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In Memory; Hillaire du Berrier, Fred Gage, Ray Hanna |
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"There we were, see........." One time I had to declare an emergency over HF radio. I knew enough to say "May Day, May Day, May Day" on the initial contact but after that I think I confused the poor fellow by repeating "May Day, May Day, May Day every time I talked to him thereafter. I know it confused the Hell out of me. It was night, and yes there were thunderstorms ( No C-119 story is ever told without including a thunderstorm ) and we were tooling along on one engine and of course one generator and after transmitting 8 or 10 words, 6 of them being the May Days, that generator would go off the line and we'd be on emergency battery power. And each time that happened there would be lots of shouting and arm waving in the cockpit. We got the APU going to help out but even that didn't seem to make any difference and the power would still kick off when transmitting on HF. There were times that night when I was probably not as cool as a cucumber. I finally managed to get a short message out ( without saying one Mayday ) stating our new destination and ETA and ended the message by saying ....." 81(??) Out." . It was actually a relief to just sit there for the next hour over water and ponder the one good engine quitting, all of us dying but all the while not having to worry about talking on that damned radio again. Lt Sulsana in the 11th Sqdn told me later he'd been flying and had listened to the whole thing. He asked me, " Who was that idiot on the radio ?" Like a fool, I admitted it was me. I took a lot of unkind razzing for it too. Now, 48 years later, the thought just struck me that I could have easily told Sulsana it was Chuck Lunsford, Crooms, Bellamo, Scampini or any other RO and avoided all the rude pointing and laughing. J. Reed , this is the same flight I told you about. Radio protocol was not mentioned in the final report or there might have been a different outcome. Capt. Midnight
sent to me by a chap called Baldwin....... Big Round Engines This might be hard to believe but it is true. I was on the golf course this past Tuesday, a great day for playing. We were on the back nine just waiting until the group in front of us got off the green. The course is less then three miles from the course so I do hear a lot of planes landing and taking off, 99% being turbos and jets. I heard a sound of a plane approaching but it was hidden by the trees where I was. I turned around and looked for it knowing it was a round engine, what a sound it was making, how can we ever forget the sound of them. It came in to view and there was a beautiful B-25, it looked super to me. I told the the guys that was with me what is was, they didn't even care what it was or what kind of an engine was in it, I DID! This might be hard to believe but it did happen. I found out later that evening on the local news there was a fly in for some WWII planes coming to town for a weeks stay. You can never forget the sound of a big round engine. OH...I didn't play to good. In Memory I worked with Fred in Frankfurt, Germany while at Merril Lynch. He has been for most of my life, my inspiration to do a job well. To excell is everything you touch, to be human, to be kind and brave. Thanks Fred. James van Etten. Commander Fred Gage, USN Black Cats are rekindling old friendships at reunion here Its a red, white and blue week in Shreveport as the WWII Black Cat Squadrons reunite and rekindle 40-year-old friendships. The famous Navy aviators who flew the PBY 5-A (Flying Boats) in the South Pacific Campaigns are holding their 6th reunion at the Ramada Inn and the flags are waving as the Black Cats journey down memory lane. For five of the veterans, the reunion sparks the memory of the dark night that Black Cat pilot, Fred Gage of Poulsbo, Wash., landed his PBY in the swells of the open sea to rescue for downed aviators from a life raft. This week is the first time since the 1943 rescue that survivors of that night have gathered together at the same time and place. Shreveporter, Ed Peck, who was one of the four men rescued said in a 1945 article for February edition of World Magazine, "When I saw that PBY hit the water, it was a modern miracle and, boy, did that baby look good to us!" Today Peck feels much the same way. "So much has happened and I wouldn't be here today, but I'm a lucky man and Lady Luck continued to shine on me because when the war ended, I went home to Shreveport and married the girl next door who had written to me those long months I was in combat and I'm still married to her," he said. Gage, who was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his heroic rescue said "I knew it was tough to put down in the ocean at night, but I was a young man and didn't think about the danger; I have sweated many a night thinking about it and how easy it would have neem for all of us to have ended up in the water." Gage, who retired as a Navy commander, worked for Merrill Lynch for 18 years and now enjoys retirement with his wife of 41 years, Dottie. "Bib" Joe Mitchell, a former torpedo bomber pilot that was in the raft along with Peck, said of his rescuer, "It took courage to land in the open sea, I respect and admire Gage for doing it and it means more than I can say to be here with him and the rest of those guys from the rescue." Mitchell retired as a Navy commander and is now a marketing representative for the Space Ordinance Systems, St. Peters, MO. Subject: Go Marines
Submitted by Author Charles Lunsford As I said, not all navigators were bad, and my old Tech School room mate and life-long friend proves the point. Max Schuermann, Major, USAF, Retired, never got to fly as a radio operator— he was posted to Wright Patterson AFB when the rest of us went to Europe, but radio operators had been phased out in the USA long before they did it to us in Europe. Instead, they put him to work as an air traffic controller, and like me, he was never promoted. He left the Air Force after his 4 years, but stayed in the active reserves while attending the University of Oklahoma, and was called back into the service, thinking he was going to fly as a radio operator in C-124s at Tinker AFB. Of course, when they found out he had controller experience, they put him in another ground job, still with no promotion, so he decided to go to Officers Training School, after which he was trained as a navigator. Max never got his Aircrew Wings, but he got his navigator wings, and not only that, they eventually had a star on top, reflecting a long and varied flying career and service to his country in both the Cold War and the hot war in Southeast Asia. That there was a small confusion about his various titles is reflected in his story below. WHAT WAS I? OR THE AIR FORCE ALPHABET SOUP By Max Schuermann I know the basic assumption should be that your title reflects your job. I don’t think the Air Force knew this fact though. I need some guidance on what my correct title really was during my time in the Air Force. Let me tell you my story— When I left Waco, Texas with my brand new gold bars and my shiny new navigator wings, I knew that I was a navigator and that I was supposed to find my way from point “A” to point “B” in an airplane and hopefully accomplish this task in a time period that was less than the fuel endurance of the aircraft. I was told that it almost always torks off some people if you ran out of gas before you found where it was you were supposed to go ---- i.e., point “B.” With this gas issue in mind, I wasn’t totally bent out of shape about going to KC-135 tankers even though it was in SAC. I could see it would be easy to find where I was supposed to be going within that airplane’s 15+ hour fuel supply. Man, I’ll just fly a box pattern until I see point “B!” Before I even had a chance to put my master box pattern plan to work SAC really messed up my playhouse. They said going from point “A” to point “B” was not the primary object of the flight. They said my job was to leave point “A,” go out and find another airplane that is out in the middle of nowhere and almost out of gas, give him part of our gas before he runs out and becomes a lawn dart, AND THEN find point “B.” They told me the other airplane was as anxious to find us as we were to find him so I was pretty sure this would work out. I would have to file my box pattern plan for possible future use though. I really got good at it. I could find an airplane any place in the world and pass gas. Finding airplanes and passing gas to them was a lot more important to me than finding point “B” even though they still referred to me as a navigator and expected to see me at point “B” eventually. I found the two Thuds in Laos up north of the Plain of Jars that were running on fumes. I found the EB-66 that was coming out of North Vietnam and was just about to flame out on the west end of Thud Ridge because he was full of holes and loosing all his fuel. I found the two F-4s over the Gulf of Tonkin just off the coast of Vinh and passed gas so they didn’t have to join the Tonkin Yacht Club. I felt good about what I was doing and I got damn good at it. I guess the Air Force found that out though and that’s why they said, “son, were going to send you to South Dakota and put you in a hole in the ground and you can’t come out till you hear the horn blow!” SAY WHAT?!? I wanted to stay in the land of Singhai beer where I could actually help someone from busting their butt in a Banyan tree! A call to personnel at Randolph assured me that if I raised my hand for “Project Jungle Jim” they would have my rear back in Thailand in 90 days in A-26s. They said I’d be a WSO or GIB or something like that and I would be part of the NIMRODS. Boy, not only am I a GIB or WSO instead of a NAV, I’m also a NIMROD. Wonder what that is? I raised my hand and packed my bags and said, “sorry SAC, but I’m really not interested in your hole in the ground.” I hit Eglin and they put me through this school called “AGOS” (Air to Ground Operations) and tell me all about how I’m supposed to shoot the hell out of stuff but they keep calling me a NAV for “PUFF.” What’s this “PUFF” business? I thought I was a “NIMROD GIB” or “WSO” or something like that. I’m sure they are just confused. We’ll get it all sorted out later. Right?? At the end of school they said to me, “NAV, we have this outfit in Panama called the 605th Air Commandos that needs someone like you in their AC-47s that shoots guns sideways.” I found out what “PUFF” was. For several years I went around in circles and shot guns sideways in places like Panama, Guatemala, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Honduras and the Dominican Republic. Then one day the scheduler says “boy, you’ve gone around in circles long enough. We’re going to put you in the right seat of this A-37B and teach you how to shoot with your nose pointed down.” Cool, man!!! I think that means I’m now a GIB! No, wait. “GIB” stands for “guy in the back.” I’m not in the back; I’m on the right. Does that make me a “GIR”—“guy in the right?” The Form 5 Flight Records section said there was no such thing as logging “GIB” or “GIR” flying time. They said I would have to log “WSO” time. They said WSO was weapons systems operator. Systems Operator!?? The only “systems” I operated was the armament switch and the bomb release button. Well, those and the flight controls. The guy on the left (did that make him the “GIL?”) let me fly quite a bit too. I liked this GIB-GIR-WSO stuff! I wanted to do more of it. My time in Panama was about up and I had been watching a TDY reconnaissance outfit that had GIBs or WSOs or whatever in the back of their RB-57s. I tracked down their commander and said “Colonel, I want to do that too.” The Colonel wrote some letters and the next thing I knew, I was on my way to becoming a GIB in a reconnaissance outfit. After checking out in the RB-57C and RB-57F and high altitude recon operations I find out I’m neither a “GIB” or “WSO.” Because of all the cameras and radar and sneaky stuff in the back, I’m a “SEO!” That stands for “special equipment operator.” RF-4s have GIBS. RF-101s have GIBS. RB-57Fs have SEOs. I guess that’s all right. F-105 Wild Weasels have EWOs and Navy A-6s and F-14s have RIOs. I can be a SEO— even though I’m in the back seat, which technically makes me a GIB. I had pretty much settled in to being the best “SEO” I could be when the AF came up with a new twist. They said they were going to do away with the back seat airplane called the RB-57F. I said, “but I like being a WSO or GIB or SEO or whatever I am. They said, “OK, we’ll make you a “GIR.” The next thing I know, I’m in the right seat of the F-111. Again, the Form 5 Flight Records section says I can’t log “GIR” time. They said I was called a WSO and I should log that time. And that’s what I did until I retired. Now I ask you, did I spend my time as a NAV, a WSO, a GIB, a SEO or a GIR? Whatever it was, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- Charlie Brown's Story -- Aviation History Charlie Brown was a B-17 Flying Fortress pilot with the 379th Bomber Group at Kimbolton, England. His B-17 was called 'Ye Old Pub' and was in a terrible state, having been hit by flak and fighters. The compass was damaged and they were flying deeper over enemy territory instead of heading home to Kimbolton. After flying over an enemy airfield, a pilot named Franz Steigler was ordered to take off and shoot down the B-17. When he got near the B-17, he could not believe his eyes. In his words, he 'had never seen a plane in such a bad state'. The tail and rear section was severely damaged, and the tail gunner wounded. The top gunner was all over the top of the fuselage. The nose was smashed and there were holes everywhere. Despite having ammunition, Franz flew to the side of the B-17 and looked at Charlie Brown, the pilot. Brown was scared and struggling to control his damaged and blood-stained plane.
When Franz landed he told the c/o that the plane had been shot down over the sea, and never told the truth to anybody. Charlie Brown and the remains of his crew told all at their briefing, but were ordered never to talk about it. More than 40 years later, Charlie Brown wanted to find the Luftwaffe pilot who saved the crew. After years of research, Franz was found. He had never talked about the incident, not even at post-war reunions. They met in the USA at a 379th Bomber Group reunion, together with 25 people who are alive now - all because Franz never fired his guns that day. Research shows that Charlie Brown lived in Seattle and Franz Steigler had moved to Vancouver, BC after the war. When they finally met, they discovered they had lived less than 200 miles apart for the past 50 years Liberty Belle When I worked at Hamilton Standard (Bradley Field,>>
CT) in the early 1960s, Pratt & Whitney had converted a B-17 to a flying test-bed for the T-34 and T-64 turboprop engines. I remember seeing that B-17 land with only the test engine running (It was a cold winter day and after a prolonged test flight I heard that they could not restart the engines.
airplane was donated to the Connecticut Aeronautical Historic Association where it was heavily damaged in 1979 in a tornado. It eventually was restored by combining useable parts with another damaged B-17. It is now flying as the "Liberty Belle" Marty REMEMBERING THE FORGOTTEN MECHANIC Global Hawk http://www.af.mil/factsheets/factsheet.asp?fsID=175 http://www.af.mil/factsheets/factsheet_print.asp?fsID=175&page=1 In March 2001, Global Hawk entered the Engineering, Manufacturing and Development phase of defense acquisition. Global Hawk is currently deployed supporting Operation Enduring Freedom Thanks to John Penz OLDER PEOPLE'S SENSE OF HUMOR - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Close Encounters with the Pilot’s Grim Reaper, contains close aviation related x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x CONTRAILS By Charles L. Lunsford All rights reserved It has been more than forty years since I flew in airplanes for a living. Airplanes and flying in general have progressed to a point where the aircraft I few and the flying I did are not only obsolete, but have passed into the realm of ancient history. Almost the only thing that remains constant is that airplanes are still held aloft by the lift created by their wings. Nearly everything else has changed. In those 40 years, I have pursued other things. I married, had children and raised them, and watched them leave the nest and do well in careers that have very little to do with flying. Why, then, do I feel compelled to look up every time I hear an airplane fly over? I used to think that this compulsion would pass over time, but not so. If anything, it’s getting worse. I even find myself wasting my time watching the Boing 737s climb out from the local terminal. Why would I watch a 737? I know they are fine little airliners, but not very interesting. They all look alike, and they always climb out making exactly the same turn and exactly the same altitude and at exactly the same speed at exactly the same time of day. What’s interesting about that? Why must I look up at them? My work takes me out of doors, and I know my co-workers think there is something wrong with me because I’m looking up all the time and stumbling occasionally because I’m not watching where I’m walking. Poor old guy in his dotage. The civil terminal here shares the runways with a large Air Force base, so I’m treated to a rich variety of aircraft flying over. I play golf at a course that is directly off the north end of one of the runways. The other golfers complain about the noise and the wind, but I love it. The airplanes are so low on final over the course one can almost reach up and touch them. The base is home to a few C-130s that drone overhead from time to time, and I have to look up at them. I flew in their predecessor, the Fairchild C-119, and I never see a C-130 without being reminded that they are the reason I quit flying when I did. They were so sophisticated that they didn’t need my particular skill as a Radio Operator. There are F-16s on the base, too, but I only hear them roaring off the ground in afterburner, and doing maximum power climbouts. Now and then, I’m treated to a formation peeloff over the end of the runway, about 3 miles away. But the F-16s are only fighters, flown by very young men who do tactical practice and gunnery practice on the range near the base. They are homebound. They never get to GO anywhere. Very rarely, I’m treated to the unmistakable old sound of large radial piston engines driving multiple propellers. For them, I have to run outside if I’m inside, or to run to a clear area in a frantic effort to locate the source of that wonderful thunder. Usually, the source of the sound is a “slurry bomber,” an old DC-6 or a Neptune going to fight a forest fire someplace, but once or twice it has been an old Connie or a B-29. The old 2800s, 3350s and 4360s running on 115/145 octane aviation gasoline – the highest ever refined. Engines that permeated one’s very being with their power. Those are my kind of engines. The ones that took my high-pitch hearing. Nothing else sounds like those big engines. I MUST go and look up at them when they come over. They are the engines of my youth. My town is also directly under a major east-west airway, and when conditions are right, the contrails are nothing short of spectacular. When I was flying, there were few contrails. Not many aircraft flew high enough to generate them—certainly not the aircraft I flew in. Most airliners didn’t fly that high either, so if one saw a contrail, it was more than a little exotic. It almost had to be a military jet; flying at altitudes we could only dream about, on some fabulous and exciting mission. We were guilty of envy when very occasionally, we were treated to a feathery white streak going south over the Mediterranean. We were seeing the first jet airliners. Their callsign was “Springbuck” and they were the ill-fated De Havilland Comets of BOAC, on their way to South Africa. They flew so fast and so high that they usually didn’t bother with radio calls to the air traffic controllers. There was no other traffic up there for them to worry about. Now, of course, those envied white streaks are commonplace. Every airliner makes one. So why am I still fascinated when I look up at them? On those good contrail days, there I’ll be, gawking up at the head of the contrail, trying to see that little silvery speck that is causing that long white streak against the blue, watching it for a long time until it passes below the vault of the mountains, and wondering what the final destination of the little speck could be. Sometimes I can see one that is not on the airway, but streaking across the sky at some odd angle, usually very high, and very fast. A military jet, probably, doing his own thing uncontrolled by anyone on the ground. And once in a while, a flight of fighters in loose formation, making multiple, parallel streaks across the sky. And now and then, I’ll see a very large aircraft spewing out a big contrail of four little wisps behind its engines that quickly merge into two larger ones. Something big and majestic. Maybe a 747 or a B-52. Or one of UPS’ stretch DC-8s. There is one of those old, refurbished DC-8s that climbs out among the 737 traffic every evening, no longer loaded with passengers now, but loaded with the myriad stuff of overnight parcels and mail, but it doesn’t matter—this airplane has some class. Whatever I’m doing, I always have to stop and watch this beautiful aircraft as it climbs out to the east and then makes a slow and majestic turn back toward the west in the gathering dusk. Sometimes, just after sunset, the airplane gleams with the golden light of the dying sun, while the rest of us are in shadow. I must watch until he is gone from sight. A few days ago, I watched the contrail of something large moving toward the horizon to the east. It was very high and probably 20 miles beyond the mountain, but I could still see the end of the contrail moving perceptibly away from me. The crew of that airplane had no idea I was watching them, nor did their passengers. I thought back to my own flying days and wondered if ever there had been an old flying man somewhere down there watching me fly over, and wishing he had those days of his youth back. Maybe his hearing was damaged from freezing in an open cockpit and listening to the pounding roar of his engine only a few feet away amid the wood and fabric and wires of his fragile aircraft. Watching me, he would have had no idea where I was going, but he’d have envied me my destination. Wishing he were going with me. He would have been a type who, regardless of his age, still had to look up when an airplane went over. In the future, I have no doubt that many of those young men currently roaring around in F-16s and other modern aircraft, will be looking up, too. Looking for the speck at the head of the contrail, feeling a little envious, wondering where it’s going, and remembering what it was like to be up there – high and clean and free of the Earth. They will have to look up because, just like me, a part of them will always be up there. Flying to read more of Chuck’s work, click here MY BLIND FILE CLERK BY CHARLES L. LUNSFORD All Rights Reserved In 1967, I was a newly promoted branch manager of my company's office in Oklahoma City. Similar to a credit bureau, it was a subsidiary of the larger conglomerate, and specialized in the larger, in-depth custom-built credit reports of the time. In those days, credit reporters actually called former credit grantors for information, rather than pushing a button on a computer keyboard. It was my second branch assignment, after a year in between as a sales representative in the company's largest branch in Los Angeles, but Oklahoma City was a very big promotion for me. It was a large, well-established operation and I was anxious to prove myself there. Moving to Oklahoma City has a major culture shock for me. I was a city boy, suddenly immersed in what seemed to me a very provincial environment, and the adjustment has difficult for me. Oklahoma City was where I learned that I would have to make myself over to fit the place, rather than trying to make the place over to fit me. I was the new kid on the block, taking over an established, well-staffed branch office, and my performance there would determine whether or not I would continue to move up in the company. Additionally, my predecessor had been very well liked by the staff, a situation that made it difficult for me to step into his shoes. But well liked or not, he had been sloppy in his cost accounting and it took me a long time to straighten out the mess. The branch was back in the black by the third month, mostly because of the three excellent, long term credit reporters I was fortunate enough to inherit with the job, and skillful enough to cultivate. Things were going very well and prospects for me and the Oklahoma City office seemed bright. One problem remained, however. I had inherited a huge stack of newspaper legal records the previous manager had been sandbagging. They were an essential part of the information we needed to make those large credit reports, and we couldn't do that unless they were in the file My predecessor hadn't been able to find the money to get it done, and concealing that from higher management was the straw that broke the camel's back. He was terminated. As I said, those were the days before automation and most of the office consisted of thirty-five large five-drawer file cabinets, crammed to bursting with 8 ½ by 11-inch paper files. Most of it was on company paper, known as "eye-ease green" and this huge paper file had to be maintained on a daily basis. A good file clerk was worth his/her weight in gold, and a wise manager went to great lengths to keep the few who could do it well. My full-time employees could maintain the file, but there was no way they could handle those thousands of legal records, so I applied for, and got, enough money to hire a crew to transcribe and file them. The job would take about a month to complete, so I ran an ad in the paper under the temporaries, in search of people to get this job done. It was a minimum wage job, and the quality of the applicants wasn't the highest, but then it wasn't exactly demanding work, either. So I hired three of the best of them and put them to work. It soon became evident that these early Baby Boomers had a rather different grasp of what the term "work" meant, but they were all I could get for that price, and I was hopeful they would improve with time. On the morning of the second day, a young lady appeared to apply for the job. She was very well dressed and obviously several cuts above the employees I had already hired for the job. As I ushered her into my office to tell her that the transcribing job had already been filled, I noted that only a large, and un-becoming pair of coke-bottle-thick eyeglasses marred her good looks. I was completely disarmed when she began to weep at the news, and the only thing I could do was offer her my handkerchief. She sobbed that she really needed a short-term job, almost begging. This young lady obviously wanted to work – a refreshing departure from the three transcribers I already had, and although I planned to hire a clerk to file the records after the transcribing was finished, I asked her if she would consider doing the filing, instead of the transcribing. She brightened and said that she could, but she could only work for about six weeks, because she would be going to work at Tinker Air Force Base. She only needed a job in the interim. This new development would fit perfectly with my plans for the legal records, and like most other men, I've always been a sucker for a weeping woman, so I hired her on the spot and told her to be to work promptly at eight the next morning. I was pleased with myself for finding a file clerk who would work for minimum wage. Was I a MANAGER, or what?! I had some early sales calls the next morning, so I was late getting into the office. My reporters were busily making phone inquiries and my new transcribers were just as busily doing as little as possible. And best of all, my new temporary file clerk was busily filing those dammed legal records. The Oklahoma City Branch was humming like a fine watch and I plunged into the pile of paperwork on my desk. The little cubicle that was my office was glass-enclosed, and all I had to do to check on my domain was look up. When I looked over at my new file clerk after an hour or so, I noted that she was still in the same place she was when I came in, at the front of the first drawer at the top of the first filing cabinet the beginning of the file She should have been a couple of drawers farther on by this time. As I watched, I did a double take. She would pick up a sheet to be filed and hold it about two inches from her eyes and scan it back and forth, then shifting to the files in the drawer, do the same thing to them. I watched her for a few minutes and she did the same thing to everything she filed. I caught the eye of my senior reporter and unofficial assistant manager, Joyce, and motioned for her to come in. I nodded toward the new file clerk. "What do you make of that?" Joyce grimaced. "I don't think she can see, Mr. Lunsford. She's been working hard, though, since she came in this morning," she said. "Didn't even take a break." I thanked Joyce and she went back to her desk, probably very sure that her new Branch Manager was an incompetent idiot. I watched the new file clerk for a few more minutes. She was obviously diligent, but at the rate she was going, it would take her forever to get all those legal records into the file. I would have to find someone else. I recalled something my division manager had said when I complained about a problem that was troubling me. "If managers didn't have these little problems, we wouldn't need managers. That's why we pay you the big bucks." Yeah, right – big bucks! Well, now I would have to earn some of them. I called the new clerk into my office and asked her to sit down. The look of apprehension on her face was pitiful, but I tried to smile to put her at her ease, but it didn't work, so I plunged on. "Are you having trouble seeing the files?" I asked as gently as I could. She burst into tears and I gave her my handkerchief again, and after a few minutes she calmed down enough to talk to me. "I know I should have told you, Mr. Lunsford, but I really need a job and I was afraid you wouldn't hire me.” She hesitated a moment, then went on. "I'm – I’m legally blind, Mr. Lunsford. I can see a little, so I thought I could do the filing for you – but I guess I can't." I felt like a dunce. Some manager I was, boy! I had hired a blind file clerk. "Oh, please, Mr. Lunsford," she said. “Couldn't you find something for me to do? I'm a very hard worker, and I really need this job.” She looked at me with tears in her eyes and my heart went out to her. I didn't know if she could see me or not, because I felt very small just then, but I could feel her anguish. And so could my reporters. I glanced up to see Joyce and Marie and Ermaline listening, waiting to see how the new kid on the block was going to handle this little dilemma. "I’m so very sorry,” I said. "The last thing I want to do is let you go. I need help with these legal records," I said, "but I don't know what you can do here if you can't see." Her upper lip seemed to stiffen. "I can do that," she said pointing to the table where the three temporary workers were leisurely copying the very small print of the newspaper records by hand onto sheets of "eye-ease green" paper. It was hard to read fine print in those records with good vision and this young lady had just told me she was legally blind. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my three reporters hanging on every word. "You can?" "Yes, sir,” she said. “I have a big magnifying glass I use for reading, and I can see to write. That's how I got through college." She wasn't crying anymore and gave me back my handkerchief. I could see she had gathered herself up and the intestinal fortitude was apparent. This young woman had guts and she had just hit the ball back into my court. The Oklahoma City office seemed paused in time, waiting to see how the new manager would handle this little problem. "All right," I said. "We'll try it. Do you have the magnifier with you?" Her face brightened. "No sir, but I can go and get it and be back by lunchtime." She stood up and thanked me, then walked out to get her purse from which she took a collapsible white cane. The cat was out of the bag. "I'll be back as quickly as I can," she said, and walked out the door. I stared at the closed door for a moment, a little dumbfounded. This blind young lady was displaying a degree of courage that seemed refreshing. As I turned back to my desk, I noticed my three reporters were all smiling at me. Were they smiles of approval or were they laughing at me for making such a stupid mistake? I couldn't tell, but either way, I was embarrassed, so I put on my hard-boiled manager's face, and looked them in the eyes. "If you ladies don't have any work to do, I'll see if I can find some for you." It wasn't their fault I was an idiot, but I took it out on them, anyway. True to her word, my blind file clerk was back before lunch with her big, letter-size magnifying glass, and wasted no time getting to work with it. It had extendible legs and stood about four inches above the table. She put it on top of the newspaper and began to transcribe, writing clearly and legibly at a speed probably three times as fast as the other transcribers. The next morning, I selected the best of the other three temporaries, and put her to work doing the filing. We had to make up a card with the alphabet so she could keep the letters in the proper order, but she did a passable job, even improving her speed as time went on. My blind file clerk was so good at transcribing that I let the other two go, and she finished the job alone and ahead of schedule. We all hated to see her go when she left to take her job at Tinker – which, we later learned, was a job in a civil service program for the handicapped. She was the type of employee with which all managers seek to surround themselves – the ones who make managers look like managers. She certainly made me look good. I never heard from her again, but I suspect she did well in life. She certainly had the necessary courage to do whatever she wanted --blind or not. My blind file clerk was truly a diamond in the rough. to read more of Chuck’s work, click here
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