Basler DC3 Oshkosh to Bamako

I remember reading as a kid about Mr Douglas’s famous DC3. Most were built before I was born and they constantly featured in aviation magazines and were making regular airport appearances throughout my teenage years. It was unusual to visit an airfield without seeing one in the livery of some small local enterprise making a bid for airline supremacy. I was already a teenage pilot compliments of the RAF Air Training Corps. All Chipmunk fliers know that the take off and arrival of a DC3 demands a greater skill level from its pilot than any of the nose wheel types, and so the departing DC3 from Ashford Airfield in Kent in the early seventies was now holding my full attention. At the time I was sheltering from the days persistent low cloud and torrential rain under the high wing of my Cessna 337. The Dakota pilot commenced his takeoff run. Within a couple of hundred yards of travel, he had the tailwheel up and the aircraft nicely balanced against both crosswind and runway centreline. Great stuff!  My mind complimented the pilot. Suddenly his left engine exploded with a loud bang emitting clouds of black smoke. I gazed riveted. The DC3 swerved off the runway as the pilot attempted to abort the takeoff, aiming his sick aircraft at me instead! I was preparing to make a run for the terminal building some fifty yards away when I realized the pilot was fully engaged in the completion of a magnificent ground loop bringing the aircraft to a halt with unquestionable skill.   Suitably impressed, I observed the orderly vacation of the passengers. The grey haired captain emerged from the aircraft last, shrugging his shoulders. Seemingly indifferent to the fact that he had probably held their lives in his hands.   I resolved then, that one day I would fly a DC3

I was out of Bamako in West Africa homebound for the UK compliments of Air France. I had been carefully directed by an attractive French stewardess to centre seat number 10E. I realised too late to make appeal that this seat was clearly reserved for likely looking “pilot” escapees from the General Aviation Branch. I remembered reading about 10E.   I was thus ensconced.  I attempted to view sky from behind the trailing edge of the wing through the peek-a-boo windows several seat rows across, only to have restrictions imposed upon me by my burly companions on either side who now raised their view-limiting magazines in suspicious formation.  God knows I hate airliners.

I would retreat into my book, but first I would scan the in house magazine of Air France that seemed of such interest to my companions.  Thumbing away, I reached page twenty. Jostling my companions away, I spread the magazine wide open. My burst of laughter startled them earning me a fraction more seat space as I read the story of a much earlier Air France boasting of their beginnings and operation of Mr Douglas’s legendary DC3.   Air France may now hold me captive in seat 10E. They may well have flown the DC3 many, many years ago…… BUT I WAS FLYING ONE YESTERDAY!  

My small adventure had started just one week earlier out of Manchester Airport. The American Airlines stewardess had drawled me to window seat 21G located next to the emergency exit. Very leggy, very nice. She had clearly no suspicions of my General Aviation affiliations and therefore treated me with the same love and care as every other passenger. Several times she asked if I was okay and was there anything she could do for me. Cunningly, I confessed a fear of flying but admitted that I would prove no embarrassment if regularly supplied with small talk and decent wine.