Trafford Publishing: Smooth

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Smooth

by Edward Landers

696 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0443; ISBN 1-4120-0080-7; US$46.50, C$53.00, EUR38.50, £27.00

The funny and fascinating story of a lackadaisical, overweight kid overcoming extreme odds to become one of the Navy's elite aviators. A true story about determination and dreams.

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about the book about the author sample excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

Have you ever wondered just how those steely-eyed stalwart Naval Aviators got to be like that? Do you think they were all born that way? As a matter of fact most of them were just like the kid who grew up next door.
This story is about a typical bumbling kid who had to overcome what would seem to be insurmountable obstacles in order to become one of the Navy's elite aviators. It's a tale of how an overweight, out of shape, naive young man with a definite goal for the first time in his life managed to beat the odds in order to fly the Navy's planes. It's a tale of the evolution of a young man from a carefree, non-thinking kid to one of the Navy's more accomplished aviators.
The story will take you from the young man's first ideas about flying all the way through to the Navy's School of Preflight where the Marine Gunnery Sergeants who are tasked to do so try to whip young minds and bodies into shape. It will continue on to flight training culminating into the three separate squadrons that Ed Kruger served in. Throughout the story the reader is treated to an irreverent, humorous point of view as it relates to the aspiring young pilot who strives to become the polished aviator of his dreams. It's a novel about real people who make real mistakes and errors of judgment, about people who evolve to something better, about solving problems that seem unsolvable, about laughter, tears and the sweat of real life. It's about the urge to excel, to be better tomorrow than you were today.
Ed Kruger is a pilot who reacts to things. He is not proactive. He makes mistakes, gets into trouble, weathers adversity and always comes out swinging. Above all, he is human. He's the kid next door and he's a success story.
Although this is a novel and is classified as fiction it is taken from the real life experiences of the author. Everything in this book actually happened within the time period encompassed in the book.
The reader will not only be treated to a very realistic view of Navy pilots who flew in the 1960-1970 era but will enjoy the humor that runs throughout the story.
The book will not only amuse and enlighten readers and will give them hours of enjoyment.

About the Author

The author was born in 1936 and led a rather nomadic life as his family moved around the country seeking some sort of permanence. Most of WWII was spent in California where the young boy was introduced to the war first hand listening to his father who was an Air Raid Warden. The family left California for Texas and finally settled down in Michigan.
Edward graduated from the University of Michigan in 1960 and immediately embarked on the pathway toward becoming a Naval Aviator. He served on active duty for eight years finally resigning a regular commission in the Navy and immediately accepting a reserve commission in that service. He flew for both Northwest Airlines and the Navy from 1968 until 1976 when he retired from the Naval Service with the rank of Commander.
He continued to fly with Northwest Airlines until his retirement from commercial flying in 1996.
He now divides his time betwen Naples, Florida and Elgin, Illinois. When he is not writing he occupies his time by repairing an old home in Elgin, caring for two dogs and seven cats and target shooting in Naples.

Sample Excerpts

"Goddamn it! I said 'Run'!"
The strident whip crack sounds of the Marine Gunnery Sergeant's voice echoed throughout the cavernous corridors of the Indoctrination Battalion, Naval School, Preflight at Pensacola, Florida. Indoctrination Battalion, known simply as "Indoc" was a large brick two-story building with wide screened verandas that had been constructed in the early 1900's for the use of the United States Navy in its attempt to train a cadre of young men who would, hopefully, become Naval Aviators. The solid building had classic lines and appeared beautiful on the outside but was spartan on the inside. Spotless corridors and walls were made of marble and granite and had been polished to a high luster with the inevitable result being a permanently slick surface upon which to walk or, in this case, to run.
The object of the Gunnery Sergeant's attention had almost knocked Kruger down as he meandered into the entry portico encumbered with his suitcase containing the very few items that had been suggested in detail in his orders to "Preflight". It appeared that the young man on a collision course with him had not even, in his haste, seen Kruger or, if he had, the presence of another human had not imprinted itself on his conscious mind. All of his efforts seemed to be oriented around pleasing the spit-and-polish Sergeant who was encouraging him to ever-greater haste. The speedy cadet was dressed in an olive-drab, one-piece cover-all known as a "poopie suit" by the denizens of Preflight and sported an extremely short haircut that made him seem bald.
"What in the hell have I gotten myself into?" was the only thought that intruded itself into Kruger's mind.
Ed Kruger, a very proper gentleman had, upon graduating from the University of Michigan, elected to become an Officer in the US Navy and fly airplanes for a living. At five feet, eight and one-half inches tall, he was a little overweight for his height due to his love for food and his definite lack of activity during his college years. If the truth were known he could really be classified as "fat" but he figured that the Navy would readily recognize this fact and would probably do something about it. He was average in all other respects, average in appearance, build, intelligence, etc. Black hair and bright blue eyes rounded out his appearance, as did a mouthful of crooked teeth, a result of his parent's lack of both money and dental knowledge. In spite of this he had a winning smile, although that looked a little crooked also, and he appeared friendly to everyone who met him.
----
Within a week Kruger was on a Navy plane out of Grosse Ile Naval Air Station bound for Pensacola. The pilots were weekend warriors; reservists on their weekend duty for the Navy who were combining an instrument check ride with the delivery of four souls consigned to the Navy on active duty. Both pilots had very definite and differing opinions as to what awaited him.
"I sure as hell wouldn't want to go through all that shit again," offered one.
"Well, I loved the program and would really like to do it all over again," said the other pilot.
"You've got to be nuts!" offered the first shaking his head in disbelief.
Arriving at the flight line in Pensacola both pilots shook Kruger's hand and wished him good luck. The pilot with the negative attitude looked at him, shook his head and muttered something that sounded slightly like, "You poor fucker!" An official car delivered him to the Indoctrination Battalion and he walked through the impressive doors to the cool vastness of a marble and granite corridor.
"Goddamn it! I said RUN!" The Marine Gunnery Sergeant wore a "Smoky the Bear" hat (that Kruger later learned was called a "cover"). His shoes were polished to such a luster it was possible to see ones self in them and his shirt (or blouse) had creases ironed in it that appeared sharp enough to cut one's finger if one were so bold as to attempt to touch, finger or otherwise fondle this epitome of towering strength and pride. The sergeant stood all of five feet six inches tall but if any cadet were to offer an opinion of his height it would be in the range of six feet, at least. He had an unwavering and disconcerting stare that automatically had the recipient of the stare wondering just exactly where his shortcomings were and questioning everything about himself from the way his cover was placed on his head to the correctness of his posture while standing at attention. There was, of course, no other stance to adopt except that of attention when facing a Gunnery Sergeant.
Kruger hesitatingly approached the lion's den that housed the sergeant. It was easy to imagine a wisp of smoke ensuing from the office and a sign over the door that said, "Abandon hope, all ye who enter herein!"
"Pardon me, but is this where I check in?" he asked tentatively. The office housed the sergeant and two cadets at separate desks with the sergeant's desk being placed directly in front of the doorless opening. A sign hung on the wall (bulkhead) directly behind the sergeant exactly six feet from the deck that read, "EYE HERE". A fleeting thought crossed Kruger's mind, "Why not eyes here? As in plural?" Exactly four feet in front of the sergeant's desk a white line had been painted on the deck.
As he meandered into the office and spoke the only thing he heard was the clatter of a pencil dropped from the nerveless fingers of one of the horrified cadets. The other cadet was transfixed immobile with his mouth open. The sergeant glared at Kruger for a moment and then roared, "Get this idiot out of my sight!"
Both cadets leaped to their feet almost kneecapping themselves in the process. One stood starkly to attention while the other stepped quickly to Kruger's side and, taking him by the arm, muttered, "Come with me! Quick!" He was taken to a large room that housed a number of bunk beds where he was issued a poopie-suit and boots known as "boondockers". Some of the ground rules were explained to him. The only way you could enter the holy-of-holies otherwise known as the sergeant's office was to knock three times on the bulkhead with your open palm. Upon being given the command, "Enter!" you were to take exactly three steps forward. The steps were to be measured so as to position yourself exactly on the white line and exactly in the center of the sergeant's desk. Throughout this evolution you were to keep your eyes fixed on the EYE HERE sign. It was forbidden to glance down at the white line at any time. You would maintain silence at all times until given the command, "Speak!" At that time you would only utter the proscribed phrase, "Request permission to speak to the Gunnery Sergeant, Sir!" When and only when the second command to speak had been given were you to say what you originally wanted to say.
During the normal evolution of things the three steps taken would place the supplicant to one side or the other of the white line. When this occurred the Gunnery Sergeant would stare with disdain at the cadet for a few seconds. He would then shout, "Are your toes on the line, you idiot?" When the confused cadet looked down to see where he stood this would evoke further wrath from the sergeant. "Why are you looking down? Keep your eyes on the sign, you idiot! Get out of my sight!" The cadet had no recourse but to flee only to repeat the process at a later time when he had the opportunity to muster sufficient courage to try again.
At such times that the Gunnery Sergeant was not present it became necessary to speak to one of the Cadet Officers, upper classmen who were about to graduate. When that occurred the Cadet would be addressed as the Indoctrination Battalion Cadet Officer Of The Day. It was explained further that all cadets were to remain in their bunks until the duty Gunnery Sergeant appeared at 0630 and shouted, "Reveille, Reveille, Reveille!" At the third "Reveille" everyone would be up, showered, shaved, teeth brushed, in the uniform of the day (poopie-suits) and standing at attention braced against the bulkhead. When it was pointed out that the given instructions would be impossible to comply with the admonition was "to be innovative" or fail.
----
The engine was started in a puff of acrid smoke, which blew into the cockpit fouling the hot air. He coughed and sneezed. They began to taxi. Everything was coming very fast. Ground control and tower instructions, altimeter readings, setting the altimeter, checking the compass again, watching, looking, listening and the instructor never shut up. They lined up on the duty runway and received clearance for take-off. Still the instructor chanted and the sun beat down. "Its really stuffy and hot in here!" thought Ensign Kruger.
With a snarl the engine achieved full power and the brakes were released. The little plane rolled faster and faster down the runway blurring objects on each side. Then, with a sickening lurch they were airborne. Heat from the early afternoon sun made the rising air unstable and the ride was bumpy. They climbed to three thousand five hundred feet and leveled off. "Isn't this great?" radioed the instructor. Kruger nodded. All of a sudden he felt stifled. He was cramped into a tiny, hot cockpit surrounded by so much gear and equipment that he could hardly move. In addition he was getting slammed around more than any carnival ride he had ever been in. He began to sweat profusely and salivate. He was afraid to open his mouth to talk and the instructor was merrily chatting away and asking him if he wanted to take the controls. He scrambled for the barf bag he had thought to stuff into one of the many pockets on his new flight suit. It was a heavy brown paper bag, waxed on the inside to prevent leakage. Apparently the Navy thought that aviator stomachs were prodigious as the bag was approximately thirty pounds in size. He unfolded the bag and gave up the ghost. "Ohragghhh!" he called as spasm after spasm racked him.
"How are you feeling? Want to go home?" radioed the instructor. Kruger was all too familiar with this ploy. Talk a student into a short hop pretending to feel sorry for the poor sick puke and turn him over to sickbay when they landed. From there it would be a short trip to the headshrinker and out the door. "Not on your life!" Ensign Kruger thought.
"No, sir. I like this. I'm really having fun. Must be something I had for breakfast. Can I fly now? Ooraghh!" Kruger talked when he could and puked when he couldn't.
The instructor responded, "Good-O! I've had days like that. Just a second and I'll let you take the stick. I want to show you what a loop looks like. Put her in a dive after a clearing turn like this and then* up we go in a three-G loop like this. Head back to see the horizon come up over our tail and keep the wings straight like this and * there we are!"
"Oooraggahh!"
"You sure you don't want to go back to the field? I mean, if this is making you sick*"
"No sir! I can hack it!" Kruger had not come this far to be talked into taking an easy way out of a program he wanted so much.
"OK. You've got the plane. Keep her steady up at thirty five hundred feet, wings level and trim up the controls so it will fly hands off". Kruger took the stick. He was actually flying the plane now. Doing so was a lot harder than he thought. The stick didn't take any muscle at all to move but trying to pay attention to keeping the wings level and the plane on altitude took a lot of concentration. Every once in awhile his stomach would rebel again and he had to use the barf bag often. He did find that he could fly with one hand and use the other to hold the bag. He was proud of not puking on himself or the plane as he had been told that any accident involving the contents of his stomach would have to be cleaned up by himself as the ground crew had not signed on to clean up after airsick Ensigns.
"OK," the instructor broke in. "You're looking good. Put both hands on top of your helmet!" Kruger balanced his half-full barf bag on his lap and complied. As soon as he had released the stick the plane rolled immediately to the left and started into a dive.
"Aw'right! I've got it!" the instructor said. "See, that's what happens when you don't trim". The control surfaces on the plane were supplied with tabs that worked in opposition to the primary surface allowing air pressure to assist in keeping those surfaces where the operator wanted them to be. "You've got to keep trimming all the time. It's the only way to fly. You've got to get the plane trimmed up for hands off flight and keep it trimmed up all the time. It's got to be automatic for you. There! It's all trimmed up! Take her now and feel the difference".
Kruger took the stick once more. He couldn't feel any difference at all.
"Doesn't that feel better?" the instructor asked hopefully.
"It sure does!" Kruger lied. "Lots better!"
"OK!" the young Ltjg said triumphantly. "Hang on to her and see how you do".
Kruger flew around for a few minutes as erratically as before. He felt like he was balancing on a pinhead. The plane insisted on flying higher or lower than it was supposed to and the wings slowly wagged from right to left as he struggled to keep level at thirty-five hundred feet. The instructor waited patiently in the back seat.
"Put your hands on top of your helmet!" came the command. As he did so the airplane rolled quickly right and the nose pitched violently up. "Take the controls and trim it up!" the instructor responded immediately. Kruger grabbed the stick and attempted to regain his altitude and level the wings. The plane's nose described a series of violent pitches and rolled from one side to the other.
"Easy! Easy!" the instructor cautioned. "Make smooth corrections. You're not breaking rocks. Smoooth and small! That's the way to make all your corrections. Smoooothly! And trim, trim, trim! Don't forget to trim. OK! I got it!"
Kruger took a deep breath. He realized that he had been holding his breath. He felt queasy again. Sweat poured down his face and dripped off his nose. His hands were shaking and his knees felt like jello. Why was this so hard? It looked so easy when the instructor was flying.
"Relax!" the instructor chided. "This is fun! Flying is easy. An orangutan can do this. Relax and trim, trim, trim!"
The flight continued for a while with Kruger trying to fly straight and level and occasionally calling on the great God of the air, "Ohhragh!" Finally the instructor took the plane and headed toward the field. "Just relax and enjoy the view. I'll take us home". They flew over the peaceful Florida terrain and around the numerous puffy white clouds that were building in the afternoon and entered the Saufley traffic pattern. There were lots of planes in the pattern. It didn't look like there was any room for more.
"Saufley tower, Pogo three-four to enter". "Pogo" was the call sign of the squadron Kruger was assigned to and "three-four" was the number of the plane they were in. The numbers were painted on the tail and could be seen by the operators in the tower using binoculars.
"Pogo three-four, Saufley, cleared to enter, altimeter three-zero-two- two. Call the break".
The instructor took interval on a plane ahead and entered the pattern at a forty-five degree angle to the circling planes dropping down to fifteen hundred feet. He talked constantly as he flew. They got through the pre-landing checklist with the instructor constantly reminding Kruger to keep watch for other planes. "Keep your head out of the cockpit at all times". Finally they were directly over the end of the runway at fifteen hundred feet. "Saufley tower, Pogo three-four at the break".
"Pogo three-four, tower, cleared to break. Call base".

Catalogue Information