Aviation Memorabilia Newsletter

Charlie's Cabin

This is not an anecdote of great import. It is more a whimsical window into the past which can connect us with our predecessors, and I'm trying to get it down before I forget it again. I was fairly new to the Big Stuff - the Lockheed Super Constellation L1049E and successors, a line of sensuously-formed airliners with four huge engines and three tails and long, spindly undercarriage stalks. It had a fuselage shaped a bit like an airfoil and circular in cross-section. It was large compared to its contemporaries and stood out on the tarmacs of the metropolitan airfields because of its silhouette and size. Another feature marking it to be different was the fact that on the Atlantic service, there were four classes - Economy, Tourist, First Class and DeLuxe. The latter had ice cream as a choice of desert. They were the last six seats - furthest from the noisy propellers.

At my stage, each trip in this goliath was a new experience and education. The cockpit was small - wide enough for two but with a length which accommodated a Flight Engineer behind me, and a separate cabin farther back which provided a work desk for a Navigator, and upper single and lower double berths for crew rest. Behind these was a door leading to the forward section of the passenger cabin and the rest of the aircraft. In addition, it was the era of the Captains - the traditions of the sea had permeated the aircraft scene and each Captain was an individual in mien as in method. First Officers were meant to learn quietly the many distinct moods and practices of each skipper in order to produce the smooth and disciplined event which long-range air transport advertised for itself. This was no doubt partly due to the tradition formed by Imperial Airways in their adventurous flights to the Middle and Far East, wherein the Captain determined where the flight would end for the day and join the passengers for the overnight stop. Some of that mystique rubbed off on some of our bosses, but not all.

This particular night, we had flown from Montreal to Toronto, refuelled, re-planned and re-provisioned for Calgary, and then made the Alberta stop and were continuing on to Vancouver. These stops were normally about one hour during which the Flight Engineer would supervise the refuelling and inspect the aircraft visually while Skipper and F/O strode into the weather office and were briefed by the Met man for the next leg. The Cabin Staff would prepare for their service ahead.

Everything hung on the Skipper. Although there was a groundswell of resistance to this regime, it had not yet risen up to rebel against His Powers and newer Pursers were careful not to incur his ire. This produced an atmosphere of tension on occasion - when Captains of a certain bent lent on their power rather tenaciously, believing it to be the sole source of discipline and success. There were of course others, more humanitarian, whose perception was that wise discretion was the more efficient mode of progress - and whose quiet supervision created happier and more productive flights. This presumably led to the wide diversity in the makeup of these leaders. The sway they held produced great variations in the character of each and their differences were the nub of co-pilot chat. Who screamed "Gear Up!" at the top of his voice and who settled down at night with a pile of the day's newspapers for the Trans-At legs was the meat-and-potatoes of First Officer fare.

Charles L. Skelding was one of this generation of fliers. Neat, precise, well-read, intelligent and often short of patience with less perceptive assistants, he was nevertheless generous in recognition of work well done and appreciative of a worthwhile conversation. "Charlie" was not used in his presence unless a sharp correction was sought, to say nothing of "Chuck", but he was personable and friendly when things were going right. While some skippers seemed to change character when they ascended the aircraft steps, Skelding did not. There was comfort in that, which went missing otherwise. One remarkable and unique habit was his collection of recipe cards, one for each destination airfield, outlining the salient features of the instrument approach. It represented him as one who took considerable care to be familiar with it. These cards came out for each approach and landing, wedged into the port cockpit window for easy reference. He took supreme care in being accurate and knowledgeable in the conduct of the flight, and expected the same from the crew. That he was not always granted this response often set the tone for a tense atmosphere - not without cause. I enjoyed his trips as there could be much to learn.

We started up according to a schedule meant to originate in the Old Testament; I sought and received clearance to taxi to the active runway and the Captain began the trundle into the dark. Soon we found ourselves at an intersection of the north-south taxiway and the west end of Runway 25, in the southwest corner of the field. As we turned the corner, he asked me if I knew where the original Calgary to Edmonton highway lay. As a rank tourist to the area, I had to admit ignorance.
"Well, we're on it," he replied. "The north-south taxi was installed on the old roadbed and I'll bet you wonder how I know."
I admitted to the thought.
"Because over there on the west side in the taxi lights, is where I was born." He let it sink in.
"That corner is where our cabin was built, because my Dad said one day it would be a valuable plot of land. Now look at it. It's as barren a spot as you'd ever want."

We jiggled along in silence. I could imagine the mental picture Charlie was drawing in his imagination and felt this was no time to interrupt. My reveries were broken by his abrupt change of mood as he swung into position for run-up just short of the active runway and called for Run-up Checklist. The trip progressed in relative quiet till he started up a topic of interest once we were squared away in cruise.

I stopped flying into Calgary in 1989. I had forgotten that small moment of personal history until today, thought it might amuse.

Ferg Kyle