137
(See pics below)
Boneyard runs are not easy for me. To see a C-141 retired from duty hurts deeply and the experience is traumatic. I didn't know how 137 felt about it, but I, for one, wasn't pleased with having to do this run. As opposed to the first boneyard run, I've noticed a change in my attitude about taking the final flight. At least with 137 my attitude changed. I went from the feeling of losing a friend to the feeling a veterinarian must have when he has to tell that little kitten her time is up and he's got to put her down for good although she did nothing to deserve such a cruel fate. I'm sure a
vet will tell you it gets easier with time and repetition, but this is one act I never wanted to repeat. Nonetheless, here I was, lethal injection in hand, trying to soothe the kitten into a purr to make her last hours peaceful ones.
I've wondered if planes know their time is up. Do they know where they're going and why? I believe they do.
137 didn't want to go..... That part was obvious. Two weeks before I was tasked to take her to the boneyard another crew tried and failed. After takeoff she suffered a loss of a hydraulic system and an overheat in the left wing resulting in loss of the left air conditioning pack and floor heat. Considering the amount of time it took for the overheat to go away and the weather the crew was flying toward it was deemed that they should bring her back to Altus, rapidly bleeding off cabin pressurization. For a short time, 137 got her reprieve.
On the morning of January 12th her time had run out. We arrived at the plane late enough so the sun was up but it would seem 137 summoned the weather Gods to assist her in her plight and Altus was totally socked in. During the
preflight it was difficult to see the wingtip from the nose of the plane, even with the navigation lights on. Somehow she got her left aileron out of rig. Nobody noticed it until we showed up that morning, but her left aileron was sitting about 4" above neutral when the right one was faired. Generally speaking, flight controls don't just throw themselves out of rig like that, but somehow 137 willed herself to pose a malfunction no aircrew would fly with. Maintenance arrived and scratched their heads at how this could have happened, but they dutifully set to re-centering her aileron.
When she was in good enough shape for a run to Davis-Monthan the weather was still holding us back. By "good enough shape" I mean that about half of her engine instruments didn't work, the radar was questionable at best,
serviceable parts like the radome and Ground Proximity Warning System were stripped off and replaced with unserviceable ones with their write-ups temporarily downgraded for a one-time flight to a place where their malfunctions didn't matter. Finally the weather lifted just long enough and just high enough for us to make a safe take-off. Of course if we had an
inflight emergency we'd have to divert somewhere else because the weather wasn't good enough to come back in for a landing.
I found myself doing the familiar stroll down the cargo compartment while we flew Westward. Nothing out of place, no leaks, no drips, no fires. Peeking out the forward left escape hatch I found no blowout doors open on the engines, no streaks of fuel leaking out of her wings. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. Strolling casually toward the tail, I stopped to sit on one of the catwalks. I just sat there and listened. The whoosh of air forced into the cabin through the air conditioning ducts, the hum of the hydraulic pumps, and the sound of the slipstream just outside the aircraft's skin
filled my ears. Everything was just as it should be. We could just as easily have been flying Eastward for a weekend off in Germany or hauling a medical team and a load of humanitarian supplies to some war-torn third-world country. Unfortunately, this wasn't the case. I spent that entire flight just a split-second away from breaking down and bawling, but military bearing wouldn't allow it and I didn't want her to see me like that anyhow.
I looked up from the floor with the cracks stop-drilled at the ends toward the right-rear escape hatch and saw one of the most beautiful sights I could imagine. From the years of wear her plexiglass portholes were crazed and pitted, yet the sunlight came through in such a brilliance of rainbow color that I couldn't help but smile. She let me know that this dirty, evil, unnecessary act I was forced to do was alright. It reminded me of losing my step-mother to cancer. We both knew what was coming and although it caused her so much pain she kept re-assuring me that it would all be OK soon. 137 was certainly on her deathbed yet she showed me a bright side to bring my spirits up. She showed me that everything would be OK soon.
We landed uneventfully in a cold Winter rain shower and I patted her nose when we shut her down for the last time. I did a postflight walk-around before leaving. I'm not sure why; anything missing or leaking would be of no concern to the pallbearers we turned her over to for her final tow into the graveyard. I guess old habits are hard to break, and besides, she deserved that final bit of respect for having served us so valiantly for all those years.
Sleep well little kitten, everything will be OK now...
She looks like she's crying, doesn't she?
Read my write-up from 629's Boneyard Run