*     *     *     *     *

     

      On the 28th of April 1970, I found myself in Houston, Texas, as a guest of the Houston Police Department.

     No, dear reader, I wasn’t arrested - shame on you for thinking so little of me.

     Actually at the callow age of twenty-seven, I had secured the position of Chief Pilot with World Associates Inc. – a Santa Monica, California, based company that designed security systems for banks and police departments.  Under the direction of its CEO, Hugh C. MacDonald (retired Chief of Detectives and former head of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Aero Bureau), I had been leased to the Houston Police Department to train sixteen police officers in aerial law enforcement. Therefore in January of 1970, I delivered three Hughes 300B helicopters to the Houston Police Department and, with the assistance of my fellow Flight Instructor, Ken Harmon, I’d begun training eight police officers for their Private and Commercial Helicopter Pilot’s Licenses.  Later we would bring in the other eight officers and train them as flying observers.  In short, Ken and I were setting up the Houston Police Department’s first Air Support Division.

     As a result, on a beautiful April day in 1970, I ended up inhaling cordite, which left a metallic taste in my mouth – like sucking on a greasy nickel – as I blasted away with a Colt .45 Automatic on the Houston P.D.’s shooting range.  Gripping the Colt in my right hand, as I cradled it with my left, I drilled the black silhouette target of a man three times in the heart.  Instinctively, I swapped the .45 to my left hand, cradling it with my right, and nailed the target again with three more bullets to the head.

     “Whoa there, pardner!  What in the Sam Hill are y’all doin’?” bellowed Lt. John Biggs as he tapped me on the shoulder.  Lt. Biggs was one of my helicopter students and was slated to command Houston P.D.’s first Air Support Division.  He was scheduled to “qualify” on the shooting range this month and had allowed me to tag along, so I could likewise get my shooting skills current.  He possessed a gorgeous, matched-set of nickel-plated Colts, and had loaned one to me.

      John was thirty-nine and built similar to a bulldog, with close-cropped, thinning hair.  We both wore T-shirts, jeans and sneakers with H.P.D. black ball caps.

     I snapped on the Colt’s “Safety Lock” with my right thumb, laid it down on the counter, removed my hearing protector earmuffs, and faced Lt. Biggs standing to my left side.

     “W-What’s wrong, boss?” I innocently asked.

     Removing his earmuffs, Lt. Biggs replied, “Answer me somethin’, candy-ass.  What’s with this changin’ guns hands?  Are you a lefty or a righty?”

     A bit embarrassed, I laughed, and then said, “S-Sorry about that, John, I did it without even thinking.  It’s my g-grandpa’s fault.”

     “Bullshit!” Lt. Biggs snorted. “What’s your grandpa got to do with this?”

     Alright, dear reader, bear with me as we digress here a moment. Remember my Granddad Roy - the one who incited the great Christmas Eve brawl of 1935 on the long Beach Pike in California?  Well, you might say my grandpa had been totally raised in a gun culture on the old frontier - being required as a child to help his folks fight off Arapaho attacks on the Chisholm homestead, and afterwards, working as a cow puncher in his late teens and early twenties, expanding his shootist’s skills fighting off cattle rustlers on ranches in Colorado.  When I came along, Granddad Roy took me under his wing and taught me how to shoot in the old frontier manner - a skill that would later save my life.

     “Well, sir,” I began to elaborate to Lt. Biggs, “in his youth my g-grandpa was one of the last of the Old West’s gunfighters on a big spread in C-Colorado.  He taught me to shoot his 1898 single-action C-Colt when I was f-fourteen...and always made me shoot with both hands.”

     “What the hell for?” Lt. Biggs retorted.

     I considered his question, then recalled one of Granddad’s stories, and finally said, “Apparently a good b-buddy of his was gunned-down...because the buddy n-never learned to shoot with his left hand.”

           *     *     *     *     *

     A couple of days after that, in a somewhat grungy office attached to a drafty hangar at the William P. Hobby Airport on the south edge of Houston, I conducted a briefing of the eight police pilot trainees.  The office served as the Air Support Division’s first squad room, and the three helicopters were rolled into the hangar at night.

     William P. Hobby Airport, Houston.

The drafty hangar with one of the factory-new Hughes 300Bs – before the police decals were added.    

     Since this was a training operation, and we were all pretty much hidden away from the public, our dress code was casual: comfortable shirts, jeans, sneakers and H.P.D. ball caps.  I stood in front of the seated cops in their fold-up chairs, while I sipped coffee from a mug with a cartoon of a helicopter bearing the label: “Angry Palm Tree Driver.”

     My fellow Flight Instructor, Ken Harmon, was seated in the back row and lit up another cigarette.  Ken was a swarthy, compact, granite-jawed local boy of thirty-six who had recently retired from the U.S. Army as a captain.  He had enlisted as a teenager, worked his way up through the ranks, and recently completed two tours of combat duty in Vietnam as a Huey-Driver.  I previously checked him out in the Hughes 300B (an advanced model of the 269A he had initially trained in with the army) and found him to be a rock-solid helicopter pilot and Flight Instructor – you just can’t beat good ole U.S. Army Flight Training.  Ken was my right-hand man, I couldn’t have accomplished this program without him.

      U.S. Army trainer TH-55 “Osage” (Hughes 269A)

      Bell 204B “Huey” in Vietnam.

     He was also the gentleman that saved my hearing.  This was the era before noise-cancelling headsets.  The racket was so intense inside a helicopter from engine, transmission and rotor noise that whenever I put in eight hours of flight time, my battered eardrums would buzz for hours afterward – not to mention the heavy cloak of fatigue that always descended on me.

     Ken, God bless him, ended all this by introducing me to U.S. Army ear plugs.  From the first moment I tried them, I was utterly amazed at how clearly I could hear radio and interphone transmissions.  And after eight hours of flight time, I was no longer wiped out – I could easily put in another eight hours!  This was how I discovered that noise pollution and fatigue went hand in hand.  Even when I went clubbing, I’d always faithfully use earplugs to protect my eardrums from the blasting music – allowing conversation.  Today, despite being an old fart, while other pilots my age are stone deaf, my hearing is still razor-sharp.  All thanks to Capt. Ken Harmon coming into my life.

     U.S. Army earplugs – Ken picked up a load of them from an Army Commissary – we issued them to all the cops.

     As I stood before these men, I could observe the three Hughes 300Bs through the squad room’s windows; parked side by side on the ramp in front of the hanger.  They were painted police blue and white, with the department’s shield laminated on the fuel tanks, and “Houston Police” stenciled across their chins.  They resembled flying eyeballs, with three-bladed main rotor systems, and fuel-injected, 180 hp Lycoming engines, which easily handled a pair of 200-pound cops with power to spare.  Being one of the most compact, rugged, light-weight helicopters at that time, one could easily put them down on a rooftop or back street safely.

This is one of the helicopters I delivered and instructed in;  now on permanent display at the Houston Police Museum.

    “Gentlemen...” I began my briefing, “on b-behalf of my company, World Associates, and the department, I want to thank each of you for the long hours and h-hard work you’ve put in during the past three months.”

     Hoping this would make everyone feel all warm and fuzzy inside, dear reader, I scanned the cop’s faces.  They were mostly in their early thirties – all veteran patrolmen with three sergeants - and of course Lt. Biggs was also present.  Some smoked, sipped coffee, while others took notes.    

     “I also want to personally thank you,” I added, “for adopting c-civilian, candy-ass, Flight Instructors...by giving me and Ken Harmon your full c-cooperation.” 

     This remark brought a few chuckles and snickers from the cops.

     “Where y’all goin’ next, Pete?” Lt. Biggs butted in.

     “Well, sir,” I replied, “after I finish up here in August, World Associates has me s-setup for a six-month contract with the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office.  I’ll be t-training eight deputies...four as pilots and four as observers in two helicopters.”

     “San Mateo?  Where the hell is that?”  Lt. Biggs demanded to know.

     “It’s j-just south of San Francisco in California, John,” I answered.

     “Well, pardner, I want y’all to be mighty careful around them California faggoty-assed deputies,” Lt. Biggs advised.

     At that point the room erupted with laughter from the “troops.”

     After it quieted down, I said, “John, I’m truly t-touched by your genuine concern for my sexual orientation and well being.”

     Now the room really came unglued with catcalls, whistles and laughter.

     Finally it quieted down again, and I said, “Seriously though, we’ve reached the halfway mark of your t-training program and I guarantee the next three months will be equally as tough and important.  Since we are about to embark on s-something that has never been tried before in the City of Houston...aerial law enforcement.  Tomorrow we will s-start actually patrolling the city in our helicopters and responding to police calls.  While myself and my c-colleague, Ken, will be r-riding with you in our continued capacity as Flight Instructors and advisers.”

     Several police pilots at this juncture turned and smiled at Ken Harmon seated in the last row.  Ken smiled back, nodded, sipped his coffee and took a drag on his cigarette.

     Feeling I was on a “roll,” I carried on, saying, “Therefore, I want to take this opportunity to r-review a couple of important factors regarding safety while on patrol.

    "First of all...always hunt the wind.  Using helicopter drift, flags, smoke, s-steam, dust...whatever, keep track of the wind at all times.  Because w-when this 180 horsepower engine quits on you...notice I said ‘when’...not ‘if’...the only w-way you can successfully autorotate to the ground is by turning into the wind.”

     There was a gigantic map displaying the city that covered the majority of the wall behind me.  Corridors had been painstakingly laid out in green tape.  I now pointed at them, and said, “This is why we t-took a month to map out these patrol safety corridors over the city, allowing you to fly from s-safe landing zone...to safe landing zone...in the event of engine failure.  But, gentlemen...if you don’t hunt the wind as you patrol this s-safety feature is useless to you.” 

     I paused, picked up my “Angry Palm Tree Driver” mug, took a sip, wet my whistle, and added, “Ken and I have g-given all of you maximum exposure to autorotations.  We’re totally confident that each of you can get this little beast on the g-ground, day or night, without power.”

     Alright, dear reader, you win...let’s hit ”pause.”  You non-helicopter pilots are no doubt wondering what the fuck is an autorotation? 

     Whenever an engine fails in a single-engine helicopter – autorotation is the method used by the pilot to land.  To enter this regime of flight, the pilot must quickly lower the collective stick to the bottom stop, while coming slightly back on the cyclic stick, slowing to the best autorotation speed, and using the cyclic to turn into the wind.  At that same instant, he keeps the helicopter from skidding or slipping in the turn, by using the foot pedals controlling the pitch of the tail rotor.

     The main rotor blade is currently in flat pitch – the Hughes 300B is doing 55 mph and descending at 2,000 feet per minute - akin to a lead brick with fins – forcing air rushing from underneath through the main rotor blades, which keeps them spinning at a high rpm.  When this happens you have entered “autorotation.” 

     Upon reaching 50 feet above the ground the pilot applies back pressure on the cyclic stick – causing the helicopter to raise its nose and “flare” – killing the forward speed and abruptly reducing the rate of descent.  When the pilot “feels” the helicopter beginning to fall earthward again, he levels the skids with the cyclic stick as he gradually pulls up on the collective stick – increasing pitch and lift on the main rotor blades - causing the helicopter to “fall” through that last 50 feet similar to a feather; ultimately gently touching down on the skids.  At least that’s the “theory” if everything goes as planned.

     Ken and I had marked off the dimensions of a small street at the Hobby Airport, and required the cops to practice autorotations to a specific spot on that “street” – both day and night.  When we got done with them, these flying flat-foots could handle any engine failure, from any altitude, at any time.  They were now ready for patrol.       

     Rambling on with my briefing, I struck out on a new tack with the cops, saying, “Let’s take a minute and l-look at the psychological aspect of a successful autorotation.”

     Pausing, setting my coffee mug on the corner of a desk, I rotated it as I gathered my thoughts.

     Finally I stopped, looked up at the cops, and said, “When an engine quits on a helicopter...it’s c-comparable to stepping into a gunfight.  In either case, you don’t have the luxury of telling yourself, ‘G-Gee...this can’t be happening to me.’ If you want to survive...you’ve got to instantly accept and react to the situation.

     “In the c-case of the helicopter, that’s where the fifteen-second rule comes into play.  Remember, you’re patrolling only five hundred feet above the g-ground.  When that engine quits, whether you like it or not, you’re going to be on the ground in r-roughly fifteen seconds. So stay frosty, gents.  Hunt the wind, and n-never forget the fifteen-second rule.”

             *     *     *     *     *