A Plane Crash In Plain Sight
A True Story
About and by Sheryl James Warren

Born in Hawaii to a caucasian, blond, blue-eyed, American father and a brown-haired, brown-eyed, Portuguese mother, my Dad worked in the teletype, communications and satellite tracking division of the Air Force. Even though, on the paternal side, we are said to be related to Jessie James, Dad looked slightly more like his mother with enormous brown eyes and a glorious olive-toned complexion. He did, however, possess the Jessie James lethal stare when provoked or angry—apparently a family trait that is prevalent throughout the entire James Gang.

Dad, Edward F. James, was stationed at Karamursel Air Force Base in Turkey, directly across the Marmara Sea from Istanbul, when I was a kid. He was a Tech Sergeant at the time and his entire tour was for four years, but it was cut short, unfortunately, because of little me. (I’m just that special.) I sustained a horrific hip injury whilst living in Karamursel at the ripe age of nine, which later prompted the Air Force to prematurely return Dad and our large family back to America; because my medical needs were far more important than his Turkish tour. This, of course, is an extremely rare tactical maneuver for the military, but I didn’t receive a purple heart for my battle wounds from the Air Force. But I digress.

If you look at any globe or map you’ll notice that Turkey borders Russia. While working in the teletype and communications division in Karamursel my father was, in many ways, spying on and reading the transcripts of the Russians daily. He held one of the highest levels of security clearance the Air Force had to offer, even though he only wore a five stripes on his uniform, at the time. Dad said we were living in a third world country so I never fully understood what his five stripes stood for. I was only a kid so my whole take on the matter was slightly askew.

A side note here: Dad always told us (his four baseborn offspring) that you could call any superior officer an A-hole as long as you quantified your statement with the title of Sir. Basically you could say, “I think you’re an A-hole, Sir,” or “I’m forced by the Air Force to agree with your feeble order but Sir, you’re an A-hole.” This anal list goes on and on.

Dad also insisted that his children adhere to this Air Force mentality. We never called him Dad, we all called him Sir. If we didn’t call Dad ‘Sir’ or ‘Mister Sir’ or any derivative thereof, anything but Sir A-hole, (even though the thought occurred to all four of us from time-to-time), we were

instantly the recipient of a thunk to the head.

Have you ever taken your middle finger and thumb to form a flip-you-off type OK sign and pinged a fly off of a table? That’s the type of thunk I’m referring to. Dad wasn’t a big guy but when you’re only nine years-old his man-sized fingers were gigantic in proportion to your tiny skull. Therefore, his thunks hurt like heck. Dad, I mean Sir, really could be an A-hole at times. But I digress again.

While stationed in Turkey we had no American television stations and only Armed Forces Radio for our listening pleasure, which alternated its music from country western to easy-listening to opera to rock to pop, hourly. As a kid you’d only catch the good tunes when it was well past bedtime, but Sir didn’t know that all four of his Air Force brats possessed cheap handheld radios with even cheaper headsets. Sir didn’t know that we had nothing to do on that Air Force base but get into trouble, either. However, that’s an entirely different story.

Karamursel Air Force Base was a mini resort, of sorts, with a bowling alley, movie theater, football field, numerous bars, night clubs and such, but it only had one clinic for medicinal purposes. And a tiny clinic with maybe two general practitioners as doctors, a receptionist and a handful of nurses was insufficient for my hip injury. Subsequently, my mom, a spoiled rotten British transplant, also known as The MUMster, (a name I had personally concocted for her), were transferred back-and-forth via a C-130 plane from Turkey to Germany for my numerous medical or surgical procedures.

A little explanation about military planes: If a plane’s name starts with the letter P it simply means that it’s a patrol plane, even though some, like the P-51 Mustang and the P-38 Lightning are also fighters. The letter A is an attack craft, B is a bomber, C is a cargo carrier and so on. So the C-130, also known as The Hercules, was a cargo plane, which simply meant that I was nothing but cargo every time I was loaded into her. And I was also carted in, swaddled in green sheets, on a green canvas stretcher. My stretcher was then hung from the ceiling of the plane in a stout green, belt-like, key-holed, wobbly rafter, with various green stretchers wobbling below me.

What is it with the military and the color green?

They literally stacked the sickos up like pancakes. And because I was usually the lightest passenger, typically the only child on board, I was always the first to be loaded up. I’m talking way up. This meant that my stretcher was always placed at the very top of the pancake stack. I manage to find my way to the top of the heap under any circumstance. (Oxymoron permitted.)

As with most cargo planes, the C-130 has a rear-end larger and wider than my Aunt Cynthia’s but... its overly large tail also opens up in which to load small tanks, ammunition, food, supplies and such. In other words, the C-130 is a loud, heavyset, heifer of a flying blob with absolutely no insulation and, as with all warbirds, you must shove earplugs deeply into your overly waxed ear canals (especially if you’re a filthy Air Force brat), just to hear yourself think. No cheap handheld radio or even cheaper headsets can drown out the sound of a C-130’s engines. You hear absolutely no words at all from anyone on the dang thing, but after numerous flights you get rather proficient at reading lips and obnoxious sign language.

While The MUMster and I were flying back to Karamursel, Turkey from Wiesbaden, Germany, after my second operation, as usual my entire right leg from hip to toe was braced and bandaged up. I was also painfully flopping and swaying around in the highest stretcher on the pancake stack in my beloved C-130.

I’d personally grown to love that plane. She was an old bird but she had a certain robust loud style about her. I’d even stopped inserting the earplugs into my ear canals because I rather enjoyed the sound of the plane’s quad engines. I had also discovered tiny cotton swabs on sticks during my numerous hospital stays, so my hearing was superb. I listened to every ping, knock, gurgling, rumbling, hum that bird—my camouflaged crow had to offer. Then IT happened.

As we were making our final approach into Karamursel I heard the landing gear begin to come down. It was usually music to my ears—that needing oil squelch as the old girl began to stretch her arthritic limbs, followed by the smooth sweet tone of her hydraulic gears, but something sounded off this time. Odd and completely off key to me. This wasn’t my special bird singing her beguiling landing gear song. Heck, she wasn’t singing at all. Her voice, if you want to call it that, was worse than any opera I had the disprivilege of hearing over the Armed Forces Radio Station. And the sound coming from underneath her belly was like someone had taken a massive can opener to her and ripped her heart out. There was also an ominous unleashing of the Kraken sensation, like some monster was using massive tentacles to tear the flying ship in two.

Metal hitting metal sounds worse than fingernails running down a chalkboard and my beautiful old bird’s metal was ripping into shreds. Then I smelt her blood, an oily scent mixed with fuel muddled somehow with burnt rubber. The odor was followed by dust which was quickly coupled with puffs of smoke. The gray clouds coming up from her floor were nominal at first but they quickly began to accumulate and engulf the cabin of the craft. And since I was on the heap of the stretcher pancake stack and The MUMster was sitting in the military green straps of swing chairs below, I could barely see her face, much less read her lips. Her sign language, however, was violent and visible as was everyone else’s.

Amidst the coughing and hacking sounds of human cargo, and the heart wrenching shutters, thuds, shims and whims coming from my favorite old bird, not to mention the tar-tasting smoke, I had the best seat in the house!

Two Airman, one beefy, one skinny, were running up and down the aisle, telling the passengers, including The MUMster to stay seated, which was an arduous, feeble task, because everyone wore earbuds and no one was actually listening. I believe I was the only person who managed to maintain composure. Of course, the fact that I was strapped into a stretcher, highest on the pancake stack, weighted down with a brace that was mummified and fresh out of surgery, I was immobile.

Why sweat the small stuff when you’re a small animal ensnarled in a trap? Was I supposed to turn into some writhing, whirling Tasmanian Devil, like the rest of the cargo and go berserk? Okay. All right. You’ve got me. I did! But I only freaked out because...

The pilot must have said something to his crew, but since no intercom existed for the cargo, his point was mute to us—literally. Crew members quickly shuffled around and then the tail-end of my beautiful bird began to open. Why? Well, when you’re not remotely close to touchdown distance of a runway and the butt-end of a C-130 starts to open up only two things are going to happen. One: You’re bailing out, but since you're cargo you’re going to wing it because the Air Force doesn't provide cargo with parachutes. Two: You’re toast, burnt to a crisp, crispy-creamed, deep fried, put-a-fork-in-me-I’m-done, then stone cold, blue-faced, dead.

The hydraulics of the C-130’s opening tail began to make a sweet but now desperate squeaking sound. Cold air rushed in and continued to do so in waves.

I deduced that the pilot just wanted to breathe life into the situation or he was a complete lunatic. And yes, I was well educated at just nine years-old so I knew the exact definition of a lunatic. The MUMster was the reason I had learned to detect this personality defect. As the tar-tasting, gray smoke was being sucked out of the plane’s backend, The MUMster only reinforced my deductions. Heck all of the human cargo did.

The high pitched screams from the loudmouthed cargo completely muffled the plane’s external quad engines, if you can believe that. Tears started streaming down my cheeks but I couldn’t tell if I, the smoke, or the blast of gaseous air that entered the cabin had produced them. Thanks to the C-130’s open backend I could see the Karamursel runway and it was a good ways away. Too far away for me. The runway was also covered in some white froth-like substance that looked quite snowy with a different fluffy texture. It resembled a giant marshmallow.

Briefly, through the C-130’s open backend, I thought I saw Sir, standing all alone, near the fence of Karamursel’s tarmac. He was far away from the white stuff on the runway, but his olive-toned complexion was stark in comparison to the white goo.

Because we were falling, correction, landing at the speed of mach-my-God, I shrugged the vision of Sir off, convincing myself that I wasn’t seeing too clearly through the smokey fog or hallucinating. Perhaps, I had too many of The MUMster’s traits, after all. My head was whistling louder than the air coming from the crumbling C-130’s open butt-end.

I must have blinked. As I was wiping the tears away, trying to make heads or tails of the situation, my beautiful, injured bird clumsily flopped on the marshmallow covered runway—but not gracefully. Not at all. No. This wasn’t my girl making an elegant entrance. This was a wounded, worn-out, metal beast skidding, writhing, slightly skewing side-to-side, like she had no legs to stand on—like she had. . . belly flopped?

Soapy, glistening foam was everywhere and I mean everywhere. When a C-130’s rear-end is wide open she can consume quite a bit, like a couple of small tanks and an entire platoon. The sound of a massive angel grinding her full metal jacket on white foamed concrete is worse than the tone of a three year-old playing a hundred year-old violin. My magnificent bird was choking and struggling for life—including ours!

While my camouflaged crow was still in motion, still skidding, still thudding, still wobbling, with items falling from every interior orifice she had, the two Airman, Beefy Man and Skinny Sidekick, who had unsuccessfully tried to calm the human cargo down previously, began racing up and down the aisle again. They were unbuckling said cargo, blurting out instructions like military mutineers. Their orders fell mostly on deaf ears and were in morse code to me. Somehow, I did manage to hear or imagine this: “She’s, DOT, going, DOT, to blow, DOT, exit, DOT, the, DOT, plane, DOT DASH DASH DASH DASH DOT DOT DOT!”

The dots and dashes included vulgar, adult expletives, but I was only a kid, so you can fill in the dots, dashes and frigging blanks at your discretion.

Still in motion but now an angel fallen from the sky, my special bird was choking, even though the pilot had given her some much needed oxygen when he had opened the cargo door.

Frantic cargo began to exit via the craft’s open rear-end. These cowards had magically sprouted legs again and were running for their lives. They were saving only their own skins, not my precious bird’s nor anyone else’s. Beefy Man and Skinny Sidekick began to shew the rest of the cargo off, even though the plane had yet to completely stop, much less reach its marshmallow concealed yellow mark on the sticky runway. Unfortunately, the helpless pancake stack in the stretchers was the last thing on their minds.

Now, I don’t give The MUMster much credit for her demeanor but I will say this, she stood her ground while grown men were in fight or flight mode. The MUMster was screaming, “I’m not leaving this bloody plane without my daughter!” You gotta love that stubborn British temperament.

Finally skidding to a standstill, sparks began to flare from the belly of the plane, but The MUMster still stood her ground. She screamed even louder, “Get my daughter down from that (insert colorful British metaphor here), swinging canvas rafter contraption or I’ll go up there and grab her myself!”

The MUMster was the last standing cargo member who hadn't bailed out. Poor Mum.

Aggressively, Beefy Man snatched Mum up in his arms like she weighed less than a sixty-pound dog, and I know for a fact that she didn’t. She was whisked away writhing, screaming, kicking and I believe she even bit and punched the guy. You’ve really gotta love that stubborn British temperament.

As an adult I rarely panic, I get mad or even. Really mad. Jessie James kind of mad. As a child, under the circumstance panic mode set in, big time. More sparks appeared at the C-130’s open tail end, followed by strange fizzing and cracking sounds. I was officially losing it. Those MUMster traits were coming through me viciously.

My tiny hands started struggling with the green military-grade belts and buckles on the stretcher. I had always been a proud Air Force brat, but at that moment I hated anything made by or for the military. Eerie sounds like a steak knife grinding on a ceramic plate were heard directly under the C-130’s backside, distracting my efforts of release and retreat.

My eyes are and were obviously large then, (a Sir trait), but they felt like they were popping out of my skull. My beloved buddy and camouflaged crow was starting to become my worst nightmare. Edgar Allen Poe's raven had nothing on her. I was fuming, the same way that The MUMster could and, apparently, so was my prized non-flying fowl.

Writhing and wiggling, not giving two green Air Force sheets if I popped all of the fresh stitches in my hip; not caring one iota if I busted the brace and the mummified bandage around it; not trying to run, because I couldn’t even walk, I was going to be a free bird because I was ready to fly!

The lowest and heaviest man in the pancake stretcher stack started screeching. There is not another verb to describe his pitch. I’m kind of glad Screeching Man did though, because if he hadn’t I would have. Unfortunately, Screeching Man’s abominable song went unnoticed, because we pancakes were now unattended—going stale.

The teenage boy in the stretcher directly beneath mine began screaming profanities. His voice cracked a bit, but he sounded much better than Screeching Man. I was glad that Cracked Voice Teen did what he did though, because out of nowhere Beefy Man and Skinny Sidekick appeared beneath us.

Craning my neck, it was only then that I noticed just how high up in the pancake stack I ranked. Heck, I was royalty. I was only nine but I could count, dang it. Six stretchers were in my view, only two of them held human cargo, four were filled with non-human cargo like small boxes and bric-a-brac, but I was lucky number seven in the stretcher stack!

Beefy Man and Skinny Sidekick frantically started devouring the other pancakes. I didn’t have the stomach to watch them, too distracted by the new sparks and minuscule flames that were trying to cook my favorite bird’s tail. I could hear and see the emergency vehicle and some of the staff performing their runway-side duties. My stomach continued to churn. My point-of-view was limited, but provided enough intel. This only added to the nauseous sensation that felt like aviation fuel in my gut. If it’s possible to feel a color I was and it was putrid military green. This toxic fluid was now traveling into my throat. Feeling sunk and all alone, as grotesque as it sounds I swallowed my pride.

Screeching Man and Cracked Voice Teen mutated into human form as they were carried off of the plane. Screeching Man was still screeching and Cracked Voice Teen was still swearing.

They say that time doesn’t stand still. Frankly, I beg to differ. My ears were ringing. My head was aching. My stomach was... yeah right.

Other then the hurried yet extremely calm and competent voices of the emergency team outside of the craft and the sounds of the blasts coming from the extra large fire extinguisher, the only other thing I heard was my heartbeat. It was thumping with such vigor between my ears that I thought I was about to have some sort of paranormal out-of-body experience.

And then I did...

Like an angel sent from heaven or only God knows where, maybe by order of Karamursel Air Force Base’s Commander, I finally saw Skinny Sidekick’s hands on the straps of my stretcher. He really was little, almost as little as me. Unfortunately, I was too securely swaddled under putrid green military sheets and still tightly buckled in. It was either that or my former frantic fumbling with said sheets, buckles and straps had all but destroyed any hope for an escape.

Skinny Sidekick ceased being angelic and turned demonic. I swear I saw horns sprouting from his head. And the cuss words spewing from his mouth led me to believe that his head was about to twist on his shoulders and military green gunk was going to start flowing out of his mouth. Yes, at nine, I had read the book and even seen the movie The Exorcist. Sir had a part-time job at Karamursel AFB’s movie theatre. On a measly Tech Sergeant’s salary, Sir needed the extra pocket change to support his four brats. And remember, we had no American television stations, so I became a bookworm at a very young age. To this day I still thank Sir for my love of books and creepy movies.

Beefy Man must have heard Skinny Sidekick making distress calls, grunting or cussing or whatever the hel...lo he was doing because he came rushing to Skinny Sidekick’s aid. And here I was starting to lose my faith, praying that a priest was by my side anointing me with holy water.

The rest is a frolicking messed-up, blur-of-a-thing to me. I was tag-teamed and tackled. The sheets, stretcher’s belts and buckles were relentless. Skinny Sidekick and Beefy Man manhandled the stretcher and me to no avail. I thought they were going to give up until Beefy Man whipped out a sword. Okay, it was a rather large, military grade, pocket knife, but Beefy Man had enormous hands and huge pockets in which to conceal such a weapon. For a split second I thought I was a goner—that the plane crash wasn't going to kill me but Beefy Man was.

Ripped up, rip-corded or unzipped then finally cut out, Skinny Sidekick and Beefy Man wrestled my crippled, aching body down from the rafter’s of my favorite now disabled bird. The stretcher came crashing down with me, but no-one noticed nor cared.

My body was tossed over the shoulder of Beefy Man like I was a sack of potatoes. Freshly out of surgery or not, braced to the hilt and mummified, my right leg and hip were of no consequence. The drill was to exit the plane and we did. Beefy Man could run, just not quite as fast as Skinny Sidekick, especially with me in tow. Skinny Sidekick dusted us both.

Somehow, and very quickly I was tossed into Sir’s arms who was standing by the fence on the far side of the tarmac. Even with the smoke cloud and the emotional calamity inside of the plane, I hadn’t imagined seeing him there, after all.

Mum was standing so close to him that they were almost conjoined. Mum looked more pasty than normal. She was a whiter shade of British pale. Then I looked up at Sir. Expecting to see his big brown eyes and comforting olive-toned complexion, instead, Sir had turned my favorite color purple. Sir’s wonderful big brown eyes were red and his eyelashes were moist. Had Sir actually been crying? His jaw was tight; his lips were clenched with an ominous indigo hue.

Sir had witnessed the whole incident from the ground up. Mum and I had experienced it from the heavens to earth. Bless Sir’s heart. Bless Mum’s heart, too. Somebody needed to bless the gurgling cramps in my stomach. Where was the priest?

“Sir,” I said.

“Um,” said Sir.

“Bloody hell,” said Mum.

“What happened, Sir?” I said.

“The landing gear came down,” said Sir.

“Huh?” I said, not yet grasping what Sir had just claimed.

“Bloody hell,” said Mum, as her steel blue eyes death-stared the crippled C-130 on the runway.

I didn’t want to but I knew that I had to. I didn't want to look at my beautiful bird, my beloved metal monster and friend, my favorite camouflaged crow, but I knew that I must. As I turned my head and eyes slowly my lungs deflated and I gasped.

My amazing winged creature was more crippled than I was. Her tail-end was still wide open. She was tilting which made one of her glorious wings look like it was almost hitting the ground. The first engine on that wing looked like it had taken a hit from some sort of impact. The emergency crews were still diligently working, perhaps in hopes of resuscitating my beat up winged friend. Perhaps not?

“She’s a goner,” Sir said.

Metal chards and chunks of unrecognizable aviation parts with bits and pieces of supplies and abandoned stretchers traversed the entire length of the foamy white runway. The runway had sustained a little damage, too, perhaps from the fallout.

Tears immediately filled my eyes and my stomach ceased up, churning and gurgling even more. The pain in my leg was too hard to concentrate on and I didn't rightly care if I hurt. And I did. Physically and emotionally I hurt. My beloved C-130 had died and I had witnessed it, caressing and cradling her in my mind during her last few minutes of life.

Unable to comprehend the sight of my special warbird any longer, I closed my eyes. Bowing my head, my chest was heaving and water was freely rolling down my plump cheeks. I snuggled securely into Sir’s body. He clutched me tighter than he ever had in my short lifespan. Not looking at his face I could tell by his hands that his complexion was still purple. It seems that I was awarded my purple heart, after all.

“Sir,” I said.

“Um,” said Sir.

“What. . . really. . . happened?” I said, stuttering and I had never stuttered or had a speech impediment in my life.

Spud was an endearing nickname that Sir Dad called me before I was old enough to be ordered to call him Sir. Maybe that’s why Beefy Man slung me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes?

“Are you okay Spud?” said Sir.

“No Dad, I’m not! I know that the landing gear came down. . .” I said, trailing my sentence awaiting my father’s full response, hoping that it was something I could wrap my young brain around.

“No, Spud, pieces of the landing gear fell off,” said Dad.

“Yes, Dad, the landing gear came down but. . .” I said, ceasing again in mid-sentence, as my eyebrows formed a question mark. My forehead crinkled.

“Uh huh,” said Dad.

“The landing gear fell off?” I said.

“Um, some of it did,” said Dad.

“Bloody hell,” said Mum.

“Dad?” I said. My brow crinkled even more, but this time my head started to ache and a strange buzzing sound reverberated in between my ears.

“When the landing gear came down, it actually came down. A portion of the landing gear fell off of the plane, Spud,” said Dad.

Air Force pride flew directly out of the window at that precise moment, even though we were outdoors with no windows to be found. Actually, my pride flew instantaneously out of my mouth! I puked, blew chunks, tossed my cookies, blasted beets, projectile vomited, whatever you prefer to call the action when one empties one’s stomach, all over Dad, with a little overspray hitting Mum, but neither seemed to mind.

Okay. All right. You’ve got me. They didn’t mind too much.

______

The USAF considered this a minor incident. The C-130's landing gear was specifically designed for hard landings on any surface or terrain. This one had a little mechanical glitch. The C-130 survived. Senior Master Sergeant, Edward F. James, died of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, February 3, 1984. He was forty eight years-old. He is buried at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery for veterans in San Antonio, TX. Sheryl is a military plane and warbird enthusiast, attending Commemorative Air Force and Gulf Coast Wing air shows, flying in antique planes whenever she can. Throughout her life she has also flown in a C-5, P-51 Mustang, B-17 and an SNJ-5 but her favorite plane is still the C-130.