Fill 'Er Up
Harvey E. Turner is a retired Army lieutenant colonel who lives in Tampa, Fla., with his wife, Cherri. Harvey says it is not necessarily true that helicopter rotors scramble a pilot's brain.

Having accumulated only several hundred hours of flying during my second tour in Vietnam - my first tour as an Army aviator - I was excited about my return to the United States and my assignment to the Primary Helicopter Center at Fort Wolters, Texas. But instead of the expected assignment as a flight instructor teaching aspiring aviators, I was assigned to the Warrant Officer Candidate (WOC) Brigade as the executive officer of the 3rd WOC Company, a proficiency-only flying assignment.

I was delighted, therefore, to be detailed the additional duty of ferrying new TH-55A helicopters from the Hughes Helicopter Co. plant in southern California to Texas. The TH-55A, known as the Osage, was a two-seat primary helicopter trainer for the Army. Despite being minimally outfitted for instrument flight (it only had a magnetic compass), it was well-suited for its intended role as a training aircraft. It was a simple flying machine with a fuel tank that held enough regular automobile gasoline for a maximum of two hours of flight.

I was the senior officer of a group of pilots assigned to fly 15 aircraft from California to Texas. We reported to the factory, completed our preflight, and departed in three flights of five choppers in 30-minute intervals. Each flight had a flight leader who was in charge of leading the flight to the refueling points, each 90 minutes apart. I was leading the last flight.

While cruising over California's San Gabriel Mountains at 2,000 feet above the terrain, we encountered extremely gusty winds that made the compass all but useless. Our light aircraft were bouncing all over the sky, and in my attempt to follow the intended road over the mountains, I took a wrong turn that eventually led us way off course. By the time I discovered my error, we were low on fuel and surely could not make our next refueling point.

Not knowing our exact location in the mountains, I knew we had to land, reorient, and - most important of all - refuel the aircraft. I spotted a small town in one of the valleys and instructed the other aircraft to follow me. We landed in the open schoolyard of the town, much to the surprise and amazement of the school officials and children who rushed outside to see five helicopters hovering over their schoolyard.

We touched down, and I introduced myself, convincing them we were not part of an alien invasion. And then I asked the teachers, "Is there a gas station in town?"

"Yes," one replied, "at the crossroads in the middle of town." Quickly surveying the route to the station, I asked several of the teachers to block traffic at the intersection so we could get to the station. We then hovered our aircraft over the fence, taxied down the street, and came as close to the filling station as our whirling rotors would allow. At the gas station, I calmly requested the attendant to "Fill 'er up!"

As we refueled, a small crowd gathered to watch an event so unusual that I am certain the tale is still being told in the town today. After refueling, we thanked the townspeople for their assistance and departed for Texas. We arrived safely and with one of the best aviation stories I ever experienced during peacetime.

Someday, we'll have to go back and show them how to check under the hood.