Chapter Two - Armadillo Country

I was seated toward the back of the United B-727.  The decision to come to work had been a tough one, but here I was come hell or high water.  High water would have been far preferable to what was in store for me. A real treat by comparison, as a matter of fact.  I felt as if I was going off to war, which, in a way, I was:  a war between an airline and its pilots.

We had just taken off from Anchorage, bound for Seattle and then on to Denver where I was to enter abbreviated pilot training at United.  Abbreviated since United had hired me specifically to fly as copilot in the B-727, a position in which I had plenty of experience.  I was also rated as a captain in this aircraft, but didn’t have sufficient left-seat time to meet United’s qualifications.

Woody, my cat (named after Wien Captain Ron Wood) was safely at my feet in his cat carrier.  He had made his protest loudly and continuously but had at last stopped his squalling.  I gazed out the window, trying to qualm my nervousness at moving to a new job, the uncertainty of whether this strike would end soon or be one of these never-ending ordeals, and my current uneasy relationship with American Airlines while I headed for United for training.  All this was a jumble of uncoordinated and unwelcome thoughts in my head.  This was not the elation-filled trip I had dreamed about, but an extremely nervous one.  I had the union’s sanction to stay through training, then quit if the strike wasn’t over.  It was going to be a tense few weeks ahead, while I awaited the outcome.  No question about that.

I was just experiencing something resembling relaxation, settling back into my seat, when I a heard a shriek at the back of the cabin.  I looked back along with everyone else to see a flight attendant who was barely visible in a dense cloud of cat hair, trying to extricate herself from my kitty. I looked down at my feet; the cat carrier was still there, still latched!

Nevertheless, that was my Woody and I stumbled by my two seatmates to go get him.  “I’m so sorry!” I gasped to the flight attendant. 

“It’s okay!” she said in a strangled voice.  “Just—get—him—off—of—me!”  Easier said than done, as Woody was having none of it.  I did manage to pry him loose and stuffed him back into his cat carrier.  Since he’d gotten out once before without my knowledge I put the carrier in my lap and held it for the rest of the trip.

Later, when I was in my hotel room, it occurred to me to put Woody into his carrier in the middle of the floor and sit back to watch and see what happened.  I couldn’t figure out how he’d made his escape without getting the latches undone.  I didn’t have to wait long.  This was one strong kitty; the carrier was made out of hard plastic which I could barely get to bend at all, but he was able to put enough pressure on it with his front paws to create an opening which looked impossibly small, but which he managed to squeeze through without squooshing himself.  Unbelievable, but at least the mystery was solved.  I’d have to get a metal carrier for future trips.

Once I was situated in Denver, Woody was off to the “Cat Spa” to be housed, get high on catnip and otherwise be pampered while I got myself through training.  He would join me later after I pleaded with the hotel to please let him stay with me.  They weren’t too crazy about the idea but eventually they gave in.  I had a sign on my door for the maids so they would be careful about not letting the cat out.  They fell in love with Woody and visited him often throughout the day when I encouraged them to do so.

Just a couple of days after I arrived I started my check-out as a B-727 copilot.  It was pretty much just a review and instruction in United’s own procedures, since I was already familiar with the airplane.  I had flown it as both a second officer and copilot for Wien, and had received a type-rating in it as well.  Because of Wien’s insurance policy, all copilots had also been required to be trained as captains.  My captain’s “type-rating” training had been accomplished at American Airlines as Wien did not have its own training facility.

One thing that is really vivid in my mind is how, after each training session in American’s simulator, we would have some fun.  Sometimes we’d fly the famous “checkerboard approach” into Hong Kong.  This approach was unique in that when you “broke out” beneath the cloud base, instead of being lined up to land, you would be looking straight at the side of a hill.  The checkerboard was put up so pilots could more easily get a visual fix on it.

From there it was a sharp right turn and a descent right past and below the roof level of people’s apartments.  No time to waste—the runway was right there.  Overshoot and you’d go right into the bay at the opposite end of the runway.  This accident did in fact happen when China Airlines overshot the runway years later.  At the time I trained with American, I had never been to Hong Kong, but I was to fly this approach many times years later when I flew the Far East with United as copilot on the DC-10.

We would fly so close to people’s apartments, it was easy to imagine stories about the people inside, like the guy, hands on hips, allegedly saying to his wife as we flew by,  “What, noodles again?  That’s the third time this week!” 

One of the displays American had in their simulator happened to be of New York, including, of course, the World Trade Center.  What we would do is fly right at the towers, then bank 90 degrees at the very last second to fly between them—one wing straight down and one wing straight up.  It was a fun game at the time, but it gives me chills today to think that what we saw coming at us was an exact simulation of what the terrorists saw on 9/11. 

Normally, a pilot hired at United would start as a flight engineer  (second officer), but these were not normal times; despite everyone’s predictions to the contrary, the pilots of United Airlines had gone on strike on May 29th, 1985.   

I had started my interview process during the winter and completed it in the last month or so prior to the strike.  I received a letter telling me of the possibility of a strike and was told to “stand by for an offer of employment as a flight officer.”  This was within just a week or two of the commencement of the strike.

When the strike happened, I assumed it was over for me, at least for now.  No more United Airlines.  No way would I cross a picket line, not after what I saw going on at Wien.  Even though I was not hired as a pilot for Wien for a few years after their own bitter strike had terminated, the bitterness was still very much in evidence with pilots not speaking to each other in the cockpit, pilots badmouthing other pilots—that sort of thing.  Most of it was pretty juvenile, but disturbing and upsetting just the same.

Once, in the logbook of the airplane I was flying at Wien, I saw the usual pilot seniority list taped to the inside.  I noticed my name was highlighted in yellow and wondered why.  There were other names I recognized as well, but all of these were guys who had crossed the picket line during Wien’s bitter strike.  Why was my name highlighted?

On closer observation, I saw that all three names of the other women who were Wien pilots were highlighted as well.  The first woman hired at Wien had walked the picket line with the other pilots and was a staunch union member.  I’d never heard a single bad word about her, and I liked her, too.  The other two had been hired years after the strike ended and we were all ALPA members as well.

Then, at the very bottom, I saw the words, also highlighted in yellow:  “Scabs and women.”  I couldn’t believe it.  I showed it to the two guys flying and they both just shrugged.  No sympathy there.  I had been at Wien for over a year when this happened and felt I was getting along just fine, all things considered.  It was quite a blow, to say the least, and a portent of things to come.  It didn’t matter that women had made it into this profession.  There were certain circles where we would never be taken seriously or thought well of, and that was just the way it was.  I suppose I was naïve to be so surprised by this finding, but it made an indelible impression on me and to this day it hurts when I think of it.