplane the passengers and transfer their baggage to the connecting airline. Instead, I was met by a pilot who said a phone call had come in that the plane was needed back in Florence ASAP for a charter. So I flew the empty plane back to Florence as possible. 

Arriving back at home base, the boss jumped up and opened the door and said, “How would you like to make a quick hundred bucks?  We can’t find the charter pilot, and we already told the customer the plane was on the way to pick up cargo in Henderson.” While this was going on, the mechanics were removing the seats in the rear of the plane. I was told the cargo was going to Owasso, Michigan.  Charts were being brought to me and I had no time to plan anything. I fired up and took off toward Henderson, and arriving there, the cargo was waiting. “What took so long? What time will you get to Owasso?” While I started off in the direction of the destination, I had to figure out the routing while flying. And the weather was deteriorating, so changing from VFR to IFR was necessary.

Landing in Owasso, I was again greeted with “What took so long?  Here’s your return load, and when will you land in Henderson?” By now it was dark with hours remaining to fly. Again, I had to fly through a weather front with clouds and rain. At around 10:30pm, I broke out to clear skies with partial moonlight.  The aircraft, still with less than 300 hours total time, was running perfectly.

Over West Virginia, I left radar services with ATC and was now in the airspace of Pulaski Airport and their control tower. Still operating under Instrument Flight Rules, I made a position report a few minutes past 11pm. Suddenly, the noisy fan up front went to a whisper. It only took seconds for me to realize that there were no indications on the instruments of engine trouble, and I had not done anything to cause the engine to suddenly quit. Of course, there are emergency procedures to perform and get the airplane to a stable glide.

Slowing to the prescribed glide speed, the automatic extension system for the landing gear activated, greatly increasing my descent rate. Piper provided an emergency override that I used to get the landing gear back in the retracted position. I had been cruising at 7000 feet, and by now I had declared an emergency with Pulaski approach control. They seemed stunned to hear my call and cleared me to 6000 feet, the lowest altitude they could assign given the Appalachian Mountains below me. My reply was “That’s nice, I’m out of 5 and a half.” I couldn’t maintain any altitude and was sure death was only a few minutes away.

When I did get quite low to the ground, I spotted an open farm field. I had continued in vain to restore power from the engine. I turned on the landing light and set the plane down on its belly. But I did slide beyond the barbed wire fence and through some trees, stopping just short of a steep hill leading down to a creek. The strobe lights were still flashing and I could still hear static in the headset. But there was also a strong smell of gasoline as three of the four fuel tanks had ruptured. While I felt no pain, I had a bloody open cut on my chin from the broken windscreen.

I got out and assessed my situation. As there was no fire, I went looking for the first aid kit that should have been in the cabin. It had been removed along with the seats that afternoon in Florence. My Boy Scout training told me not to wander off, but to stay with the wreck; I hunkered down for the night, expecting to be rescued sometime soon.

Without going into detail, many people dropped the ball that night and as a result, no rescue effort was underway. In fact, everyone except me had a full night’s sleep. Even the control tower staff filled out their paperwork, closed up shop, and went home. I had filed FAA flight plans with emergency contact information, but no one thought to look for that when I went down after declaring the emergency.

Things were better for me the next morning. I was taken to a local hospital. I had a phone conversation with my employer and they said they were sending a plane to get me. The FAA and NTSB sent investigators to the crash site, and I also went to the site to assist in my own accident investigation. The following day, I was given a hero’s welcome and all of my fellow pilots expressed the thought that I was probably the only one among them who could have survived a night forced landing in the mountains.

The technical investigation did not reveal the exact cause of the engine failure. But off the record, the NTSB investigator did admit there had been other occurrences on this aircraft type with the particular ignition system that was unique for a single-engine type. More disturbing was that had I been killed, they would have ruled it was pilot mismanagement of the fuel. That would have been totally false. Since there were no fatalities, no official cause was determined, and my crash became merely a hull loss statistic. The insurance company replaced the airplane for the owner with a used one and a check for the difference in value. He was happy.

Other adventures occurred during my two years with Air Carolina, but I will close out this retelling. By mid-1979, the major airlines were hiring again. Since they had not done so for quite some time, a cottage industry had developed where pilots seeking airline jobs would have to purchase their own training for a flight engineer certificate. Most airlines at that time operated the Boeing 727 with the flight engineer written exam based on that type. To be competitive, a prospect needed to not only to pass the flight engineer written exam, but also to complete the entire training course and pass the FAA check-ride in that crew position. Most of the pilots senior to me had left to pursue that path, and ultimately, I did the same.

Air Carolina Part 1

By Ellis M. Chernoff

All Photos by the Author

The year is 1977. It was the year following my graduation from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University (ERAU). I had returned to California and resumed flight instructing while applying to every airline in the country. During the summer, I bought a bunch of airline tickets and, wearing a nice navy-blue suit, visited the offices of a half-dozen airlines attempting to get my foot in the door. I had a four-year degree, my FAA certificates, and log books full of plenty of hours. Yet, my long-sought goal was not realized. I returned home disappointed that every employer wanted what I didn’t have and didn’t value what I had or my potential.

In September, I received a phone call from one of my fellow university students. Telling him about my recent travels and efforts to get an airline job, he asked, “Do you want a job?” Like a line of ERAU students before us, Lou was flying for a very small commuter airline based in Florence, South Carolina. I couldn’t be choosy at this point and said that I’ll be there as soon as I can drive across country.

I arrived in Florence tired and grubby and was enthusiastically greeted by the executives and staff. Air Carolina was a Piper Aircraft dealer, flight school, and ran a scheduled commuter airline. They also flew on-demand charter, along with a contract with the military. In fact, I was hired to captain a Navajo Chieftain that was in Ohio, operating flights for the US Air Force mainly between Wright-Patterson AFB and Dobbins AFB in Georgia. The passengers were commuting in support of a major modification of the C-5A Galaxy fleet.

Before I could assume my duties on the Chieftan, I had to be trained and certified by Air Carolina on their FAR 135 certificate. I familiarized myself with the operations manual and operations specifications approved by the FAA. Of course, I also studied the manual of the Piper Navajo Chieftain, and I was invited to ride right seat on the scheduled airline flights if an open seat was available. My first opportunity to do this came the second evening with a captain whom I had known at the university. He walked me through the filing of the flight plan, servicing of fuel load, and preparation of the weight and balance form. The process was one I had never seen. It was a series of subtractions from the maximum gross weight of passenger and crew weights, fuel, and whatever was left was considered “baggage”. On paper, we would only carry 20 pounds of baggage, yet we would fill four baggage compartments to the brim. And passengers were all counted at 160 pounds, despite them obviously weighing more than that. This is all “FAA Approved”.

The same authority would allow the airline to train me in a Piper PA-34 Seneca, and that would qualify me to fly any of the Piper twin-engine models. I had obtained my multiengine rating in the Piper Apache, and the Seneca was much more modern and better equipped. Taking my first flight in that plane, something strange was evident. Upon establishing the engines in cruise power, I could only close one cowl flap while the other engine would overheat unless its cowl flap was left fully open. I asked the instructor/chief pilot about this, and he told me that it had been this way since they overhauled the engines.

The next day, my training flight was cancelled because the Seneca was in the hangar for its required 100-hour inspection and maintenance. I gave the plane a good looking over while the mechanics were working on it to be more familiar with its workings. Interestingly, I discovered that the cylinder temperature sensors were not correctly installed. I had worked on airplanes as an apprentice throughout my pilot training years under the supervision of licensed A&P mechanics. I had installed many overhauled engines on multiple types of general aviation planes.

I completed my Seneca checkout but was scheduled for my FAR 135 check-ride in a Piper Navajo B, which I had not yet flown. Again, I was offered a “fly along” the night before, and perhaps the pilot would let me fly a leg if the return had no revenue passengers. I joined Captain Craig in the right seat of N9192Y for the flight to Charlotte on a dark and rainy night. I noticed that he carried no navigation charts and he flew the route from memory.

After delivering our load of mail to the post office at the Charlotte Douglas Airport, we returned to the ramp and he offered me the left seat for the return flight. I started the engines, he worked the radio, and we taxied out for takeoff. I was directed to stop at an intersection of Runway 18. I questioned him about intersection takeoffs, and he responded that they always used that intersection. When I started the engine run-up procedure, he asked why I was doing that. I replied that I always perform a run-up after any engine shutdown.

Cleared for takeoff, we roared down the runway and I selected Landing Gear UP once airborne. Suddenly, the plane swerved to the right. Thinking a throttle had slipped back, I checked that all engine controls were still full forward and they were. About this time, Craig said, “I have it,” and he took control of the aircraft and immediately started a turn to the right. I asked, “What are you doing?” He replied, “Turning back”. At not much more than 150 feet in the air, I was looking through the right side window at the terminal building and the parking lot. Clearly, the right engine was not producing power, and the left engine was trying to flip us over. A turn into the dead engine is exactly what we are all trained to NEVER DO.

I’m looking at the flight instruments as we are in a right bank with speed and altitude decreasing. In this dangerous attitude, we penetrate the overcast and Craig returns the controls to me. Engine out and unusual attitude recovery. Certainly the truest test of my flying. Yes, I get things sorted out, and the Tower asks if we’re having difficulty. Craig says to me, “Look at that!” I asked, “Is it bad?” Of course it was, so I said, “Feather that engine,” which he did. But he didn’t tell the Tower that we had lost an engine, only telling the controller that we wanted to return to the airport. They asked, “What approach would you like?” and Craig looked at me. I replied, “What’s the weather?” The answer only gave the choice for an ILS to Runway 5. The Captain had not brought any charts, so I directed him to set up the radios while I continued to fly.

The approach to Runway 5 was to minimums and I made the single-engine landing. But while taxiing back to the ramp, Craig tried to un-feather the propeller. He didn’t want anyone to see it!

The following day back in Florence, I got a hero’s welcome, but I still had to take the scheduled check-ride. I mentioned that surely my performance the night before, with a real engine failure and single-engine instrument approach to minimums, should suffice to prove my competence. “Did you do a missed approach?” Of course not, so I still had to perform the check-ride.

This was my introduction to big-time airline flying. The next two years would include many more challenges and seasoning that changed me from a pleasure pilot into a professional.

In summary and in reference to the above episode, the Piper PA-31-310 Navajo B is an 8-place executive twin equipped with Lycoming TIO-540 A1A engines that produce 310 hp. The four aircraft of this type in the Air Carolina fleet all had 2-blade propellers. While everyone at Air Carolina assumed the engine that failed on my flight was a high-time engine, in truth, it had recently been overhauled. A piston pin failed and allowed its associated connecting rod to flail in the engine case and punch a hole the size of one’s fist through the top of the case. This resulted in the loss of all of that engine’s oil; the propeller actually feathered itself as a consequence of the oil pressure loss.

Stay tuned for Early Codeshare, Air Carolina Part 2.