Maxine Harvey

Woman’s Airforce Service Pilot Class 44W3

Hanging Flyer

People who know I flew airplanes in the 5th Ferry Command for the Women’s Air Force Service pilots during World War II often ask me if I had any scary experiences. They inquire, “Did you ever get scared?”

Affirmative. I remember the feeling that crept into my body while ferrying a PT-19 from Texas to New Jersey. PT-19’s were a primary trainer for the Army Air Force, which had a Fairchild 175 horsepower engine, two open cockpits, a low single wing, fixed landing gear, no radio and practically no instruments on the instrument panel. You wore a leather or cloth helmet and goggles when flying because the small windshields didn’t completely break the rushing turbulent air from whipping up into the open cockpit. You needed to remember to keep your mouth closed most of the time otherwise your teeth and gums would hurt that night.

On a pleasant summer day in July, 1944, I picked up my plane parked in the hanger of the San Antonio Kelly Airbase., I filed a flight plan to Monroe, Louisiana which was to be my first stop on a three day journey to Newark. We flew in the daylight hours in clear weather when delivering this type of aircraft. These old PT’s were being replaced by new ones at US training fields. The US government delivered them to New Jersey, sprayed them with black protective covering and shipped them overseas to England. I don’t know where they went from there – perhaps Russia. I had a CAVU clearance in my pocket which meant the weather was clear and calm to destination. After takeoff I began checking the instrument panel. The turn and bank indicator wasn’t working. I punched it a couple of times but no matter I didn’t intend to do any precision maneuvers. The altimeter wouldn’t respond to my attempts to set it. The tachometer and the airspeed indicator seemed a little sluggish but in a light plane like this one, I flew by the seat of my pants. That left me with the one instrument I did need – the compass.

1.I had been flying over two hours taking note of my checkpoints on the ground when I noticed the formation of clouds moving closer to my left wing began to take on the look of a building weather front. A front meaning the boundary between two masses of air that differ as in density or temperature. In other words, the clouds looked like a line of changing weather conditions, maybe an occluded front of precipitation and bad visibility. On my last checkpoint I had been right on course with my “dead reckoning” navigation. Now that I think about it “dead reckoning” sounds ominous but that was the name of the navigational system using landmarks such as rivers, lakes, mountains, cities, towns, and yes, railroads to plot your course of flight. These landmarks were planned before takeoff and served as checkpoints to calculate time, speed and directional headings. I had flown almost three fourths of my way and turning back was not an option. I didn’t have enough gas to do that. I might need to resort to my alternate airport in Monroe which was almost due north as I had drifted a little south of my panning course in an effort to keep a safe distance from the rapidly moving clouds. Those clouds were not supposed to be there according to the weather report at San Antonio. I had that CAVU clearance in my pocket. As my brain turned and twisted with decisions I spotted an opening between the clouds that I could easily fly through. This would enable me to fly directly to my designated airport. I rationalized that if I changed by mind in the next five or six minutes, I could turn around and head south. Full throttle took my plane through the hole into a beautiful sky surrounded by towering clouds floating by waving at me. The sunlight sifted through giving a luminous glow like an eerie moonlight. Below the plane I watched the everglades with whisps of minute clouds dotted on the treetops as if a pastry cook had decorated them with a flick of whipped cream. It was enchanting until I looked straight ahead and saw the result of an occluded front. A sheet of white dense air mass had formed directly in my diagonally from west to east and from heaven to earth. I turned my head to see if the hole I had flown through still existed. The clouds had made a solid wall of my retreat. I unfolded the long creases in my map. I needed to find something I could set this airplane down on besides the tops of trees – perhaps a sandy beach or a river. The wind whipped the map from my hands. The flapping paper was gone. I looked below hoping for that sandy river shore. Nothing but everglades blanketed the earth.

This is when I spoke to God. Actually I felt calm. I wasn’t afraid to die. “God,” I said, “I am too young to die, you know that I’m only twenty-two years old.”

God’s answer was swift and sudden. Immediately off my left wingtip was a twin engine AT-10. The pilot had slowed his plane down to come along side. He knew I had big trouble with no radio for communication. He rocked his wings deeply when he noted that I was watching., I rocked back. This is pilot talk for anything from “hello” to “I’m going to help you.” My wings told him I knew his message. He pulled in front of the nose of my plane and zipped off flying around to the right of the diagonal white sheet of dense weather. He disappeared. I gave my plane full throttle to follow his path. Banking my wings to edge around the white mass I spotted the landing field directly in front of me. At-10’s were landing on the runway in 30 second intervals. The airbase was Monroe’s navigation training school for the Airforce. The weather had obviously changed unexpectedly and the planes had hurriedly been radioed to abort their missions to return immediately to the airport. I knew I couldn’t squeeze in between the landing intervals of those twin engine planes. I would be much to slow and the tower would give me a red light. If a plane is without radio contact with the tower, the tower will flash a red or green light to you on the approach leg of the landing pattern. I didn’t want to circle that field if I got a red light. On either side of the landing strip there was green grass. I had no intention of looking at the tower. After all if I don’t look at the tower I cant see a red light. I made a smooth landing on the beautiful green grass and taxied over to the flight line staying well out of the way of the AT-10’s. I climbed out of the cockpit taking my parachute and small overnight bag. As I hopped from the wing to the ground glancing at the large drops of rain making wet marks the size of silver dollars. The flight commander then came over hading me a pencil to sign the gasoline acquisition. After making several unsuccessful attempts to get the pencil to stay on the sheet of paper long enough to write my name, the corporal hurriedly said, “You can come back later to sign for the gas. Go into operations.” The silver dollar raindrops were steadily pelting me. I could see the field shrouded in a soft white mist. Visibility was zero. In the steamy operations building the flight officer shouted, “We sure are glad to see you. We knew you were down somewhere because you had to be out of gas by now.” I tried to use my nonchalant voice, “Yah, I know. I’m glad to see you too.”

My buddies who had landed earlier were waiting for me. In the nearby hanger I joined them for coffee being careful that I used both hands to steady my cup. They had stories too and there was lots time for hanger flying before the weather cleared.