Lucky Ace

However the area we were now searching was approaching 7,000-foot altitudes and the snow which had forced the Air Force helicopters to abandon their search covered almost everything below.  And, although I carefully examined every nook and cranny of every canyon that Skip flew through, there was no sign of anything remotely resembling a cave.  I guess my disappointment showed plainly to Skip to whom I had passed on the story of Terry’s visions of her Madonna because he remarked after we had landed following another day of fruitless searching, “Mr. Morrow, don’t be too disappointed.  Even if we were lucky enough to find your friend, there’s little or no chance he’d still be alive.  He’d have died of thirst by now.”

“He’s not dead!” I half-shouted in my despair.  “He’s not dead!  We’ll find him for sure tomorrow or the next day!”  And when I called Terry that night, I told her, “No luck today, sweetheart, but we’ll find him either tomorrow or the next day.”

I awoke the next morning, D+8, to find a cloud-filled sky.  “It’ll be raining here by noon,” I said to myself, “and up where we’ll be searching, it will be snow.  It’s this morning or never.  Dear God, please let us find Ace this morning.”

As the ravines narrowed, their granite walls became steeper and harder for Skip to fly through.  Time after time, he had to jam his throttle full forward and head straight for the sky to avoid slamming into a rock wall.  Then, when we were near the west border of our search line, we ran into a strange situation.  The ravine we were exploring suddenly split into two separate channels.  We took the larger one on the right and followed it to its end with no success.

“Skip,” I called through the intercom mike, “let’s go back and check out the passage that led to the left.”

“No can do,” replied the pilot, “it’s too narrow to fly through.”

“Give her left aileron and right rudder,” I asked, “and we can slip through with left wing low and right wing high.”

“What do we do when there’s nothing ahead but granite?” complained Skip.  “Oh, all right, I’ll give it a try, but I’m going to have to pull it straight up when the canyon comes to an end and it’s going to be a tough job climbing with one wing dipped low.”

After we had slipped sideways through the tiny aperture, all of a sudden I saw a sight that made my heart leap right into my throat.  At the very end of the opening, a white parachute lay draped over a rock overhang with a figure dangling from the bottom of the shrouds.  Although Skip saw the chute and its attached body at the same moment, there was no time to get a close look to see if the figure was still alive for he had to stand his plane on its tail and claw for the sky in order to get out of the tiny crevice.                                                        

When we were in the clear once more above the canyon, I spoke to the pilot:

“Skip, let me get a precise fix on the spot where the parachute is snagged on the overhang and then I want you to call Edwards Air Base and ask that they get a chopper here as fast as they can – one with a winch and a cable long enough to make the rescue.  Tell them we think the pilot is still alive.  That’ll get them here quicker.  Tell them also that we will be circling over the spot where the body is hanging.”  Then I asked him, “How much gas do we still have?”

“At least three hours,” replied Skip, “plus enough to get back to Bakersfield.  It shouldn’t take more than an hour for the chopper to get here.”

“Count on two,” I said, “it always takes the military twice as long to get something done.

“Now Skip, I’d like for you to make another run through the opening we just slid through.  I want to try and see if the pilot is still alive.”

“Not on your life,” shouted the pilot, “we damned near augured in the last time!”

“Please Skip,” I insisted, “one more time.”

“Oh, all right, but you’re really going to owe me after this one.  And this will be the last time, I promise you!”

After Edwards acknowledged understanding of our request and told us that a rescue craft would soon be on its way, Skip descended again into the canyon and skidded sideways through the opening to the ravine.  This time I not only saw again the parachute and its dangling body, I also saw a definite wave of a hand before our plane was again standing on its tail and zooming upward.

“He’s alive!  He’s alive, Skip!” I shouted.

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