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Category Archives: -Jon Reed
The Maltese Black Bird
Written by Jon Reed not Wendi Knape
The following was a writer’s exercise in developing a short story, especially for Bogart fans; one requirement is that it had to include a golden Roman coin of Caligula somewhere in the plot.
“Oh, Sam. Sam. What can it mean? There’s a dapper little frog-faced man calling himself Joel Cairo waiting to see you outside right now. Should I let him in? By the way, the painter’s adding our new name Sam Spade Detective Agency on the door.” Sam’s secretary, Bridget, seemed worried, whether it was frog-face man or the smell of new paint, he wasn’t sure.
“Sure, doll-face. We need the business right now, anyway. By the way, why’s it so dark in here? We’re in the twenty-first century and it’s almost like early ‘40’s film noir. Let Mr. Cairo in.” Joel Cairo was the spitting image of Peter Lorre, along with his menacing lisp. He had a drip of black paint on one of his white gloves. Spade took his time lighting a cigarette, smoke softly curling up into his eyes, almost making him choke. But ace detectives don’t cough, so he waited.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Spade. Gee, why is it so dark in here? Almost like an early ‘40’s film noir.”
Spade took a long minute putting out the first and lighting another non-filter Camel, measuring Cairo, before answering. “I don’t know, Mr. Cairo, since I don’t know why it’s so dark, much less why I’m wearing a double-breasted suit at this time of day. What can I do for you, anyway?”
“Mr. Spade, I’m prepared to offer you $5,000 to find a black figure of a bird for me. But, before you accept, I must pull this gun on you and search your office.”
Spade raised his hands. “Heh, heh. You sure looked suspicious coming in here wearing a tuxedo and white gloves at this time of day. Go ahead and search, by all means. As if you’ll find anything.” But, quick as a flash, he knocked a lethal-appearing Beretta from Cairo’s hand and slugged him. Cairo went down like a stone, and Sam began going through his clothes. Inside a tuxedo jacket pocket, he found a Detroit Free Press clipping from only a few weeks before:
“The future of the 108-year-old SS Ste. Claire remains uncertain after a fire ravaged the iconic steamer known for ferrying generations of Detroiters to Boblo Island. The Ste. Claire was docked at Riverside Marina in Detroit, and workers with welding equipment were on board when the fire broke out Friday morning,” officials said. According to Detroit’s Deputy Fire Commissioner, “Workers tried extinguishing the flames before calling for help.” The Ste. Claire’s co-owners watched as firefighters fought the flames, and had planned to open a restaurant on the boat. “We know everybody loved it, and we’re going to do our best to bring it back. There’s nothing like the taste of zebra mussel-stuffed, mercury-laced Lake Erie perch.”
It had taken a long time reading the clipping because the Freep wasn’t known for quality writing, and Spade had never knowingly tasted zebra mussel-stuffed, mercury-laced perch. Cairo was showing signs of consciousness as Spade finished reading. Did Cairo’s interest in a “black figure of a bird” have any relation to the Boblo fire? Hmm. Cairo recovered remarkably quickly, so Spade returned the Berretta to him because he needed the business.
Joel Cairo pointed the gun at him again. “And now, Mr. Spade, it seems ridiculous after just hiring you for $5,000, but I must ask you again to allow me to search your person and office. If there’s the slightest chance of possessing the black bird, I must have it, and by the way, has anyone ever mentioned you’re the spitting image of Humphrey Bogart?”
Not for the first time, Spade laughed at himself. How stupid could he be? Cairo soon left, and it was only moments before Sam and Bridget heard a noise outside. Sam opened the door and a disheveled old Captain stumbled inside, obviously mortally-wounded what with all the bullet holes in him. The man dropped a heavy muslin-wrapped bundle on the carpet, before expiring, eyes wide open, on the couch, a grisly scene. Bridget screamed. Spade noticed the Captain’s hat read “SS Ste. Claire” as did the metal tag on his blood-coated breast, his shoulder epaulets, and sleeve patches. Sam wondered aloud, “Where do you think he came from? Maybe the Ste. Claire?”
“Oh, Sam. Sam. Is he dead!!” She looked as if she would faint, before asking for a non-filtered Camel to soothe her nerves. Camel ads from the ’50s said, “More Doctors Smoke Camels than Any Other Cigarette” and “Not One Single Case of Throat Irritation Due To Smoking Camels” so what was there to worry about, anyway?
“Get ahold of yourself, doll-face. And stop repeating my name. He sure looks toes up to me. Let’s see what’s in the package. It must have been hidden on the Boblo boat for a long time.” He sliced through the bindings, tearing at layers of ancient Free Press newspaper. “He sure packed a lot of Freep around whatever’s in here. Must have been more Kroger and Walmart clippings than usual. Have you noticed how many Menards ads there are lately, and no Sears Roebuck at all? And why is it so dark in here; almost ‘40’s film noir-ish, whatever that is?”
“Oh, Sam. Sam. What can it be? Can it be the black bird? Yes, I’ve seen Menard’s ads, but I’ve never shopped there.” Their eyes glowed with anticipation. And greed. The wrappings parted, revealing a black, sculptured and painted bird constructed of tiny stacks of gold coins.
“Yes, doll-face. That’s what dreams are made of. Hmmm. Did someone else once say that? Oh, well. Get some string. I have to re-wrap this and store it in a local bus station locker before mailing the key to myself. I’ll have trouble getting rid of all this extra newspaper ‘cause my trash can is full. Wait a minute. Don’t you have a birdcage that needs re-lining”?
Doll-face glanced at Spade, confused. “Are you kidding? We haven’t had bus station storage lockers in the States since 9-11, what with the ease of terrorists storing bombs. You’ll have to check it at Metro Airport’s Westin and ask them to hold a piece of luggage. That way, you’ll have a claim ticket to retrieve later.”
“Oh, yeah. I wonder where I’ve been all these years. It used to be so simple. What does the Westin cost for a night?”
After disposing of the black bird for safekeeping, and mailing the Westin claim ticket to himself, he received a text on his cell phone from Joel Cairo. “Meet an associate, Casper Gutman, in room 342 re black bird.”
Spade knocked and entered, finding Cairo, a gunsel triggerman, and a huge Gutman who looked appalling like Sydney Greenstreet. Gutman extended a welcoming hand. “Well, sir. If I may say so, don’t mind the film noir appearance in this room. The lighting seems to be under stress at the moment in this rather stark airport hotel. Well, sir, I understand you have access to the black bird, and I am willing to pay a lot of money for it. It was hidden for years on the recently demised SS Ste. Claire, and it appears you may have knowledge of it. If that is correct, would you like some indifferent hotel whiskey I found in the refrigerator? It may taste a little odd, but that’s hotel whiskey for you.”
Spade took his time lighting another non-filtered Camel, smoke softly curling into his eyes, almost making him choke. But ace detectives don’t cough so, instead, he wondered where he could find another carton. Camels were in short supply unless one drove to Indiana and smuggled them across the state line without paying Michigan’s sales tax, which was outrageous anyway. “Of course, Gutman. As long as you haven’t added any drugs. Heh, heh. But, let’s get down to business. Tell me about the bird.” He downed a half glass of Old Ironsides, making a face. “This stuff sure tastes funny.”
“Well, sir. If I don’t mind saying so, the bird as you call it is made of gold Roman coins stuck together in the shape of a falcon, or a chipmunk if you will, by 16th-century Knights of Malta; a gift to the King of Spain. But it was captured by pirates. They could never figure out how to get the coins apart. Something to do with Caligula’s heads interfering with each other. After passing from owner to owner, at some time the sculpture was coated with black enamel to conceal its value. It then led to a General Kemidov, a Russian exile in Constantinople, and I hired Cairo to retrieve it. But it found its way to Hong Kong, San Francisco, and Toledo, Ohio before being hidden on the SS. Ste. Claire. Have you ever been to Toledo, Ohio? I spent a week there one day.”
While Spade was mulling over the clever Bon Mot “spent a week in Toledo one day,” he not only wondered what “Ste.” stood for in the ship’s name but what Bon Mot meant, since he didn’t speak French. That was before he fell over unconscious.
Gutman heaved himself to his feet. “Gentlemen, let us continue our adventure by first departing this darkened Westin room and its rotten hotel whisky. I didn’t even put anything in his drink, and it knocked him out anyway. I think Mr. Spade has hidden the “bird” in his room at the decrepit Hotel Fordson in downtown Dearborn. It would be just like him.” As they left, the triggerman, who had had a bad morning, kicked Spade in the head just for luck.
When Sam came to his senses, the room was even more dark than usual. He vainly searched his pockets for another non-filtered Camel to sooth his nerves. It would be another long drive to Michigan City, Indiana for more. But he could always send doll-face Bridget. He pocketed a pistol the triggerman had stupidly dropped, before texting doll-face, “meet me at the Fordson” and set out. He didn’t need a car this time, since he could get a Uber, or take the FAST bus downtown if he pointed the gun at the driver and was dropped off in Dearborn.
He got to the Hotel Fordson before Gutman, Cairo, and the dirty son-of-a-bitch stupid triggerman arrived, and met doll-face. Once in the room, he sat her down and said, “I won’t play the sap for you.”
“Oh, Sam. Sam. What are you talking about?
“Sorry, doll-face. It must be the rotten no-good Old Ironsides Westin whisky that’s still affecting me. That, and the look on the bus driver’s face when I had him drop me over here in Dearborn. I told him I voted to support the Suburban Mobility Authority for Regional Transportation bus system otherwise known as SMART, so I didn’t think he’d mind. Of course, holding the gun that stupid no-good triggerman dropped didn’t hurt, and he thanked me for supporting SMART.”
“Oh, Sam. Sam. Why do you still have a room in East Dearborn, anyway? And why’d you mail the claim ticket to me? And I never heard the full name of our local regional transit system before, so thank you. And why is it so dark in here? Did you pay the rent?”
“Don’t mention it, doll-face. Come back here in an hour with the bird and we’ll get it all settled.”
“But I have to get an Uber to go back out, because the latest regional transit system millage was defeated. And you and I don’t look like each other, so the Westin clerk will be suspicious.”
“All right, doll-face, here’s some car fare. And you shouldn’t begin all your sentences with the word “And.” Just remember, I won’t play the sap for you. If I can get you off with a long prison term, I’ll wait for you. But, if you hang, so be it. And don’t hold your breath. Times, they are a-changin.”
“Oh, Sam. Sam. That’s not original. And I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Michigan no longer has the death penalty, but whoever started the Boblo Boat fire should be hanged, anyway, because I was looking forward to zebra-mussel stuffed perch.”
Bridget was out and back from Metro Airport in a jiffy, just before the doorbell rang. “Oh, Sam. Sam. Here’s the package. The men have arrived.”
Portly Casper Gutman, Joel Cairo, and the dirty son-of-a-bitch stupid triggerman entered Spade’s strangely darkened, almost ‘40’s film noir-ish apartment. A tiny bit of Spade’s forehead stuck to the latter’s shoe.
The forgetful triggerman spoke first. “Have you seen an extra pistol laying around by any chance? I seem to have mislaid one somewhere.”
Gutman interrupted, “Well, sir. Have you the bird? I am prepared to pay a half-million.” He handed over a wad of bills, and he and his cronies tore at the wrappings. “There doesn’t seem to be as much newspaper this time” he intoned, suspiciously. “It must not have been a holiday issue, or people aren’t buying the Freep as much as they used to. They really don’t have much news to report these days, do they?” He palmed a knife and began scraping the black coating off the bird, which actually looked more like a chipmunk than a falcon. Gutman was sweating, eyes ablaze with greed.
“Yes, Gutman. That’s what dreams are made of. Hmmm. Did someone else once say that? Oh, well.”
Gutman began scraping faster, before blurting, “These are actually WWII U.S. one-cent, zinc-coated steel coins. I like the term “steelie” as it takes me back to my childhood. Well, sir, after my erudite soliloquy, I must ask for my money back. We will return to Constantinople to pursue better avenues, besides departing this wretchedly dark room, almost ‘40’s film noir-ish in its own way.”
After they left, Spade texted the local police where they could pick up Gutman and his men for smuggling Indiana cigarettes into Michigan, wearing tuxedos in the middle of the day, and not paying for Westin Hotel airport whiskey. But local law enforcement couldn’t find an Uber driver to take them to Istanbul, so they hung up.
He turned to his somewhat distraught secretary. “Oh, all right, doll-face. I won’t turn you in, but remember I won’t play the sap for you. Instead of Camels from Indiana, can you pick up some gin at Windsor’s Duty Free Shop next time you’re over there? Here, take this coin with you. I think it’s actually a gold Roman coin that fell off the bottom of the chipmunk, since it’s a Caligula with a wreath on his head. The coin, not the chipmunk. It may come in handy. All the time we were fooling around, who knew?”
A Friend’s Hot Rod
By Jon Reed
Kenny’s father left Thursday afternoon for a three-day weekend business trip to Chicago, and Kenny said we could change his family’s car into a hot rod for the weekend. He had somehow found a more-powerful, triple-barrel carburetor and racing manifold to install, so we could go street-racing and no one would ever be the wiser. Asking whether he had checked with his parents on this scheme only drew a blank stare. We would change the parts, tune the engine, and put it back like it was before his father returned.
Unfortunately, Kenny knew less about cars than Denny and I, who were supposed to help, but he talked a good game. So, on a cold fall day, we were in his garage Friday night taking the Mercury engine apart, thinking it would only take a few hours, leaving time to still attend a Friday night dance. This was Kenny’s chance to show he knew something about engines, but first removing the hood, followed by the existing air cleaner, carburetor, fuel line, and intake manifold was only the beginning. Installing the new manifold, specialized gaskets, and assembling three two-barrel carburetors and linkage was far more difficult.
Bending and installing new fuel lines so there were no leaks, and adjusting everything to work properly, was a major task for a skilled mechanic much less three neophytes. By 11:30 pm that night, a lot of previously good engine parts lay scattered on the garage floor and we were far from success. A partially-assembled, inoperable triple-barrel carburetor and manifold sat beside a non-functional progressive throttle linkage, all lying on a piece of cardboard, staring up at us. Thoughts of showing off Kenny’s hot-rod Mercury at the Friday dance had been abandoned hours before.
Tired and colder still, we agreed to meet first thing Saturday morning without raising suspicions. Three of us worked all day trying to assemble the new system with fumbling, freezing fingers. Tools didn’t work, parts didn’t fit, tubing connections leaked, linkages were binding, gaskets didn’t seal, and gasket cement was all over the place as we attempted to finish.
Late that night, still under the glare of the garage’s single 60 watt bulb, we had it all together. We were all surprised the engine just wasn’t running right, back-firing and trembling, but we had no idea what to do about it. It had all seemed so simple the day before. Kenny was becoming desperate, and decided a test run was a good idea. Looking back, I’m surprised the engine didn’t explode in a ball of flames, but Kenny said he knew someone in Allen Park who could adjust carburetors. Of course, the test-run would occur without reinstalling the hood, which made sense since we would probably damage another fender in the process. Besides, with the hood off, at least the Mercury looked like a hot rod.
Once the engine started, it surged and misfired all the way south on Schaefer Avenue, raw gasoline spraying back on the windshield so that Kenny had to turn on the windshield wipers to see forward. Continuous use of the washer fluid to clear the gasoline meant, not surprisingly, we soon ran out of washer fluid. But, with the three of us in the front seat, we continued west and down Southfield with Kenny peering through bottle-thick eye-glasses and smearing windshield, wipers frantically clacking back and forth. Still spraying gasoline, bucking and lunging, we neared Allen Road, whereupon the engine expired with a mighty cough and backfire. Unfortunately, it happened in the middle of the Southfield and Allen Road intersection, and we ran the battery down trying to re-start the engine. The three of us frantically jumped out and tried pushing the Mercury, but quickly discovered 150 pound teenagers have some difficulty trying to push a recalcitrant, almost two ton lump of Mercury off the road. It was late, and cold, which made everything a little more desperate.
Making matters more interesting, while still trying to push the Mercury out of the blocked intersection, an Allen Park Officer of the Law pulled up, lights flashing. To our dismay, he responded to our pleas for a push by threatening to ticket all of us if we didn’t get the car out of the way in two minutes flat. Without the slightest degree of sympathy or patience, he must have seen a juvenile delinquent movie the night before or didn’t want to scratch his squad car bumper. He simply watched and waited until we had the Mercury safely off the road, still dribbling gasoline, before driving off.
I found an open service station and called my father, asking if he could drive down and help us get the car started. If only to get me home in one piece, he finally agreed, arriving a half-hour later. It was obvious it wasn’t going to start so he fastened a heavy tow strap with metal hooks that Kenny found in the trunk stretching from the Mercury to our family’s new 1957 Chevrolet’s bumper. Then began the harrowing tow back to Dearborn on less-traveled streets. This was before cars could auto-blink the tail lights signaling others they were nearing a slow vehicle.
Of course, the Mercury’s power brakes didn’t work with a dead engine so, after a long nervous drive with Kenny almost running into the back of our Chevrolet several times, we were only a half-mile from home. After one too many panic braking maneuvers by Kenny, the tow strap end fastened on the Mercury’s front bumper came loose. The metal hook flew forward, smashing out the back window of my father’s Chevrolet station wagon.
My ever-patient father stopped a little further on, got out, sighed, retrieved the tow strap, and, without saying a word, drove home leaving us where we were. We pushed the Mercury into a vacant lot, locked it, and walked the rest of the way in silence. I never found out what happened to the Mercury or Kenny as a result of our adventure, since he was reluctant to share any lessons learned. But I decided I might have to pursue a career in engineering if I was going to continue tinkering with cars.
Summer Camp – Part Two
Still on two week National Guard duty at Phelps Collins Air Base in the 1960’s, I was a lowly Airman Second Class manning our medical infirmary late at night. Sometime after ten o’clock, with the outside floodlight casting a harsh glare over the parking lot, several cars pulled up. Anyone arriving that late could only mean trouble, and I wasn’t due to be relieved for hours. A flight-line officer stepped inside, somehow looking a little sheepish.
I stood and saluted. “Yes, sir; what can I do for you?” He seemed hesitant and stood leaning against the door frame, appearing disconcerted instead of seeking care. Then it struck me. He was, in fact, drunk as a skunk.
“Hmm. Is a doctor in, Airman Reed? We have someone outside who damaged himself.” “Damaged himself”? Was this “officer-talk” or perhaps something more serious like a self-inflicted wound? What was going on? He arranged a lopsided grin and continued, “Ya see, he was ridin’ his motorcycle through the barracks”. He stopped, trying to think of another way of saying it, but gave up. “He hit a bunk-bed and crashed.” He stopped again, to see if the story was registering, but thought better of it.
I stared at him, dumbstruck, amused. Was this what officers did with their free time? I was curious but could only blurt, “Through the barracks? A bunkbed? Crashed.” Should I write any of this in the log book so it could be reviewed later? “So how fast was he going? Is he hurt? How badly? Is anyone else hurt? Who else have you notified?” was all I could get out.
A second officer appeared, adding, “Yeah, ya see, the bike fell over on him after he hit a wall after he hit the bunk bed, an’ he’s not feelin’ too good. Nah, nobody else got hurt. Too much.” They both stood there like I might make it all better.
“OK, but if he’s out in the parking lot, you better bring him in here. I’ll wake Doc Cooper and start making out an accident report.”
“Accident report? What accident report? Is that really necessary?” They took a few steps, realizing the entire incident was about to be officially recorded. I could only suppose upper command normally took a dim view of drunken motorcycle riding through barracks resulting in crashes and injuries. He and his pal hadn’t had time to come up with a better story, so I left them to ponder.
After rousing our doctor, I returned to find Captain Motorcycle supported by both arms and one good leg in the anteroom. The remaining limb was oddly twisted. He lay on the couch, moaning, while more officers arrived, milling about, trying to maintain solemn faces. Doc Cooper arrived, yawning and scratching, accompanied by Senior Master Sergeant Joe Polak.
After a brief examination of the offending leg, Doc observed “Well son, you’ve got a broken leg and a torn rib cartilage.” Everyone seemed surprised at the news, as if anticipating a different verdict. How could this be? In the harsh light of an overhead light bulb, the evening was suddenly less fun. “This man has to be taken to Wurtsmith. I don’t have the facilities here. You might as well start the paperwork.”
Wurtsmith United States Air Force Base in Oscoda, Michigan, fifty miles south, had one of the few military hospitals in Michigan. Since the accident occurred while this officer was on active duty, it was about to become a lot more official than a National Guard infirmary could handle. The same thought suddenly occurred to our inebriated Captain Motorcycle.
“But I can’t have a broken leg.” he wailed. “I have to be at work next week. I’m only an insurance salesman,” he protested. “My boss’ll never unner stan’.”
Doc Cooper was all business. “Look, young man. No matter how much you argue, you still have a broken leg. It needs X-rays and proper setting.” He turned to me. “Put him in the blue ambulance, the Pontiac.” He thought for a minute. “They won’t let anyone onto the base unless the driver, at least, is in uniform, with active duty orders.”
Joe glanced at me. “Reed’s the only guy here who still has a copy of his orders and wearing a uniform at this time of night. Guess who gets to drive to Oscoda?”
Doc said, “He can’t sit in the passenger seat. He has to ride on his back in the stretcher with one of his friends up front with you driving. Here’s the paperwork and my number here. I’m going to bed. Have fun and report back in the morning.”
I went out and backed the ambulance around to the infirmary door to pick up our new passenger. Captain Motorcycle’s buddies picked him up, still protesting, maneuvering him into the parking lot. We opened the back of the ambulance, extracted a complicated chrome-plated stretcher, and unfolded it before spreading a clean sheet over it. His friends helped strap him down and it took four of us to maneuver him inside and more time to latch it in place so it wouldn’t roll around once we began moving.
It was now after eleven and we were ready to start. I had a massive headache and it was an hour drive south on a northern Michigan two-lane blacktop, not to mention all the paperwork I might face. Remaining well-wishers crowded around, and I started the engine. One of Captain Motorcycle’s less-inebriated friends said he would ride with us.
Then a small voice was heard. “Hey, fellas. Let me outta here. I gotta pee.” I shut the engine off and got out. Everybody helped unlatched the stretcher and get him outside. It was going to be difficult un-strapping him, getting him back into the infirmary restroom, and then reverse the entire process. After some discussion, it was decided to carry him around a corner of the building, still strapped in the stretcher, lean him against the infirmary wall and tilt him forward to do his business.
One of his friends thoughtfully observed, “One of us has to unzip him and get it out so he can go. Who’s going to do it?”
There was a moment’s silence before another piped up, “Look, I’m his best friend, so I’ll unzip him, but there’s no way I’m doing anything else down there. I’m not that good a friend.”
Captain Motorcycle spoke up. “Guys, I can’ hold it mush longer. Get a han’ free an’ I’ll take care of it. But, hurry up!”
Everybody inspected the night-time sky and parking lot gravel for a few minutes, before reassembling patient and stretcher in the ambulance. I drove toward Alpena, hurtling down U.S. 23 a little over the speed limit with the roof-mounted red light turned off, since it would only add to the evening to be stopped by a curious Michigan State Policeman.
Captain Motorcycle had sunk into silence, and I knew his officer-friend was working desperately to come up with a story for Wurtsmith. There wasn’t much traffic and we flew down through Black River and Alcona approaching Harrisville. Everything was going to plan except officer-passenger wanted to turn on the flashing red emergency light and siren every once in a while to see what it was like.
That was before he spotted a distant late-night roadside tavern with all its lights on. He turned around and asked, “Hey, Buck. You wan’ some more beer? This might be the las’ one for a while.” With an affirmative grunt, I was ordered to pull over and wait in the ambulance while he returned with a six pack. Before I was back on the road, they were opening and downing as many as they could.
Soon nearing Wurtsmith’s entrance, I was offered one of the last cans, but politely declined, thinking at least one of us should be sober. Especially myself, the driver, since I assumed the United States Air Force looked even less kindly than Michigan State Police upon inebriated ambulance drivers. The Air Policeman manning the entrance couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but my active duty orders were accepted and we found our way to the base hospital. After finally depositing two drunk and one damaged officer long after midnight, I realized Summer Camp was over for Captain Motorcycle-Insurance Salesman, and I had a long drive back to Phelps Collins with only a six-pack of empty Miller cans for company.
Summer Camp
I was administering vaccinations against cholera, black plague, and black fever as part of an annual active-duty deployment. It was a hot, July afternoon at Phelps Collins Air National Guard base west of Alpena, Michigan. Trained as an Operating Room Specialist in the United States Air Force, I was qualified to assist in major surgeries but was tired of giving shots to air-policemen, cooks, and pilots griping about worldwide deployment immunizations. Our 127th Tactical Reconnaissance Group needed world-wide disease protection and, for some reason, few guardsmen wanted major operations performed on them during a two-week summer camp.
Although our unit had never been called up, protection against cholera, black plague, and black fever might be less useful in an Alpena bar but might be a good idea in a remote mid-east desert village. After being on my feet all day, I was ready for dinner in the base chow-hall but I was the one last to leave, still awaiting my replacement. Without any other hospital personnel there, the Phelps Collins siren began wailing in the distance, signaling an emergency on the flight line.
Months earlier, between giving shots and helping with physical examinations, I had learned to drive the big blue hospital “deuce-and-a-quarter”, a truck-based military ambulance, so I ran outside to drive or ride if someone was already in the seat. But no one was there. I jumped in the driver’s seat, started the engine, flicked the military radio on, and pointed the vehicle toward the flight-line waiting for a doctor to appear. I wasn’t supposed to arrive on the tarmac without a doctor, but an airplane was in trouble and we had to have medical personnel there within a few minutes of the siren sounding.
After what seemed an eternity, Doc Cooper and our Senior Master Sergeant, Joe, burst through the infirmary door, bags and hats flying. They managed to jump in and I gunned the engine, dropped the clutch, and took off. Others were running to catch us but the only one that counted was Doc Cooper and they knew it. My feet danced on the pedals, power-shifting through the gears. With our siren screaming and red light flashing, base traffic dove for the side of the road.
“What’s happening?” Doc yelled, hanging onto the window sill with both hands. The engine roared as we skidded onto the last road toward the hangars and apron tarmac.
“I hope it’s not one of our 84’s” I yelled back. They both knew I meant our 127th TAC reconnaissance RF84F Thunderstreak single-seat airplanes. The 127th had lost one a few years before and a pilot had perished. We certainly didn’t need another incident.
I slammed the shift lever back and forth and the pine trees flew past, but I managed to stay on the blacktop, finally roaring toward the base tower. There were two “Mantis” fire rigs already moving at a good clip on the taxi-way. These huge, self-contained, fire-suppression machines were small houses on wheels with elevated foam-dispensers on their fronts like over-sized, pincer-wielding praying mantises. Two more huge fire engines emerged with lights blazing from a nearby hangar. The radio was mostly static until we heard an order from Phelps Collin’s tower.
“Ambulance, proceed north 200 yards and pull alongside the first fire engine. Await further orders.”
We rolled to a stop beside the first fire rig adorned with sweating, black-clad fire fighters clinging to its sides. There was nothing to see or out of the ordinary; no black clouds, roaring flames, or mounds of airplane wreckage. We took a collective deep breath and worried about what was going to happen next. A fireman near us said there might be an emergency landing about to happen. Curious onlookers drifted out of the dining hall hundreds of yards away. An Operations Officer trotted over.
“All of our jets have returned for the day, including the C47 Gooney Bird. But there’s a Cessna 310 about ten minutes out that’s in trouble. Someone flying from Ann Arbor to Mackinaw Island says the nose landing gear light won’t indicate whether it’s up or down. We’re the closest airstrip with equipment to handle something like this, so he’s thinking of setting it down on the grass beside the concrete runway gear up. If he changes his mind and tries to land on the concrete, he’ll be a sliding fire-ball in no time. Stick around. If he doesn’t get it right, you’ll have to pick up what’s left.”
Joe worried for us. “You know, landing a prop airplane gear up on grass or concrete is a last resort for any pilot. He can’t eject, and it’s doubtful he has a parachute or could bail out anyway. The grass is bumpy on both sides of the runway. He’ll have to cut power on both engines in the last seconds before the belly hits the grass and hope the propellers stop level with the wings. If either one isn’t, it’ll catch on the ground and spin him into a flaming, 100-mile-an hour funeral pyre.”
We stared at a cloudless blue sky, the air-base siren dying away, only increasing the tension. Everyone craned skyward searching for a 310 Cessna. Doc Cooper suddenly sat upright, concerned. “Forget propellers. Assuming he’ll try gear up, if one of the three wheels only partially deploys, it’ll snag and the plane will cart-wheel the length of the runway. Did anyone say whether there are passengers? You know, I don’t think he can dump excessive fuel in flight.” He paused. “We may not be set up to handle this from a medical stand point.”
Everyone was wishing they were somewhere else and not in a catastrophe in the making. The moment the Cessna touched grass, gear up without power, it would be an out-of-control, 2-1/2 ton aluminum beer can, filled with high-octane aviation fuel. At that point, pilot and passengers would be in a thrill ride and in even greater trouble if a fuel line ripped off or a gas tank split because fire rigs need time to arrive at the scene.
A tiny dot appeared in the distance and an airplane came into view to begin circling the field a mile out. Base tower and pilot discussed alternatives until the sleek twin-engine Cessna suddenly altered its path, lining up with the main concrete runway. Joe squinted, commenting, “Look, he’s coming in low and slow for a trial pass, testing the wind and low air speed handling.”
The pilot flew the plane slowly, much closer to ground than normal, landing gear up, checking grass conditions and undulations on our side of the main runway. We were all quiet, fascinated by the inevitable. Doc Cooper fingered his medical kit. I wondered whether we would need tourniquets, compresses, and splints. But we didn’t have oxygen, back braces, or even body-bags. How would we handle internal bleeding, closed head-wounds, open arteries, much less horrible burns on site? Alpena’s hospital and Oscoda’s Wurtsmith Air Base were a long way off.
The Cessna circled a last time before lining up with the grass next to the concrete runway, main landing gear and nose gear retracted. So it would be grass. With minimum power, skimming grass-height at 100 mph, the pilot shut off both engines and the propellers stopped safely horizontally with the plane sinking to earth. Out of its element, the 310 was no longer a flying machine but an uncontrollable sliding machine ill-suited for its new job. Rudder and tail surfaces no longer effective, it slid past us into the distance in a haze of dust and grass.
Before it came to a graceful stop a quarter-mile away, I gunned the ambulance engine, following the fire rigs at a safe distance. Nothing seemed to have flown off the airplane or broken apart and no fire balls erupted from split fuel lines or tanks. In the distance, the tiny figure of a pilot opened the hatch, clambered out, and sat on the wing waiting for our emergency vehicles. There didn’t seem to be any passengers.
It all ended quickly. The praying mantises arrived and crouched, ready to unleash their enormous foam cannons at the first sign of fire, but nothing happened except the plane sat smoking and tinkling from cooling metal. Doc Cooper clambered out and performed a brief examination of the pilot, whose only injury seemed to be hurt feelings. The Cessna sat in the grass at the end of runway like a discarded child’s toy.
I needed a drink, but the Phelps Collins enlisted men’s bar didn’t open for hours.