Being in the right place...by William James Johnson

After getting the travelling bug during my sixteen years as an aircew officer in the RCAF, I continued to travel. I loved the adventure of experiencing the new and strange cultures which I visited in over 20 trips to Europe. I remember the young boy who shared his french fries with strangers as we waited outside a tour bus in Northern Ireland. It was a chilly noon in high winds coming off Dingle Bay. The fries were delicious, and the young lad said he liked to share his food. He knew the tour company discouraged eating on their bus.

I've always found talking to strangers on a long distance flight overseas always made me feel by the time I landed, that I was born and raised with them. Must be the fact that people seem to prefer unburdening themselves to this unknown character, because there is no chance they will ever meet again. And the sharing of secrets goes both ways.

Momentarily, I just had a passing recollection of a group of my fellow travellers, many from New Zealand who still write to me, lying in about four inches of geothermal pool water, looking like a gathering of breeding hippos. They all roared when I labelled them as such.

Then there was the time I met the master chef on a Holland America cruise ship who was told that I was a famous Canadian artist. The substantial aging senior asked if I would mind doing a drawing of him. We chatted in his kitchen below decks and talked of many things while I did a ball point sketch of his bearded face. Even a blind man could have sketched him. He was thrilled with my handiwork and asked what he could do for me. We settled on his agreement to send me his recipe for carrot cake. I'm still waiting for it.

But my last episode is the real reason for this blog. We were at an Italian banquet in a large hall in Venice, where a row of dining tables were arranged end to end. This made it necessary for us to space ourselves along each side, where we stood waiting for the host to give us the signal to sit. Across from me was an American woman who had become a friendly acquaintance on the tour. As we were still standing, I realized she was having a problem. She was pointing at her throat, and tears were pouring out of her eyes. No one else noticed that the lady was choking. Without delay, I raced around the long line of tables and grabbed the choking woman around her waist and tried unsuccessfully to apply the heimlech manoeuvre. I had never done this before, but I had seen it done in movies.

My failed attempt was making me panic. The fact that waiters thought we were fighting and were trying to pull me off her was not helping. I grabbed her again determined to squeeze as hard as I could, even if it meant I might crack a rib. Suddenly a chunk of Italian bread stick which she had bitten into, and like a wine cork had lodged in her throat, shot out of her mouth and struck the man across from her. In a weak voice she said,"You saved my life".

I returned to the other side of the table and could not stop my legs from shaking. Needless to say, I really did not enjoy the meal that night. Before we left Rome to return home, she came up to me and gave me a hug. I'll always remember what she said. "Now you know why God put you on this trip." I was lucky. I was in the right place at the...

Fear by William James Johnson

Hardly a day goes by without hearing about the exceptional bravery of someone who put their life on the line to help save a person who would have perished if they had not made a decision to risk all to rescue this victim in distress. Often the action is taken without considering the possibility of losing one's own life. Many times the fear of this ultimate sacrifice is realized long after the action has been taken. The fear may actually be altered as the memory factors in the dire consequences which could have happened if the rescuer had doubted for a moment instead of taking the saving action.

The most trying test for the brave person is to charge into flames to rescue someone trapped in a burning house or smashed vehicle which could blow up in any minute. It was this kind of experience which continues to bring back fantastic memories in my life which I would like to share with you.

Several years ago, when I was an aircrew electronics officer in the RCAF, I was stationed at the Maritime 407 Squadron at Comox, British Columbia. Nestled in a beautiful mountainous valley on the east coast of Vancouver Island, we were flying P2V Neptune aircraft for our submarine patrols. This was the aircraft of choice because it was fitted with two jetpods, and two propeller engines. We used to call our aircraft "two burning, and two turning". Because of the geographic location we needed to climb over the surrounding mountains which were 9000 feet high. We needed the power of our jets to get us above that altitude within the first few seconds of take off.

On this memorable flight we had completed all of our pre-flight preparations, settling in for our take off. The normal procedure was for the pilot to bring up the power settings on the two jet engines to 100% take off thrust, while keeping the brakes on the wheels. Once the power was reached, he would release the brakes and we would leave the runway like a rocket assisted take-off.

I was strapped in my seat at the rear rest position, beside a large observation window used on our search operations. We all listened to the co-pilot reading off the pressure settings on the jets in his monotonous tone. "Three zero. Thirty-five percent. Forty. Forty-five"

That was when the explosion startled everyone.

"What the hell was that?" asked the skipper.

"We are on fire skipper. I've got the rear hatch open. Everyone out. Hurry."

I got eight of the crew out before I jumped through the opening and struck the scorching runway.

A high wall of flame was within ten feet of where I landed. The pilot kept the aircraft going forward so that the wind would keep the flames away from the body of the plane. It was then I realized there were still two pilots and an engineer on board. I was certain they could not see from their position that their machine was still burning. I ran as fast as I could in my heavy flying boots so that I could indicate what was happening.

Suddenly I was soaked by a brown coloured liquid being shot at the fire by our base firemen from the massive foam truck which had raced across the tarmac to intercept our burning plane. In seconds the flames were snuffed out, and our plane stood dripping like a wet dog, as the last three crewmen came out of the desperate looking Neptune.

Investigators discovered the explosion was caused by a broken hydraulic line which spewed fluid over the hot engine until it combusted and blew large chunks of metal and flames all over the runway.

Remember I said memory plays a part in the fear generated after such a trauma. We had a full fuel load on for a ten hour mission. Can you imagine what a fireball would have lit up the sky if the explosion had happened only fifty seconds later, after we got airborne. I sure can't forget it. In fact, I'm lucky that I'm still here, and can share this memory with you.