LEAVING
ON A JET PLANE
In
1959, I became a small part of Trans World Airlines (TWA) aviation
history. On a Friday morning while in New
York City, a change in plans allowed me
to cancel my flight to New Orleans and
fly home to San Francisco the
next day. A ticket agent offered me two options. I chose to take the flight
scheduled to depart from LaGuardia at 9 a.m. rather
than 1 p.m.
You can
imagine my surprise when I arrived at the terminal to discover my ride would be
aboard a brand new Boeing 707, TWA’s inaugural
west-bound non-stop cross country jet flight.
Before boarding, each passenger received a
framed certificate commemorating this event. Mine still hangs on the wall of my
den. Almost as an afterthought, the company later mailed me a highly prized egg
timer embossed with a TWA emblem.
It went missing from my kitchen years ago.
The
passenger cabin exuded a new-car aroma. Everything looked spic-and-span, bright
and clean. I began to feel a tingle of excitement, hoping the flight would be
memorable. As luck would have it, I had a window seat which really pleased me.
The
aircraft left on time and ambled along the tarmac at a slow speed. We paused
for a few minutes at the end of the runway. The pilot revved up the engines and
began the takeoff. A young boy seated behind me yelled out, "Charge!"
With that command, the plane soared aloft. His shout of bravado and
encouragement matched my emotion perfectly. For that brief moment, I thought of
myself as a member of the Light Brigade, about to ride into the jaws of . . . the
unknown.
As we
flew across the country, the pilot provided a running commentary, relaying our
air speed and current location. We flew too high to spot the landmarks he
identified below, but I strained my eyes trying to see them. Could that be the Mississippi?
The plane
landed on time. We had encountered some minor turbulence on three occasions
during the five-hour flight, but I had never experienced a smoother, virtually
noise-free airplane ride. I had entered their history book without much
fanfare.
Not
every passenger enjoyed the flight. The editor of the Wall Street Journal, West Coast edition, sat next to me. He
grumbled before, during and after takeoff. The airline had bumped him from
first class, even though he had booked his flight months in advance in order to
be aboard this initial jet trip. He fumed when I told him that I purchased my
ticket just a day earlier, completely unaware of its maiden status.
I had a
previous encounter with jet aircraft during my days in the Army Air Corps. In
1947, while stationed at Ladd Field, Alaska, I saw
a P-80 Shooting Star jet fighter plane land there on its inaugural flight to
the arctic. It approached the field escorted by two P-51 Mustangs. As the three
planes flew by the control tower, just a few hundred feet above ground level, the
P-80 pilot hit the throttle, streaked ahead and then zoomed straight up into
the sky, leaving the escorts in its wake. In that flash of time, I could see
that jets had made piston-driven engines obsolete.
In the summer of 1966, while living near San
Francisco, my wife planned to fly to New
York City with our six children, ages 1
to 9, to visit relatives. The fare staggered us. I asked TWA for a
discount because of my pioneer experience with the airline. They told me, in
polite terms, to “take a hike.” My celebrity status had plunged downwards
faster than that P-80 had zoomed upwards.
It’s regrettable that TWA folded
before it could offer me a chance to be aboard its first flight to the moon. Forget
the plaque. I could use a replacement for their missing egg timer.
▄
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