“Fine sir.” “Good; oh Dave, have you got a moment?” “Yes sir.” “Dave, I think our uniforms look good; they give us a professional appearance that sends a positive image with the public – don’t you agree?” “Yes sir, I like the uniform.” “Good. Would you try to remember to wear it when you’re flying with us? Flip-flops and swimming trunks really present a poor image; don’t you agree?” “Yes sir, I…” “I’m glad we had this little talk – you’ll be late for class. Have a nice day and call me, Steedman.” “Yes sir – uh, Steedman.” What a guy! He could have reamed me a new grommet, or worse yet I could have been suspended. I was mortified; I thought I was being so cool. I never did discover who snitched, after that I never flew in anything but a uniform. SURPRISE Bill was a military helicopter pilot before hiring on with ONA as a first officer. He participated in the battle for Khe Sanh; one of the fiercest fought clashes of the Vietnam war. Because of the terrain it was a helicopter shooting gallery. Many a mother received a letter from the Department of Defense that her son would be arriving in a flag draped box. The devastating experience of such a human trauma affects people in different ways; some withdraw, others have bouts of depression. Bill became a happy-go-lucky extrovert – he was just glad to have survived the carnage and wanted to live every minute to the fullest. He and I became close friends flying the line.
Turning to the sound, I saw an older man that took me a moment to recognize; it was Dick Grider. I’d flown as his copilot on DC-4s in the Congo in’62, “Dick? Dick Grider, what are you doing here?” “Same as you, I’m flying the Vietnam shuttle; who are you with?” “Overseas National.” “Really? I’m with T.I.A. flying the stretch-63 out there, which model are you on?” “I’m on a thirty series; we have to pit stop in Wake. How long have you been with T.I.A.?” five years; I got on right after InterOcean folded.” “The left seat of the ‘8 is a lot more fun than the ‘4, huh?” “I don’t know, with T.I.A. it’s all about whether-or-not the chief pilot likes you – and I guess he doesn’t like me, I’m still a copilot.” “Jeez, that’s awful, with O.N.A. it’s all about seniority, we’re ALPA (Air Line Pilots Association). Why don’t you come over with us?” “I’d like to, but I’ve got a lot of seniority with T.I.A. Our union sucks – my only hope is that the chief pilot will retire and maybe the next one will like me.” We had another drink and Dick brought me up to speed on some of the others I’d flown with in the Congo; Jack Loughran was flying with Dick’s brother, Bob on ‘3s out of the Virgin Islands, Mal Thompson was painting pictures in Paris, Jess Meade and Augie had bought the farm on approach on a dark night in Biafra. It was a bittersweet meeting that only lasted about an hour. I went away thinking how very lucky I was flying captain for a outfit like Overseas National Airways. LESSON There were many benefits with the Air Line Pilots Association, (ALPA): contract negotiation, protection from dismissal without cause, and of course, fair upgrading practices.
The good news was the crew hotel was first-rate, right on the beach. There were excellent inexpensive restaurants in Nice, and the company gave us a twenty-four hour layover to recuperate. One return trip stands out in my memory as being the epitome of It was the last run of the monthly bid; we were all looking forward to returning to New York and a few days off. The flight started out badly when Carole, the senior flight attendant, came forward to tell me a fight had broken out in the cabin between two passengers arguing over a seat. We were parked out on the ramp at Nice; still loading from the bus that transported the returning travelers from the terminal to the plane. “Do you want me to go back and settle it?” Dennis, my copilot asked. “No. Remember when Marshall went back to stop a fight in the cabin and one of the guys broke his nose? I don’t want to lose a copilot when we’re headed home.” Addressing Andre, our French ground representative I ask, “Andre, would you mind seeing if you can calm those passengers down?” “Oui captain, no problem; I will take care of it,” he said as he handed me the manifest with the weight& balance information and excused himself to follow Carole to the back of the plane. Handing Dennis the paperwork so he could get started on his part, I lightly commented, “See? Let him get the broken nose.” Less than five minutes later Carole burst into the cockpit, “Captain, captain they’re beating up on Andre!” “What!” “Those two assholes are pushing and punching Andre – they tore his shirt.” Jesus Christ, what a way to start a flight. Picking up my mike I called, “Nice ground control, this is Ona 8-2-1 – we’d like the gendarmes to come out here to assist with a problem in the cabin.” “Ona 8-2-1 what sort of problem do you have?” “Nice ground, we have two passengers fighting in the cabin.” “Fighting – boxing?” “Oui, fighting.” “We will send security right away.” “Merci.”