Don’t Dare Call Her Old

She’s been everything, this DC-3 type; floatplane, skiplane, glider, glider tug, paratroop dropper, ambulance, gunship, supply, general freighter and hack-and the type’s still flying as though the years gone past are still tomorrow.

Most people reckon there are still more than 500 still operating with the world’s airlines. One of the types has racked up well over 84,000 flying hours.

And one of those 500-plus is doing sterling service with what could be Australia’s smallest airline, Rebel Air. . . .

To actually fly a DC-3 is still a benchmark in many pilots’ books, be they Service or civilian aviators. Even as we put a foot on the bottom step of that impossible three-step ladder hanging off the door sill (and remembered how many times a crewman would forget to stow it properly and it would go clanging down to the after bulkhead on take-off, provoking ribald comments from the sharp end), we remembered the awe with which we saw RAAF pilots almost fighting each other for the pole.

And just as we made our way up the slope to the cockpit on Bill’s invitation, memories of the time when there weren’t any seats – just a line of canvas strip benches each side – came flooding back.

Up in the office, things hadn’t changed all that much; a DME, attitude indicator and a clock were among the few “newies” we spotted. The rest was pure vintage DC-3.

We knew it was going to be one of those fun days when we started up the Pratts. First Officer Michael Coventry courteously made the right-hand seat available and we strapped in while the engines started.

We’d always remembered starting a DC-3’s engines as being something of a finger-crossing exercise. Not so with Rebel Air’s pride and joy. None of that Walter Mitty-sounding pockata-pockata bit, until the Pratts fired reluctantly, this old girl fired up with pride and a full throat on each motor.

The memories came flooding back, that damned bell sounding off when exercising the “Fire” warning: looking around and seeing the rope escape “ladder” in its stowage; waiting for temperatures to climb up, even in the outside air temperature of +22.

“Try a taxi,” invited Bill as we cleared the parking area. We would if we could – but we were still trying to find the seat-travel wire and disappeared from view when we energised the seat-rising position instead.

Sorted out at last, the next thing was spying three enormous rabbits playing line-astern chase-me-Charlies along the grass at the side of the taxi track, and Bill reminded me that he’d straddled the boundary fence in a Mustang years ago, just over there.

Back to sanity, with the Pratts running sweet and strong, giving out that never-forgotten sound. On the run-up, we looked for 1700 rpm for the prop exercise and went up to 2300 for the mag. Testing. Back to 1300 for feathering. Nothing shaking or wobbling on the cowlings, everything as it should be, apart from a strong crosswind which made taxying a strong. Arm job. Trims set, a little flap please, and we turned onto 29 Centre. Take-off was a case of tail up early, countering a weathercock and off a shade over 80 knots. The crosswind was strong indeed, as we noted 44 in on the manifold pressure.

Climbing out at an initial 1000 fpm, we turned for Parramatta and took off some back trim while Bill got further instructions from Sydney.

Papa Whiskey Mike was trying to make life easy in a strong chop, and apart from applying some coarse wheel, we had time to look out of the window at that silver wing flexing like one of our old Wellington’s wings. We set up a conventional combination of 2300/32, and the old girl began nudging the magic 120 knots IAS, even in a slow cruise configuration.

A slight high-tone deafness tickle had been eliminated when we donned our headset, and the Harbour Bridge was coming down the line of sight with tolerable steadiness. Anyway, nobody down the back end complained – perhaps they were just polite.

We muttered something to Bill about coarse control, remembered we were flying a lady and changed ‘coarse,’ to ‘robust”.

Cleared for a visual approach to Sydney, we turned almost lazily with the big DC-3 running on rails. Gear selected down, green light showing. No pitch change apparent, the T-Vasis coming up nicely on cue (although we lost the “tail” for a few seconds on mid-finals). . . . . one pilot described a DC-3’s approach as taking as long as an old lady getting ready for bed; not so with Rebel Air.

Sydney appreciated a little more speed, so we came down the hill at around the 100 knots mark, about 80 over the fence and a wheelie to finish with, stopping in time to take the first turn-off.

The wind was gusting strongly enough to need both front-seaters’ arms on the wheels.

“Too brief!” roared our memory; but there was already a strong flow of do-you-remembers. Throttle-walking while exercising props, mags. , and feathering; banging an arm on the outboard armrest which always seemed to be too high; those damned great levers on the starboard side of the alley behind the righthand seat; the quadrant which seemed to be set as high as an early model Baron; the initial vibration which settled down as each Pratt & Whitney lazily leapt into life.

Call it what you will, DC-3, Dakota, Dak, C-47, Gooney Bird, Dragonship, Spooky, Biscuit Bomber,. . . the type is still alive and in vintage glory. And yet she isn’t what you’d call a pretty aircraft.

We borrow the words of a former pilot to describe the character of this magnificent and apparently timeless type with no reflections on Rebel Air’s DC-3: “The DC-3 groaned. It protested it rattled, it leaked oil, it ran hot, it ran cold, it ran rough. . . .

“It staggered along on hot days and scared you half to death. Its wings flexed and twisted in a horrifying manner. It sank back to earth with a sigh of relief.

“But she flew and flew and flew.

“It took us and ten thousand crews around the globe to where we had to go and brought us home again, honest, faithful and magnificent machine that it was. . . ” And as far as we know, nobody has really come up with a better mousetrap; the DC-3 is still the only type capable of performing certain specialised tasks, despite a plethora of DC-3 “replacements”.

Rebel Air’s DC-3 looks set for a long and honourable life. What happens when she really reaches the end of her useful days is something one never talks about, especially in front of a lady.

We hope we aren’t around to see this gallant lady parked disconsolately under some tree, used as a haven for birds and spiders, or even set alight with monotonous regularity as fire-drill material. It would, we feel, be just too much.