The January day was crisp and cold with just wisps of high clouds painting the Texas sky as we, my two Air Force cadet student pilots and I, began our IFR cross-country. Before starting back to our base in west Texas, I checked the weather and was gratified to see the forecast we had received before departure was going to hold up — nothing more than a high overcast with perhaps a lower scattered layer at 5,000 or 6,000 feet. My students were two of the sharper ones in the class and seemed to be mastering the intricacies of instrument flight with little trouble.
Now the venerable old B-25 twin-engine bomber droned through the afternoon toward the lowering sun, with one student in the left seat, me in the right, and the other student leaning in between us. The big Wright engines howled their song inches from our ears, making conversation impossible except by interphone. The promised overcast was thickening faster than I thought it would, and the ground below was disappearing in patches, obscured by scudding clouds beneath. Well, I thought, a good demonstration of a real instrument approach would be a fitting topper to the lesson.
As we passed over Abilene on the way west, I called the Air Force weather detachment there for an update on our destination weather. I sat up a bit straighter in my seat as the forecaster read the latest sequence from Reese: 1,000 overcast with visibility 5 miles in light snow. It was still above minimums for a range approach, and not forecast to get much worse prior to our arrival an hour hence.
The B-25s we flew for Âmultiengine training at that time were not equipped with VHF navigation Âreceivers; VOR stations were much fewer in number than they are today. Our sole navigation equipment consisted of a low-frequency-range receiver and a coffee-grinder NDB receiver. RMIs, HSIs and flight directors were still very much in the future. I debated briefly with myself about turning around and returning to Abilene to wait out the weather, and then discarded the idea. The squadron commander took a dim view of his instructors getting weathered out on cross-country missions with students. We pressed on. I had the student not flying pull out the approach plate for the low-frequency-range approach and conduct a briefing for both of us. I planned to let my left seat student fly the approach and to step in only if necessary. We were tracking in on the east leg of the range, and the solid tone in our headsets told us we were dead on course; a gradual fade of the signal into a dit-dah or a dah-dit would tell us if we strayed left or right.
I did a quick calculation of our fuel status. Fuel burn and fuel remaining figures were rough guesses — gauges were not that accurate and groundspeeds were much more difficult to figure because of course we had no DME. I knew we were encountering substantial headwinds but wouldn’t know just how strong they were until much later. I figured we had enough fuel aboard to shoot an approach at Reese and then divert to Amarillo, which was our filed alternate. The rapidly moving winter storm system had caught everyone by surprise in its intensity and rapidity of movement.
As we approached the station I noticed it was taking more and more drift correction to stay on course, and I called for the current weather and got the really bad news. The station was now reporting 500 obscured with 2 miles’ visibility in blowing snow. Icy fingers crawled around my stomach as the options left open to us dawned on me. We were committed now to a low-frequency-range approach to which the published minimums were 500 and a mile, but the kicker was that the approach was from the north to Runway 17 — and the reported wind was from the north at about 20 knots. We were faced with an approach that was going to be ticklish enough at best, but followed at the end by a circling approach into what was becoming a blinding snowstorm.
When I heard the weather report I decided to fly the approach myself. Good as these kids were, I didn’t feel it was fair to subject either of them to this kind of pressure. Besides, I wasn’t at all sure I could pull this off myself. We had talked about the approach and now I mentally ran through all the salient points of the procedure. The tower had said the last aircraft had landed about an hour earlier and had reported just blowing snow on the runway, but he helpfully noted that about an inch had fallen in the last hour.
Fortunately, Reese Air Force Base is located in just about the flattest part of west Texas, and I knew the surrounding countryside intimately. The tallest object in 50 miles was a 100-foot-tall grain elevator about 5 miles south of the base. The range legs were oriented in such a way that made the procedure almost mindless — the four legs were north, south, east and west. We would cross the station and turn to intercept the north leg, where we would make a procedure turn and then track in directly across the station for the final approach. The crunch would come when — and if — we sighted the airport; we would have to make a circling approach back into the snow, the howling wind and the darkening twilight, and pray that we could keep the field in sight.
I briefed the students carefully about just what I wanted them to do on the approach — to time the letdown from the station and, above all, keep their eyes peeled for runway lights. The signal began to build rapidly in the headset; I knew we were close to the station. I was flying the bomber now, and I hunched and then let my shoulders droop, trying to relax. I took deep breaths as we got ready to look the tiger in the eye. The signal built and suddenly faded to nothing — the cone of silence. We were over the station. I was surprised at the amount of drift correction it took to maintain our position on the leg; the wind must have been Âreally blowing out of the northwest. I turned upwind for the procedure turn and readied the airplane for the approach. Inbound now, with the gear down and one-quarter flaps, I flicked the landing lights on and instantly regretted it. The blowing snow was like an opaque white wall, swirling all around us. The student next to me threw his arm up in front of his eyes, and vertigo engulfed me like a cloak. We would leave the lights off for this approach.
Back over the station on final approach the tower reported no change in the visibility, but helpfully noted that the wind was now 30 knots and gusting. Swell. The watches were started as we crossed the station to begin the approach and our letdown to the 500-foot minimum altitude. I was really hedging here; the circling minimums were 1,000 feet, and it was an approach we didn’t really teach or use much. I knew if we flew this approach at 1,000 feet we would fly in circles until we ran dry of fuel and would never see anything. I was relying on my local knowledge of the area not to hit anything. As we descended through 600 feet I began to see lights below, and both students loudly confirmed my sighting. We were crossing the housing area just east of the base, and we were really screaming. The ground was going by at an incredible rate. I made a slight correction to the right, and suddenly the student leaning in between the seats shouted in my ear, “Lights! Runway lights!”
We crossed over the runway at a slight angle, correcting for the howling wind, and I started a course reversal that I prayed would bring us back into the wind lined up with the runway. I knew if we lost sight of it we were goners. I banked to the right to start a 90-270 course reversal; it was like flying into a dirty milk bottle. My eyes were riveted to the artificial horizon and the altimeter; we were down to 500 feet above the field, and tolerances were now practically nil. Any lower and we were flirting with real danger. Any higher and we would never see the runway again. Reversing the turn, my vertigo returned; I fought with every fiber of my being to believe what the instruments were telling me. I struggled to hold the airplane in the bank — glancing at the directional gyro I saw the big S swing by and I knew at that moment we were going directly away from the field.
Both students peered intently into the dusk; the heavy snow was beginning to cover the windshield. Suddenly the student in the left seat shouted, “There it is! Out there — 10 o’clock!” I looked up into the swirling storm and saw approach lights — the prettiest sight I think I have ever seen. We were going to overshoot badly, and I racked the bomber up on her wingtip to get lined up. I put down full flaps and groped for the runway in the gloom, fighting to keep one line of runway lights on each side of the aircraft. I didn’t dare turn on the landing lights. Finally, after an eternity, came the gratifying crunch as the tires touched the concrete.
After we put the airplane to bed and I had debriefed the students, I sat in the deserted ready room for a long time, reflecting on the day’s events. What had started out as a routine cross-country in fine weather nearly turned into a catastrophe Âbecause a rapidly approaching storm caught us by surprise. I don’t even like to think about what the outcome would have been if we hadn’t successfully completed that approach.
Never again would I start out on such a trip without thoroughly planning for every weather contingency. Each decision I made that afternoon had left fewer and fewer options open to us. I learned a lot that long winter afternoon.
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