Tales from the Tarmac

In 1969, during C-7A training at Sewart AFB, Tennessee, we were introduced to the Caribou, or “Bou,” as she was known. She was getting a little worn and was always a bit cranky, but pilots loved her. This airplane would do just about anything you asked her to do except go fast. She had remarkable performance—that is, with both engines running. If one engine quit, you’d simply go to a crash site that was farther away than if both engines died.

Coming from the C-141, I was accustomed to rolling six or seven thousand feet before liftoff—quite respectable for an airplane of its size. But in the Caribou, at light (training) weights with just a little headwind, the plane could become airborne in as little as two or three hundred feet. Sometimes you found yourself airborne before you had finished setting the power for takeoff. This buoyancy seemed almost preternatural in an ungainly aircraft sturdy enough to haul 28 passengers or a Jeep.

The Caribou is neither pressurized nor air conditioned, and the stagnant air and July heat in the cockpit can be stifling. On one sweltering summer afternoon, during a training ride, my instructor and I decided to land at a small civilian Tennessee airport for a cold soft drink. The runway was about 4,000 feet long, and the only taxiway intersected it about 700 feet from one end and 3,300 feet from the other. Winds were light but favored landing on the 700-ft. end, moving toward the 3,300-ft. end.

Normally, a pilot would land using whatever runway length was required, make a U-turn on the runway, and then taxi back and turn off on the taxiway. But the Caribou isn’t normal. As we approached the airport, my instructor asked, “Think you can land short enough to make that turnoff 700 feet down the runway?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, always eager to accept a challenge. I pulled off the landing and was able to make the turnoff with only a moderate amount of braking. Comment from the control tower? “Wow.”

After a few relaxing minutes over a cold Coke, we saddled up and prepared for departure. The instructor said he’d like to handle the takeoff. As we approached the runway, he asked me to radio the tower to request an intersection takeoff. This means we would start the takeoff from the point where we entered the runway rather than taxi down the runway to the end, turn around, and use the full length of the runway for takeoff. The tower approved. At that point, the instructor did something a little unusual. Normally, radio transmissions are made by the non-flying pilot. But not this time. “Tower, do you have any other traffic? We’d like to make a bit of an unusual takeoff,” requested the instructor. “No traffic—’bit of an unusual takeoff’ approved,” replied the air traffic controller, his voice betraying equal parts curiosity and amusement.

As we pulled onto the runway, the instructor turned toward the 700-foot end of the runway rather than the 3,300-ft. end. “Uh, you were approved for an intersection takeoff,” noted the tower. “Roger, thank you,” replied the instructor as he powered up and barrelled down the 700-ft. section of the runway, using only about half of it before becoming airborne. Comment from the tower? “WOW.”

Boys will be boys, even—okay, especially—if they’re instructor pilots.