Fire aloft! /By William Garvey

Fire aloft! /By William Garvey

“Twelve lives were down to seconds as the smoking aircraft went through its final, dreadful descent”

            Pilgrim Airlines Flight 458 to Boston was ready for boarding at Groton-New London Airport in Connecticut, on a damp Sunday afternoon in February 1982. Lyle Hogg, the 27-year-old co-pilot, assisted passengers into the 18-seat de-Havilland Twin Otter. Then he climbed in himself, closed the door and made his way to the flight deck. With Captain Thomas Prinster, 36, he went through the pre-flight check-list and radioed Quonset TRACON, the air-traffic-control centre, for clearance to Boston.

            Since joining Pilgrim five months earlier, Hogg had 500 hours as co-pilot in Otters. Prinster had flown three years with Pilgrim, 2,700 hours in Otters.

            As the aircraft began taxiing, Hogg turned on his public address system and told the ten passengers the emergency procedures. Prinster maneuvered the Otter to the runway. At 3.10 p.m. Pilgrim 458 was off and climbing towards the 900-metre, solid ceiling.

            Harry Polychron, 35, in seat 4C, was on his way to work. A flight engineer with USAir, he would report to his line’s flight operations in Boston. Since he planned to play tennis during his halt in Pheonix, he had brought along a racket, now propped between his knees.

            At one point Polychron noticed the pilot’s windshields had glazed over with ice. But that was not altogether unexpected in New England clouds in February. Soon after, however, he detected an unusual odour. It smelt like rubbing alcohol. Something was wrong.

            Lance Theobald, in the last row, right seat, was on his way to visit the University of Maine, where he had the offer of a football scholarship. The young man dozed off after the Otter left New London, but he was soon awakened. The pressures and sounds told him the aircraft was descending rapidly. As he sat up and looked forward, he saw a vision of hell.

            “The cockpit was on fire,” he recalled later. “ There was smoke all over the place. It was hard to see, but it looked like the pilot was on fire too –and he was flying the plane!”

            About ten minutes out of New London, ice had begun to accumulate on the windshields. Hogg reached for the toggle switch that activated the windshield washer/de-icer.

            The 14-year-old plane was equipped with an alcohol spray system for washing and de-icing, rather than the electrically heated windshield of newer Otters. Located beneath the captain’s seat was a plastic container filled with six litres of pure isopropyl alcohol. Protruding from the bottom of this reservoir was a plastic line routed through a hole in the floor to an electric pump below. A second length of tubing ran from the pump to two spray nozzles in front of the windshields

            When Hogg pressed the de-ice toggle, some spray spit out on to the captain’s windshield, but very little appeared on his own. He hit the windshield-wiper switch in case the blades were blocking the spray flow. Then he held the de-ice toggle down for a couple of seconds. Almost immediately there was a smell of alcohol.

            Moments later a wisp of grey smoke rose from the yoke hole, the floor opening for the plane’s control wheel. Then black smoke, thick, choking and hot, began to billow up. Hogg turned to Prinster, but the pilot, just a metre away, was completely masked by smoke.

            Prinster, his voice distinct and controlled, was already on the radio: “Quonset, Pilgrim 458. We need a direct Providence. This is an emergency.”

            “Pilgrim 458. That you calling?”

            Prinster again: “Directly to Providence, please. There is a fire on board.”

            “Pilgrim 458, Roger. Turn right, on a heading of one five zero to Providence.”

            Pilgrim 458 was 20 kilometres north-west of Providence’s T.F. Green State Airport. The time was 3.28 p.m.

            Although the aircraft was on fire, the more immediate danger confronting Prinster and Hogg was one of control. They were deep within clouds, with ice-blocked windshields and the instrument panel completely obscured by smoke. Without any visual references, they had to turn their aircraft 90 degrees, descend through 750 metres of clouds, follow directions from ground radar controllers to Green State, and land.

            Despite the fire building beneath him, Tom Prinster was still flying the plane. The Otter began a rapid, turning descent.

            “Pilgrim 458, how many people on board?”

            Hogg: “We’ve got ten people.” In fact, there were 12. The co-pilot forgot to include himself and his captain.

            Harry Polychron had seen the white/grey puff in the cockpit and the black eruption that followed, completely obscuring the pilots. The smoke was making it difficult for the passengers to breathe, so he knew the pilots must be in real distress.

            Polychron grabbed his tennis racket and drove the shaft through the acrylic window at his side. As smoke was being sucked out of the hole, he moved to the next row forward and smashed out that window. As Polychron continued forward, he saw flames coming through the floor just aft of the captain’s seat. He grabbed a coat and threw it on the flames, but he couldn’t smother them. The pilots were now flying with their heads half-way out of their side windows.

            As the Otter zoomed through the cloud base at 500 metres, the flames were coming through cracks in the floor. Prinster and Hogg were being roasted in their seats. Their uniforms, part synthetic, were melting to their bodies. The heat and the flames were charring their arms, legs and torsos. But they remained at their stations, flying their burning craft through its final, dreadful descent.

            Below the passenger seats, just aft of the fire, were two tanks brimming with 750 litres of fuel. There was no chance that Pilgrim 458 would ever reach Green State.

            Looking forward Hogg saw the edge of a large, frozen lake, the Scituate Reservoir. Unable to see or hear his captain, he decided to reach for the control wheel. Just then the aircraft banked slightly to the left, moving in line for a letdown on the reservoir. Prinster was still in command.

            Harry Polychron glanced out of a cabin window and caught sight of the ground. He lunged for the cabin bulkhead and braced himself.

            Prinster had managed to fly the Otter through 1,200 metres of sky in less than four minutes, but even so, 12 lives were now down to seconds.

            He rammed the Otter down on to the reservoir with such force that the landing gear gave way and the right wing was severed. But the ice underneath held. The burning, smoking fuselage skidded another 150 metres before coming to a halt.

            Passenger Paul Hainsworth rushed from his seat to the main door, which he tried, but failed, to open. He saw an opening in the fuselage aft of the door, and he began kicking away the aluminium skin to enlarge the hole. Then he jumped on to the ice. Others followed. Siegfried Kra, an New Haven cardiologist, made his way aft and found Sophie Geidt, nine, lying near the exit. He picked up the child and lunged through.

            The crash dislocated Harry Polychron’s shoulder. As he groped for the exit, he heard a woman call out, “Somebody please help me. I’m blind.” Polychron grabbed Laurel Magee and dragged her out with him.

            With Laurel safe, he started back in towards a young man he had spotted motionless on the floor in the rear. But the separated shoulder and his smoke-filled lungs would not allow it. He yelled for help, and Paul Hainsworth went back and pulled Lance Theobald to safety.

            Within seconds the flames ate through the bulkhead and set fire to the fuel tanks. The broken Otter was almost totally consumed.

            As Lyle Hogg staggered across the ice, he saw an awful figure moving slowly towards him. “Are you okay?” the Pilgrim pilots each asked of the other. Prinster and Hogg were alive, but they were by no means okay. Both men were burnt extensively and, as they made their way towards the shore, 400 metres away, lumps of charred flesh fell from their arms and legs.

            Before the survivors reached the shore, the Scituate police and several motorists were on the scene. There was confusion as to how many had been on board. The word relayed from Quonset was ten, but the head count came to 11, and the true count was 12.

            Lorretta Stanczak died from asphyxia due to smoke, carbon monoxide and hot-gas inhalation. The smoke had been so thick after the landing that no one had spotted the unfortunate woman.

            While none of the survivors went unscathed, Prinster and Hogg, rushed by ambulance to a hospital, were the only ones critically injured.

            Hogg was burnt over 25 percent of his body. His left leg and hand were his most seriously injured limbs, but his face and right hand and leg were burnt too. Transferred to another hospital, he underwent a series of successful skin grafts and a month later returned home. An intensive physical-therapy programme followed, and  Hogg is doing well. He returned to work at Pilgrim in April.

            Prinster’s condition was more critical. Seventy per cent of his body was burnt and much of that was third degree. He was moved to a hospital in Boston still in serious condition. He faces several operations and physical therapy for some months to come.

            A few days after the crash, the US Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) instructed all operators of Twin Otters fitted with the alcohol de-icer to inspect the systems. The FAA has since required regular inspections until November 30, after which the alcohol de-icer may not be used.

            Harry Polychron, whose quick action saved several lives, is the first to testify to the courage and fortitude of Prinster and Hogg. “What they did,” he says, “was just a miracle.”

            In its subsequent analysis of the accident, the US National Transportation Safety Board cited the two pilots for “their prompt and heroic responses.” Among the other commendations bestowed on Prinster and Hogg was the prestigious Heroism Award for 1982 from the international Flight Safety Foundation.

“All men like to think they can do it alone, but a real man knows there’s no substitute for support, encouragement or a crew.”                                                                                     --Tim Allen

A cop to the core

A cop to the core /By Ken Banta

“ When Chicago policeman Mac McLaughlin spoke up against his drug-dealing colleagues, he never imagined he’d be asked to catch them in the act –at terrible risk to himself and his family”

            Dusk was falling as patrolman A’Roterick (Mac) McLaughlin drove slowly down a dingy alley in Chicago. Suddenly the veteran cop spotted a large figure kicking in the basement windows of a flat. Leaping from his patrol car and leveling his revolver, McLaughlin shouted, “Hold it!” The suspect froze, but his hulking frame tensed. McLaughlin needed help. Slowly backing up to his car, eyes on the suspect, he radioed for assistance.

            He was shocked by the response. Over the radio came muffled giggles. Then he recognized the slurred voice of a colleague. “We can’t make it.” Stunned, McLaughlin lowered his gun; with a startled glance, the suspect fled.

            Cold rage. Back at the police station, McLaughlin learnt that the officers on the radio had been high on cocaine. His shock turned to cold rage. Whatever it takes, he vowed to himself, I’m going to put an end to this.

            Since joining the Chicago police force in 1967, McLaughlin had found to his horror that, for many cops, drug dealing was becoming more important than their job. He watched, disgusted, as he saw drugs, including heroin, casually sold from patrol-car windows, on street corners, even in the police headquarters. Other cops shared his outrage. But loyalty to the department and one another kept them quiet. Moreover, the dealing cops had a reputation for ruthlessness, and McLaughlin and many of his colleagues feared revenge if they spoke up.

            It was the incident in the alley that finally shocked McLaughlin into action. The following Saturday, September 26, 1981, he drove to the home of his friend Thomas Chandler, 33, an officer in the department’s self-policing Internal Affairs Division (IAD).

            There McLaughlin unburdened himself. “Dope-dealing cops are a slap in the face to our community,” he fumed. “It makes me sick.” Then, on a large yellow pad, he sketched a complex diagram of police drug deals, including names and dates.

            Chandler was incredulous. With McLaughlin, he had been one of the first black officers recruited on to the predominantly white Chicago force, and both men had worked hard to get even more black police hired. Chandler was angered to learn that most of the cops involved in the dealing were black. “This will get action,” he declared. “I promise.”

            An undercover operation was quickly launched. Still anguished by what he felt was a betrayal of his colleagues, McLaughlin refused any role in the investigation. Heading the probe was Lieutenant Richard Sandberg, 45, an ex-homicide detective known for his tenacity. With Chandler, Sandberg kept a bar popular with off-duty cops under surveillance. Watching from an unmarked van, the officers saw deal after deal between policemen, some still in uniform.

            A police agent tried to make buys at the bar, but the suspicious dealers refused to sell to a stranger. The probe looked doomed. Finally, Chandler went to McLaughlin. “We can’t do this without you,” he said.

            After thinking it over, McLaughlin agreed only to introduce an undercover agent to the dealers. The agent would then make the buys without involving him further.

            The next Wednesday, McLaughlin, a bespectacled, chunky 40-year-old, drove to a residential area in a fashionable neighborhood, accompanied by an attractive, black, female secret agent. They stopped at the building of Patrolman Gregory Grant. Grant had once been McLaughlin’s patrol-car partner, and McLaughlin had quickly learnt to distrust him.

            Nervously climbing the steps to the second floor, McLaughlin and the agent met Grant at the door. “Pam, this is the friend I told you about,” said McLaughlin. “He might be able to help you with that purchase.”

            Grant stared hard at her. Then, instead of introducing himself, he said coolly, “Hey, Pam, haven’t seen you in a long time.”

            No success. Pam stalled. “I don’t know you. What are you talking about?” she replied sharply, glancing at McLaughlin.

            Grabbing McLaughlin by the elbow, Grant led him to the kitchen. “I’ve seen her before. She’s a policewoman,” he sneered angrily.

            Fearing that Grant was accusing him of a frame-up, McLaughlin moved his hand instinctively towards the gun strapped under his jacket. “Hey, I just met the woman at a party,” he bluffed. “How was I supposed to know she’s a cop?” Playfully, McLaughlin slapped the mollified dealer on the shoulder: “Thanks for telling me.”

            As he and the female agent hurriedly left, McLaughlin was shaking with anger over the slip-up. If they ever find me out, he thought, I’m as good as dead.

            McLaughlin rejected any further role in the probe. Sandberg and Chandler knew they needed tape recordings of transactions to get convictions. But for the next four months, the investigators failed to get any evidence on tape; the dealers simply refused to sell to strangers. Chandler was convinced, however, that one person could get the operation moving.

            Over drinks, Chandler went straight to the point. “Mac, it just won’t work without you. Either you catch them in the act, or they’ll go untouched.”

            Still McLaughlin resisted. He was worried that the ruthless dealers might kidnap his wife, two young daughters or, more worrying, his 17-year-old son, Ricky, who had haemophilia. “ A heavy blow to the head could be fatal; you know that,” he told Chandler. Nevertheless, he promised to think it over.

            Hours later, Chandler got a call “I’ll do it,” McLaughlin said. What had made the difference was his sense of duty to the black community. It was in these impoverished neighbourhoods that the drug-dealing cops were selling their destructive wares. And when drug-using officers failed to respond, it was most often blacks who were left unaided in assaults and shootings.

            For several days, McLaughlin dropped hints in the police-station dressing-rooms. “I need some cash,” he would whisper to the cops he knew were dealing in drugs.

            The ploy worked; Gregory Grant took the bait. On Thursday morning, March 11, McLaughlin and the IAD team met in their unmarked van. Two tiny microphones were strapped to McLaughlin’s chest. Technicians checked the signal radioed from the microphones to tape recorders in the van. “We need talk,” Chandler reminded him. “Remember to ask what you’re buying, how much it costs. And get in and out as fast as you can.” Chandler knew that if the dealer suspected a frame-up, he might try to kill McLaughlin then and there.

            McLaughlin drove to Grant’s flat. The IAD van was parked across the street. Inside Grant’s living-room, McLaughlin tried to look relaxed on the deep leather sofa. After some small talk, the dealer got down to business. “So what are you looking for?” Grant asked.

            “I want to cop an eight,” replied McLaughlin, meaning he wanted to buy one-eighth of an ounce (3.5 grams) of cocaine.

            “For you?” Grant asked, with a look of suspicion.

            “No,” replied McLaughlin, feigning embarrassment. “I need some cash.”

            On tape. The tension evaporated. “Well,” Grant said smiling understandingly, “it’s good to make some money.” He disappeared into his bedroom.

            Counting out loud for the benefit of the microphones, McLaughlin peeled off $300 (Rs 3,000). His first deal was on tape.

            Elated, McLaughlin hurried back outside. It had been the longest half-hour of his life.

            The next month was a blur of sleeplessness and sharp-edge tension for McLaughlin. Each day, he spent eight hours on patrol; then, to help make ends meet, worked a four-hour job as a school security guard. At night, he worked for IAD, making contacts with the dealers, setting up meetings, dashing to hastily arranged buys.

            At home, his wife, Adeline, fretted privately as she watched her husband’s stocky frame thin rapidly, his hands tremble. One sleepless night he rolled over in bed, only to find Adeline was awake too. “I’m scared,” he said simply.

            Then, on April 14, McLaughlin’s deepest fear was realized. After a second tape-recorded cocaine sale, Gregory Grant suspected he was being tricked. He found McLaughlin in the police-station. “Let’s go for a ride,” he demanded. “I want to talk to you.” Grant headed for his car, but McLaughlin balked, fearing a trap. “I’ll drive,” he offered.

            The threat. Instead of going to the location Grant had suggested, McLaughlin stopped his car at a small restaurant. Over breakfast, Grant accused McLaughlin of tricking him and his friends up. “We may blow up your house with you and your family inside,” he threatened.

            McLaughlin tried to brazen it out: “Hey, I just want that packet. My money is good anywhere.” He pretended to be angered. “If you don’t want to sell, forget it,” he yelled. “ I’ll deal elsewhere.” Grant was taken aback. Still muttering threats, he sullenly accompanied McLaughlin back to the police-station.

            McLaughlin immediately called Chandler, who agreed the threat was real. McLaughlin and his family would have to leave Chicago immediately and assume a new identity elsewhere.

            As McLaughlin drove his family south that night, Chandler decided to serve Grant with a search warrant. The search, on April 16, turned up incriminating evidence. Chandler hinted to Grant that, unless he agreed to co-operate, he could be saddled with all the charges. For the next two months, Grant made tape-recorded drug buys from a widening circle of drug dealing policemen. Meanwhile, from his sanctuary, McLaughlin was in constant touch with Chandler, feeding the IAD team with names and description and connections of suspects.

            Finally, the investigators decided to move before their secrecy –or a life –was lost. On the morning of June 11, 1982, 50 IAD officers and other police inspectors spread out and arrested 13 cops alleged to be drug dealers. Former Police Superintendent Richard Brzeczek has described the drug racket as the biggest scandal to have hit the department in his 19 years on the force.

            The arrests spelt the end of the investigation, but marked only the beginning of new tribulations for McLaughlin and his family. Isolated in a strange new town and given a new identity, they struggled for a feeling of stability. McLaughlin constantly feared for his own and his family’s safety. Indeed, one day Ricky noticed a strange man as he walked to school. Suddenly, the stranger stepped up to the boy and said, “We’re going to kill your father.” Ricky ran like mad and eluded his pursuer, but the worst fear had come true.

            On January 30, 1984, a jury convicted one of the accused policemen of possession and delivery of drugs. He faced a minimum sentence of six years in prison. Less than three weeks after the conviction, three men abducted McLaughlin in the city where he was hiding. They drove him to a deserted area, forced him out of the car, beat him to the ground, and then brutally stomped on his head. “ Cut his hand off, cut his hand off,” one of the trio yelled.

            Recalls McLaughlin: “ I came up fighting then. I took off running. I was bleeding everywhere and I heard a shot ring out behind me.” He made it to safety of a well-travelled street and called the police. The assault resulted in serious damage to McLaughlin’s eyes; he may have lost vision in the right one permanently. The attackers remain at large.

            Several other policemen have been found guilty or have pleaded guilty receiving sentences ranging from probation to three years. Gregory Grant was given five years’ probation and has been testifying at the various trials.

            Says Nancy Jefferson, a black member of the Chicago Police Board: “ Mac McLaughlin is one cop people in our neighbor hoods can look up to. It’s our children who have been the victims of these crooked policemen. And this man has made the world a little safer for them. God bless him.”

            Despite everything, McLaughlin hopes someday to return to law enforcement and is proud that his efforts have paid off. “ I want to go back to police work; it’s my job,” he say, a cop to the core.

”The advantage of being clever is that it’s easy to play the fool. The opposite is much more difficult”

                                                                                                                                                -Kurt Tucholsky