BUZZ WAS MY CO-PILOT
On March 6th, 1972, I had the thrill of flying into Edwards Air Force Base in California to pickup as a passenger, Colonel Buzz Aldrin, the second man on the moon, in a Cherokee 180 N2206T. You could look it up. On that same date, Jim Spellman’s camera ran out of film, and I was so flustered, I forgot to ask Colonel Aldrin to sign my log book. I called Tom Freund, Manager of Lease-A-Plane at the Van Nuys Airport. “Tom, I need the 172 for Monday.” Tom said, “Take the Cherokee. We have a 180.” “Tom, you don’t understand…I have to get my rest on the weekend for a very important flight, and I’m not checked out in the Cherokee. I’m current in the Cessna.” “Okay, you’re booked in the 172.” I was relieved. If Buzz Aldrin is gonna watch me land a plane, I’m glad it was going to be the 172. “Boy, can I grease’em in with a 172.” I relaxed. The phone rang, and it was Tom Freund, who said cruelly, “You can’t have the Cessna!” “Oh yeah? Why not?” “It has a bent wing. You can’t fly an airplane with a bent wing.” “I’ll take the Cherokee.” Tom said, “You can’t have the Cherokee. You haven’t checked out in the Cherokee.” Less than thirty minutes later that Sunday, I was at Van Nuys in Zero Six Tango with Bill Rubis, instructor at Lease-A-Plane. I watched Bill Rubis watching me with his steel-brown eyes as I ran my steel-red eyes over the instrument panel in the plane that would carry Buzz Aldrin to Van Nuys. I contacted Ground Control in my deep-throated confident voice and said, “Zero Six Zango, request permission to taxi from Lease-A-Plane, have information Bravo. Take off, One-six left.” Ground said, “You mean, right.” I said, “Right, I really meant right. That’s right.” Bill said, “If you mean right, say ‘Affirmative.’” I looked at Bill and said, “Affirmative.” “Not to me, dummy, use the radio.” “Oh…Right..”Monday morning. Wham! Fog! 8:30 a.m. Jim Spellman looked at me and said, “Don’t you have to have a special license or something to fly in this kind of weather?” “Yeh.” “What do we do now?” “We sit and wait for it to go away, or I go out and get an instrument ticket, or we find an instrument pilot who can. “Hi Bill!” Bill Rubis pulled up and walked over to Tom, myself and Jim squinting up into the gray sky. “Jim, meet Bill Rubis, and get into the Cherokee.” My appointment with destiny was not to be denied, and in a short while, with that secret dialogue that all instrument pilots use, “Zero-Six-Tango, 110 degrees five miles left, under localize your slope, on top cancel your F/stop and activate your menu.” Bill Rubis said the magic words, and we were airborne to pick up our passenger at Edwards Air Force Base to the North of Van Nuys. That’s right! Edwards. I had been cleared to land at Edwards to pick up Buzz Aldrin and in a Cherokee 180. We were finally on top of the Basin smog and fog and I looked into Jim Spellman’s steel-green eyes looking at my white knuckles as Bill Rubis gave me my first lesson in instrument procedure. Our Cherokee 180, sound and stable, climbed out at 90 mph and found clear and clean air and visibility before we hit Newhall Pass. I muttered to Bill, “Gotta get my instrument ticket!” “Sometimes, just to get out,” Bill answered and we turned and saw that lid of garbage over the San Fernando Valley that everybody down there breathes and everybody promises to make go away. It was a Classic. It was a Movie shot. Wide angle as Zero-Six-Tango touches down gracefully. (I got lucky and painted this landing on. I hit the numbers and had to taxi what seemed to be four miles to the first turn off.) Cut to a tight shot of Eagle-like eyes watching the Cherokee touch down. Zoom out to include the firm strong face of Buzz Aldrin as he smiles, probably saying, “Get that pilot’s name…I want him with me on my next flight to the moon!” Music hits as two pilots walk toward each other with that steel-like glint in their eyes, shake hands with a firm grip, and a mutual look of admiration.
But Buzz Aldrin wasn’t there. We were five minutes early. His car pulled up at ten o’clock on the nose. There was a small ceremony at the plane, Jim shook hands with Buzz Aldrin, who shook hands with Bill Rubis, who shook hands with Jim Spellman, and I shook hands with lovely Jean Aldrin and by the time it was my turn to shake hands with Buzz Aldrin, I couldn’t because Jim handed me somebody’s briefcase. As we all walked toward the plane, I trailed behind with Bill, saying, “Look Bill, you’d better take it out. I’ll sit in the back with Jim and---.” “Nonsense, this is your flight. You’re the Pilot in Command. Colonel Aldrin will ride right seat. He’s your co-pilot. I’ll sit in back with Jim.” I tightened my seat belt and handed the loose end of the co-pilot’s harness to the Colonel. He nodded and grinned. He said nothing. This was no time for unnecessary conversation. The Launch director activates the automatic sequencer. Ignition sequence begins. The engine, all one hundred eighty horses, strain to pull that more than a ton of Piper from Mother Earth. My eyes meet the Colonel’s. I smile firmly and he nods. I am Pilot in Command. Buzz is my Co-Pilot. Am I nervous? Damn right I am! As we roll, rotate and climb out, I almost sense the blast of a rocket pulling us from the bounds of earth. Buzz taps the artificial horizon, and I hear his voice through my headset, “This thing doesn’t work.” Sweat forms on my brow. I utter a reassuring word over the intercom, “It kicks in as soon as I level off. You’ll see.” I look over my shoulder at Bill Rubis. I see some concern on his face. I assume he is looking for a chart, a graph, a flight guide…something. He is looking for his pencil. Radio contact now confirms our touchdown arrangements with that strange blue planet under a mysterious gas and vapor layer.
“It’s a go for a VFR touchdown. Conditions have improved on Mother Earth.” A voice in the headsets asked, “Do you have the field in sight?” I reply, “Nope. I mean Negative. Looking.” The voice in the headset again, “We have you in contact. Clear to land, one-six right!” “Roger”. Long moments pass like hours. I look into the steel-gray eyes of Colonel Aldrin, who looks into the steel-blue eyes of Bill Rubis. I look back at Jim Spellman. His eyes are closed, taking a nap.
Bill says, “Hank, let the Colonel bring her in. You must be exhausted.” The mission is far more important than personal glory, and I nod toward the Colonel who clamps his strong hands on yoke and throttle. I know now we are safe and home. As the Colonel steps from Zero-Six-Tango, I strain to hear his first words, but they are lost as a gas truck wheels up noisily. Later, as we coffee it up in the Pilots’ Lounge and while the Colonel calls his wife to inform her of his safe arrival, I turn to Bill Rubis and say, “I gotta get that instrument ticket.” “Damn right you do…How do you think Aldrin got to the moon…VFR?”
By Hank Stohl