This story is an account of events that led to an historical first in the transportation of whole herds of up to eighty two pregnant dairy cows by airplane from Denmark to countries in the Mid East.  An old military surplus cargo plane and a crew of seven young men desperate for work were more than happy to take on the challenge no matter that the rumor mill was saying it couldn't be done.  A job was a job, and if the Danes needed to get cows delivered to Saudi Arabia, Syria, and Iran, they were going to do it, come hell or high water.  The timing couldn't have been better, with Denmark's dire need to find a way to improve their balance of trade crisis and at a time when thousands of American airmen were out of work due the FAA's crippling rule changes.

Born and raised in a small town in northern California's Sierra Nevada mountains, he started flying during WW II and at age 19 became a B-17 Flying Fortress pilot.  After the war he found work flying for nonscheduled airlines until called back to active duty in the Air Force to fly C-54's on the Berlin Airlift.  At the outbreak of the Korean War it was off to fly C-47's and C-54's in the Combat Cargo Command until his return to civilian life in 1953 and returning to civil air carriers, finishing his commercial piloting career as personal pilot to the president of a major US corporation based in San Francisco in 1990.

The author and his wife, Genevieve, have made their home in the US Pacific Northwest.

"You know, you snore pretty bad. I haven't had enough rest to make it through the day, even if I didn't have to work, which is not the case as I am due to check into flight operations in an hour and a half." she said. "But at least I'll be getting away from you, you noisy guy, and now with that said, (snicker)...how’s a cup of coffee sound?"   "Yeah, thanks." I said as I started to sit up in bed but felt as though I'd been hit on both sides of my head by two baseball bats simultaneously, as I fell back onto the pillow, which actually felt like concrete.  "Wow, what in heck did I drink to get this screwed up again?" I asked, my eyes closed to shut out the blinding light of day.

"You possibly won't believe it, but you were the absolute life of the party...right up to around ten thirty at which time you chose to pass out cold. Too bad, too, as you really are a good tap dancer, you know. Everybody thought so." She said.   "Tap dancer?" I asked, my voice indicating my surprise. "You mean to tell me you didn't know you could tap dance.? Come on now!" She said with a genuine tone of disbelief to her voice, but when I opened my eyes she saw in them the truth of the matter. "Hell, sweetheart, I can't dance at all, never could, honest...scouts honor." I said in all honesty. "Well sorry to disagree, Houlihan, baby, but you not only can tap dance, you can do it on a small coffee table, and get this, from table to table." She said and then left the room to get me a cup of coffee.  "Everyone in the lounge were thoroughly impressed with your talents at dancing." She said with a laugh as she handed me the coffee cup.

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Though "Aviator" is at the very bottom of the list, it is in correct order in relationship to it's value in comparison to the other nine prerequisites required of this uniquely complicated job. I am quite aware that any uninformed observer would find this fact difficult to believe.  However, with each successive trip I learned that flying the airplane was more like "frosting on the cake" as compared with the other nine elements. Any single one of these could be considered the delineating specialty of one individual's professional expertise. Pulling all of these needs from under ones hat would not have been impossible had Orville managed to locate Clark Kent and con him into taking on the job. As it was I felt reasonably qualified in only four out of the ten requirements, so with 60% of the required equation missing the logical conclusion to point of failure was simply a factor of "time" I realized now.  In my state of frustration and anger over having to deal with another miserable example of a man without scruples, Aleppo's airport commandant, I gave the guy his ransom money in travelers checks, and in my haste to be done with the transaction and out of there, I forgot to put my signature on them. He had wanted green backs but when he saw the boldly printed words, "American Express" printed on the checks he conceded to accept them in payment without another word. By the time we had completed our pre-taxi checklist and were already moving toward the departure end of the runway for takeoff a troubling thought flashed through my brain; I hadn't signed those damned travelers checks. In mulling this over for a few seconds I decided to keep going.  Surely he'd forge my signature or his banker would, so there wasn't really a problem, I rationalized. After performing our pre-takeoff checklist and receiving clearance from the tower to taxi into position for takeoff I proceded to do so. Once in position to go the tower cleared us and we immediately applied maximum power and started accelerating quite rapidly along the roller coaster runway. The plane was reasonably light with no cabin load though we did have sixty six thousand pounds of fuel aboard. Cresting hill number two Gunther, serving as first officer, called out, "Tad, there's a jeep heading out toward the runway on that mid-field taxiway! Do you see it?" "Yeah, I see him. It's the commandants jeep I think." I said. "Looks like he's going to cross the fucking runway, Tad." Gunther  said, heavy concern hanging on his words. "Give me an airspeed reading!" I called out loudly.   "One hundred  five." Gunther answered immediately. "If the bastard stops on the runway we're going to use flaps to hop over him, so be ready to give me thirty degrees if I call for flaps!  You got that, Gunther?" I asked and he answered with a "roger".   As we accelerated down hill number two I noticed the airspeed needle moving toward 115 and realized then we'd probably need that boost from the flaps by the time we climbed to the crest of hill three. Then, hurdling toward the crest of the hill Gunther yelled out, "That fucker’s parked in the middle of the fucking runway, Tad. Airspeed 112 and falling!" He yelled excitedly. “We're OK Gunther, just be ready with flaps the instant I call for em', OK!?" I said in a tone without the fear I was feeling. We were about two hundred feet from the jeep when I yelled, "flaps thirty degrees!" There, parked right in the middle of the runway, standing up in his jeep and facing us with his arms straight up, as if commanding us to stop instantly, was that nutty bugger. As the flaps were extending I pulled back on the control column and the old bird lifted nice and gracefully up and over the frantically waving commandant of Aleppo aerodrome, Syria.   "I wonder if we blew that crazy fucker out of his goddamned jeep, Tad?" Gunther asked, still indicating his high state of excitement.  "I don't know, Gunther, and I'm not going to circle back around to find out, but I do hope we never have to come back to this place...or anywhere in Syria, for that matter. They've got Russian MIG fighters in their Air Force, and we may end up on their hit list before this incident is over." I said as I lowered the nose of the old girl and raced for the Mediterranean coast line as fast as our dear bird could go.