Almost Four Miles High

Crab Nets Phuket, Thailand - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

Arizona 1975

After graduating from helicopter flight school my roommate Bob Wade and I were assigned to an Air Force base in southern Arizona. It was an ideal place to fly – a sparsely populated desert terrain punctuated with rugged mountains and canyons, good weather, and little supervision.

We flew the H-1F Huey, where the pilot and copilot sat side by side in the front with the passenger compartment immediately aft. The helicopter was powered by a jet turbine engine with a service ceiling of 13,000 feet, although we rarely flew above 10,000 feet. The cabin was open and unpressurized. In fact we often flew with the windows and sliding side doors open to escape the Arizona heat. We did not carry supplemental oxygen or parachutes. The former because we usually flew at low altitude, and the latter because we were so close to the ground there was no time to jump out before we crashed.

Every three months Bob and I were scheduled for a routine two hour night flight which usually entailed flying tedious instrument approaches and traffic patterns. To escape the monotony we devoted a portion of each of these flights to non standard operations, where we could explore such unknowns as how high a Huey could fly in the desert heat. Our next night flight would give us an opportunity to find out.

Thirty minutes prior to sunset we arrived at flight operations with Bob's attractive and quick witted girlfriend Goz, who was dressed in an Air Force nurse's uniform. She was a nursing student at the local university and planned to join the Air Force at some time in the future. As far as we were concerned, her intent to became an Air Force nurse was a sufficient qualification to join us on the flight.

All of the helicopters in the unit used the call sign Beaver.  As luck would have it, tonight we were assigned the detachment's best aircraft, Beaver 72. After a few administrative formalities Bob, Goz, and I walked to the flight line and prepared for takeoff.

We went through the preflight check list, started the engine, and called operations, “Beaver Control, this is Beaver 72. Request clearance to helipad for departure.”

“Negative, Beaver 72. Hold for takeoff. You have another passenger.”

“Who's that, Control?”

“Colonel Cranston, the Hospital Commander. He wants to log some flight time.”

“Roger Control. Bring him aboard.”

This unanticipated and unwelcome passenger complicated our plans.  If caught flying with a civilian to unauthorized altitudes with the hospital commander in tow, we faced a number of difficulties. The logical solution was to spirit Goz off the helicopter and fly traffic patterns for two hours, but that would spell defeat.

Bob and I each flew 2-4 hours everyday and received $100 per month flight pay. Colonel Cranston, an M.D. and non pilot, was a flight surgeon and logged four hours flight time each month to receive a lot more flight pay than Bob and I combined.  Cranston was a talkative, over weight lady's man in his early 50's.  Faced with the prospect of keeping to himself for two hours in the back of a helicopter or engaging in a conversation with the beautiful Goz, there was no question which option he would choose.

As the colonel lumbered towards the Huey, we talked to Goz on the intercom, “Goz. You've got to schmooze Cranston and do all you can to keep from suspecting that you're not in the Air Force.  Bob and I want to go ahead with our original plan to see how high we can fly.  After takeoff I'm going to switch his head set so we can hear him, but he can't hear anything unless we want him to.  From where he is sitting he will not be able to see any of the flight instruments, and soon after take off it will be so dark in the passenger area that he'll think he is in a cave.”

The colonel approached the aircraft, and the crew chief opened the door for him.  "Good evening, sir.  I'm Lt. Priskna and this is Lt. Wade.  We have another passenger tonight, Lt. Jones.  If you would buckle up, sir, we'll be on our way."

“Glad you can fly with us tonight, Colonel Cranston.  Before we shoot some instrument approaches later tonight, we are going to fly a simulated aerial reconnaissance mission in the Rincon Peak area east of the base. Before it becomes too dark we should see some spectacular scenery.”

“Sounds good, boys. Looking forward to getting some flight time. If I had known you fly with such pretty nurses, I'd fly with you guys a lot more often.”

So much for the hope the colonel would keep to himself during the flight.  Within seconds he and Goz were exchanging small talk like they were old friends. Fortunately, Goz spent her entire youth as an Air Force brat, so she knew a lot about Air Force life.  In addition to being very bright, she was a glib and resourceful conversationalist; Cranston was no match for her.

At dusk we arrived in the Rincon peak area and started our ascent. We listened to Cranston's tiresome chatter with Goz, who easily deflected his questions by asking him about his opinions and life experiences. Talking about himself was Cranston's forte.

We passed 10000 feet with the Huey making steady progress at 70 knots.  At 13,000 feet Cranston interrupted his conversation with Goz and clicked the intercom, “We're getting pretty high aren't we, lieutenant?”

“Not really, sir. In this dim light it is not unusual in a helicopter to experience optical illusions. So far everything looks good.”

At 15,000 feet Goz clicked her intercom switch, “Hey guys, it's really getting cold back here, and the colonel is getting sleepy.”

“How does he look?”

“Peaceful.”

“Is he still talking?”

“He mutters a few syllables, when I ask him a question, but he is not volunteering anything. It's a relief.”

“Good work. Let's keep going.”

The Huey continued to climb, but the airspeed slowed to 40 knots.
“How's Cranston?”

“Asleep and breathing pretty fast.”

At 19,000 feet the tail rotor began to lose effectiveness.  The helicopter continued to climb slowly, but the fuselage yawed side to side since the tail rotor was unable to generate sufficient thrust to counteract the torque from the main rotor system.

“I don't think we're going any higher tonight, Bob. The controls are getting mushy. Let's take it down.”

We entered auto rotation, and the Huey began its descent from 19,000 to 2600 feet. With the engine at idle the flight was unusually smooth and quiet as we moved the cyclic back and forth and turned toward base. At 6000 feet we heard Cranston, “Sorry, fellas, I must have dozed off for a few moments. Where are we?”

“Getting close to base, sir.  We're going to shoot a couple instrument approaches and call it a night.”

After landing at the base we helped Cranston stagger back to flight operations. “Thanks for the fight, boys. That was the fastest two hour flight I've had. I wish they could all be like that.  See you later this year.”  The colonel never took us up on the offer.  He could sit in the back of a C-130 four times a year and not risk his life to earn his flight pay. 

Nearly forty years later the whole escapade seems crazy.  To fly a helicopter almost four miles high without oxygen with your best friend's girl friend illegally riding with the base commander was quite a risk.  But with everything turning out better than expected, how could one possibly second guess himself?   

 Camp 1 Shishapangma North, Tibet - photo by JoAnn Sturman