The Unofficial Report

The "official" report of the crash of the T-34 on the previous page matches my own memories of the crash in most details, but not all. Perhaps the trauma of my near-death experience colored the words that I wrote then. The following is what is not included in my report to the Forest Service:

It took perhaps five seconds for the T-34 to die. In dying, it was transformed from a graceful flying machine to a jumble of scrap metal. During its vicious descent through the forest, two thoughts crossed my mind: I knew I was going to die (no one could live through such an accident!), and I remember thinking my mother didn't even know I was in an airplane. I was 19, and hadn't thought it necessary to tell her. My dad didn't know, either, but it was my mother I thought about. I was not frightened. There wasn't time to be frightened. Besides, fear would have been pointless when death seemed so imminent and inescapable. Less than four years later, on a battlefield in South Vietnam, I would again experience an acceptance of almost certain death when elements of a North Vietnamese regiment nearly overwhelmed my Marine Corps company; I was among our 30 casualties.

This U.S. Forest Service photo shows the wreckage of Forest Service Aircraft #N145Z. In the centre of the photo, resting on the right wing, is the passenger's seat, in approximately the same location and position it was in when I regained consciousness following the crash. Click on the photo to see a hi-res version.

U.S. Forest Service Photo

No one will ever know the cause of the crash precisely, but it was probably a microburst — a sudden, strong downdraft generated by the thunderstorms in the area — that brought us to grief. The NASA image at the right shows a microburst over an airport; many airliner crashes have been attributed to microbursts. Regardless of the cause of the accident, the T-34 had become inverted just before we hit the trees. The last thing I saw from my seat was trees. Nothing but trees. No sky at all. And then we were in the trees.

When an aircraft plunges at an estimated 90 miles per hour (145 kilometres per hour) into a mature forest, the game is over. The airplane loses. The trees probably lost some bark and a few branches, but the airplane, made of weaker sinews, simply came apart in the air.

An awful chorus

The T-34 Mentor is an all-metal aircraft. Mere language cannot convey to the reader the sound of its duralumin skin being shredded, of its airframe collapsing. No amusement park could ever replicate that thunderous, bucketing ride through the trees. The noise seemed like all of the noises of all time compressed into an awful chorus of shrieking metal and hammer-like blows. The motion, a pulling and pushing and shoving and jerking in all directions at once, seemed to result from great, snapping, irresistable forces. Perhaps we screamed. If we did, we could not have heard ourselves or each other. I don't recall seeing anything after my glimpse of trees that appeared to be growing downward from what should have been the sky: I must have squeezed my eyes shut out of pure instinct.

I was told later that it appeared that the aircraft, after it hit the ground, went sliding across the forest floor and slammed sideways into a large ponderosa pine. The fuselage, by then largely wingless, struck the tree — amidships, as it were — right between Wendell's seat and mine. The forward part of the fuselage tumbled on, launching both Wendell and his seat into space. He landed several yards down the hill right on the engine, which had also been torn loose from its mounts. The aft part of the fuselage slid beyond the tree and finally came to rest. My seat, with me still in it, was left dangling free except for one metal strap. When I came to — I must have been knocked unconscious well before the plane came to a stop — my eyes snapped open to see the ground only inches away from my face, with blood — my blood! — drip, drip, dripping into the dust. It was absolutely quiet.

Lacerated, contused, abraded, and strained from head to toe

Remarkably, although our aircraft had become a pile of junk, Wendell and I were largely intact. I was lacerated, contused, abraded, and strained from head to toe. A deep triangular cut on my left ring finger hurt like hell. There was a ragged gash below my left knee. Luckily, I wasn't bleeding much from any wound.

Just before the crash, I had asked Wendell if I could release my harness so I could turn in my seat to take pictures. He cautioned against releasing it completely, but told me to move a lever by the seat that would loosen the harness and allow me to lean forward slightly. I had just done that when we hit the trees, so my body was free to be buffeted more than might otherwise have been the case. After the crash, a bruise in the shape of an almost perfect, black V formed on my chest, and for days I could not breathe without pain.

Although I didn't have any obvious head injuries, other than a cut on the back of my head, I did have a concussion which resulted in addled thinking for weeks (and perhaps the rest of my life!). The human brain, a gelatinous structure lightly cushioned by a thin layer of cerebrospinal fluid, was not designed to withstand the violent forces encountered in a plane crash. Wendell and I were in the same room at Hillcrest General Hospital. For days, I kept trying to call Wendell "Weldon"; only with the greatest conscious effort could I dredge "Wendell" from the depths of addled brain.

Wendell faced a long recovery

Wendell faced a long recovery from multiple injuries. He too suffered from concussion; one temple of his U.S. Air Force helmet was crushed in the accident, which he could not recall. One of his arms was broken at the elbow, and he suffered third-degree burns on his thigh from lying on the hot engine.

(About a year later, when Wendell had recovered and was flying again, another accident grounded him permanently: I heard that he was working with a lathe in his home workshop when a chisel broke and blinded one eye.)

God was NOT in our cockpit!

I wish to state for the record that I do not view my survival or Wendell's as miraculous in any sense. Crash survivors credit "the will of God" for their survival, but that is utter nonsense. Wendell and I survived simply because we weren't killed, despite the odds. If one credits God with saving our lives, then, to be consistent, one must blame God for taking the lives of so many other people in similar mishaps! I have more faith in physics and chance than in any such capricious "God."

Less litigious times

The Forest Service made sure I was comfortable and paid my hospital bills. Family friends told my parents that they should sue, but we were all content that I was alive and would recover fully. I had willingly put myself in harm's way, through no fault of the Forest Service. Besides, those were less litigious times….

The Forest Service probably heaved a bureaucratic sigh of relief when it was clear that lawyers would not become involved, and soon promulgated a new regulation: "Civilians" would henceforth be allowed to ride in Forest Service aircraft only if they were "essential to the mission" or if the flight has been "approved by the Line Officer responsible for the flight." That regulation obviously didn't go into effect right away, however, for I continued to fly with the Forest Service that summer, after recovering from my injuries. Today, however, I doubt that a starry-eyed, 19-year-old cub reporter could get on a bird-dog flight so easily.