Gooney Birds

PNG

In the 1970s, most people were of the opinion that the DC-3—while a grand old aeroplane—was a dinosaur. It was no longer any use to the military or the airlines. Ian Woosnam, the Welsh golfer eventually bought one, but that was it. That was the situation everywhere: except in Papua New Guinea. They still flew every day in the service of TAA and Ansett and then Air Niugini. Most people loved them.

I did. Some people did not. I recall an amusing incident in Mount Hagen. Waiting for my flight to Lae, a noisy group (is there any other type)of American tourists with loud Hawaiian shirts and mumus awaited their  flight to Moresby. It was the first day of Air Niugini’s operation. The planes were late. We heard a rumble in the sky and a slow, low, ancient beast growled into view from the direction of Banz.

‘Wil ya look at that,’ a drawled American voice sneered. ‘

Do those things still fly?’

It was a DC3.

The tour guide, an effeminate Australian in an equally loud tee shirt with a bird of paradise leaping from front and back, looked at his group.

‘It is your plane,’ he said.

Gasps of shock and horror ecjhoed through the terminal.

‘Ya gotta be kidding’.

‘Never.’

‘My insurance won’t allow it’.

‘D’ya mean that the authorities here still allow that thing to fly?’

With a poise and presence I have never been able to emulate, the guide turned to them and smiled sweetly.

‘That aircraft,’ he said, ‘ was the personal plane of General Douglas Macarthur. He used it when he was the Supreme Allied Commander here during World War II’.

En masse, the lollops of lard rushed to the windows to watch on awe, drooling, as the gooney bird landed on one wheel, bounced a few times, did a couple of cartwheels, and—tail skid churning up the dust of the apron, its nose pointing snottily to the sky spluttered to a stop.

Hell could not stop that group from getting on board, giggling like lemmings waiting for ice cream.

As the guide followed them off, he looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

‘Was it really’’ I asked.

‘Who knows?’ he grinned.

I flew often throughout the country. I preferred the DC-3 to the F 27. While slower, it flew lower and felt more stable somehow. You got an excellent view as long as you were not over the wing. That was the main advantage of the F 27—apart from the pressurization, of course.

My friend Peter was also distantly related. It never paid to get him started on DC-3s. He would launch into a litany of excited but obscure details of its plumbing, wiring, engine operation, safety, so-called technology and even reproductive systems.

He would, of course, also tell you how to fly one. He would regale you with how robust the old bird was.

How do you deal with an inoperable fuel pump? (I’ve forgotten, but I was never a pilot). like how to start one with an inoperable fuel pump (straddle the cowling and pour a can of avgas in the intake as the engine's cranking), how to tell from the angle of the tail ski whether it was over loaded.

Was it fast? No. Every time you boarded it you could smell the oil, the fuel: everything. If there wasn’t a leak somewhere, you wondered if it was safe.  On the ground, as they gouged their was to take off, they seemed unwieldy and cumbersome. The moment they lifted off—usually after a take off run that had you wondering if you would make it—they were instantly stable and smooth.

Peter told me the Air Niugini planes had none of the fancy modern stull like autopilots. You kept your wits about you at all times. You jab at huge pedals, steer with a massive wheel held firmly with both hands, forearms and elbows. Training for pulling the levers was provided on ancient Queensland Rail point levers. YOU kicked things. You banged things.

And it worked.

During preparations for PNG’s self government, the RAF (Royal Australian Airforce) set up a small air wing on behalf of Papua New Guinea. Local pilots were trained in Singleton to fly them. The planes flew until the mid 1990s.

Unlike the Fokkers, they had no pressurization, no heating, no cooling: just slow, steady and reliable. DC-3s never soared. They wallowed like a walrus having a bubble bath. Most people loved them.

I was amused when Peter mentioned to me that Air Niugini was working to have an all Fokker fleet.

The only time I flew with Peter, we were taking off from Goroka to fly to Madang. Normally, one took off to the south, made a left and climbed to avoid the mountains that would meet you if you took a right. It was a positioning run, and I went along for the ride sitting in the jump seat.

Normally, pilots religiously follow the rules and do not drink within twelve hours of a flight. Peter was not a religious person. Also, he was flying a plane he normally did not fly. His was under repair in Moresby.

Operating at somewhat less than full consciousness, he called the tower. (I have made up the call signs)

‘P2 AAA requesting blah blah blah...’

Silence.

‘P2 AAA requesting blah blah blah...’

Silence continues.

‘P2 AAA requesting blah blah blah...’

‘Requesting confirmation P2 AAA.’

Peter frowns. Whoops.

He realised that he was in a different plane. The co-pilot? He was trying to stifle his guffaws. Peter looked at him and winked.

That little problem sorted out we taxied to the start of the strip. Peter requested clearance.

‘P2ABB, proceed on runway XYZ and turn right climbing to XXX’.

Peter blinks. The co-pilot looks at him. He frowns.

Peter: ‘This is P2 ABB: request confirmation: turn right.’

Tower: ‘P2ABB, proceed on runway XYZ and turn right climbing to XXX’.

Peter blinks again. The co-pilot shrugs and turns to count the clouds.

Peter: ‘This is P2 ABB: request confirmation: turn right? Turn right?’

Silence.

Tower: ‘P2ABB, proceed on runway XYZ and turn left climbing to XXX’.

Peter begins to take off.

‘Fucking idiot’, he says, and the co-pilot nods.