Anything you do can get you killed, including doing nothing
. . . or at least, doing nothing wrong.
New blogger Drew at The Sky Blog
relates a true story that happened to him in another day in the life, and death, of suburban America:
I witness a blue dump truck turning into the gas station, while a woman on a bicycle was crossing the sidewalk at the entry. The truck clipped the bike with it's back, passenger side, tire, and the woman got caught under the tire. The truck continued to pull in, going about another 10 or 15 feet, dragging the woman and the bike along with it. I jumped out of the car and started to run over there, but at that point the woman was absolutely crushed - split into 3 or 4 pieces. Horrific.
Yes, it is. As I read this posting it suddenly struck me that I have chosen two careers that deal intimately with death - a
combat-arms soldier then a
minister serving a congregation. I also serve as one of two volunteer chaplains for the Williamson County, Tennessee,
Sheriff's Department.
My congregation has been fortunate not to have been touched by violent death during my five and one-half years serving them. The only exception was a man whose 22-year-old daughter died late one night when her car hit a telephone pole (no alcohol involved). This man was not a member of my church but was a friend to several members.
But when the sheriff's dispatch calls, the news is never good. The department began the volunteer chaplain program a few years ago specifically to assist in death cases. One of the early calls I got was on a Friday evening. A tractor-trailer jackknifed on a two-lane road and smashed head on into an oncoming Silverado pickup truck. The pickup wasn't recognizable when I got there. A state trooper told me that in his 26 years in the highway patrol, this accident scene was the worst ever. The pickup's driver was still inside; it took the rescue workers almost a half-hour just to figure out how to begin extracting him. The remains of the pickup's cab were wrapped around him. He was in pieces. We found some of his teeth 20 feet away, lying on the ground.
Violent death is not always gruesome. I went to an accident scene where the driver, an 18-year-old woman, sat dead in the driver's seat of her car after a head-on collision. She was turned sideways in the seat and looked like she was sleeping. No blood, she died from "blunt force trauma," pathologists' lingo for wrenching, violent dislocation of her brain and other internal organs - the same thing that killed Dale Earnhardt when he hit the wall going 150 mph during last year's Daytona 500.
When I went to the young lady's home, I discovered that her dad had gone to the hospital, where his other daughter, a passenger in the car, was barely alive. The dead girl's mother was lying in a hospice bed in the living room, near death from cancer. God, what a tragedy. . . .
I have barely escaped death more than once. One time I remember vividly was when an artillery shell exploded almost right over my head, maybe 60 feet high. Shell fragments smashed the ground all around me, but none touched me. Another time, I was a student pilot flying a solo flight, not my first, as Fort Sill, Okla. About 80 feet above the runway, the engine power on "idle," my
Cessna 150 was hit by a shift in the crosswind. (All you ever get at Sill is crosswinds, about 15-20 knots, and they can shift 180 degrees three times on short final. If you can learn to land in southern Oklahoma you can land anywhere.) Anyway, I had my plane oriented for wind direction from one way and the direction was suddenly the opposite. It went nose down like an anvil. The windscreen's entire view was filled with concrete.
I jammed the throttle forward to the hilt and eased back on the yoke, turning it to level the wings. Somehow I didn't crash. I don't know how close I came to the concrete, but it must have been only a few feet because that's how high I was when I flew level down the runway for a couple thousand feet to gain airspeed -
lots of airspeed. Then I pulled up, went around, landed, parked, tied it down and went into the flight office where I was met by my very irate flight instructor, Brian Shody. He colorfully asked me what did I think I was doing. He had been in the tower watching my touch-and-goes when my little incident occurred. The tower officer had ripped him up one aide and down the other for letting me fly solo.
I was convinced that Brian would pull my solo certificate. After a moment, he composed himself and said, "Well, I guess you know something about flying, because anybody else would have died out there." I kept my certificate.
A true story, told me by a witness: an F-105 pilot returned to Tahkli Air Base in Thailand one day at the end of a mission over Thud Ridge in North Vietnam. The plane was shot all to pieces. The pilot was fine, but the plane had lost most of its avionics. Fuel and hydraulic fluid was streaming away, the engine would not develop full power. Worse, it had a hung 500-pound bomb that would not release. The wing commander told the pilot to fly out over the jungle and bail out. But the pilot said no, he'd land it and the wing could use it for spare parts, many of which were critically short.
The emergency crews assembled along the runway. The pilot brought the huge airplane down several dozen knots above standard landing speed because he can't lower the flaps. He set the plane down right on the numbers. The plane rocketed down the runway. The pilot deployed the drogue parachute. But the chute was literally burned to cinders. Nothing came out but the chute's lines. And the brakes had no fluid.
The Thud crashed into the trees at the other end of the runway, blowing itself and the pilot to atoms. In his last instant of life, the pilopt keyed his mike and broadcast his last words: "Well, I guess I'm screwed
now."
Sometimes that's the only explanation there is.
Chin loy.