By Bill O'Brien, Aviation Safety Inspector, Airworthiness
It was a bitter cold Monday morning in late November. The wind was blowing out of the southwest at 15 knots gusting to 20. The sunrise was barely an hour old, a faint reddish orb in the eastern sky, offering a pale light but no heat. Instinctively, everyone knew that today was the day the sun would lose its right to warm the concrete ramp at Dulles Airport for the next three months, surrendering it unconditionally to winter's chill.
The Beech 1900 commuter aircraft was parked at the far side of the ramp with the left engine cowling opened. On top of a metal work stand, a lone figure, his back hunched in an attempt to shield his hands from the cold wind, was working to change the PT-6 igniter box.
Replacing the igniter box is usually an easy repair. One which the aircraft mechanic now working on the engine must have changed many times before. But today the job was made difficult, more time consuming, by the cold wind and stiff fingers. Fingers that sometimes stuck painfully to the cold soaked metal of the engine's turbine housing.
I stood inside, alone, looking out the window of the commuter airline's combination operations and maintenance office, watching the mechanic work at the same time nursing a cup of vending machine coffee. After a long while, I took another sip of coffee, cradled the warm cup in both my hands and looked down at my own dark reflection in the bottom of the cup and remembered.
I remembered another time, another career, when I was standing on a cold metal work stand at another airport, fighting the same weather, working on similar airplanes with similar problems, feeling the identical pressures to meet a deadline. In the cup I saw my brilliant successes--meeting the gate, saving the day, and basking in the 15 minute spotlight of fame and glory--and I also recalled the sack cloth and ashes of verbal abuse from my peers that my dismal failures handed me. But most of all I remember the burden of responsibility that I and every other aircraft mechanic carries. Simply put, the lives of everyone who climbs aboard the aircraft depends on the mechanic's ability, judgement, and skill to make an airworthy repair. A mechanic must be 99.9% right all the time. He or she is not allowed a margin for error, no second chances, and no excuses for failure even if the wind chill factor was five below zero and passengers are waiting.
"Why the hell is he taking so long!" the co-pilot said to no one in particular. My eyes found him as he paced back and forth in front of the dispatchers desk. He was a very young 25, and yet he had almost 3,200 hours in turbine powered aircraft. He was tall, professional, confident, with a little touch of arrogance that comes with youth and dark sunglasses.
I had introduced myself to both the co-pilot and the captain an hour and a half earlier and shown them my FAA ID. As expected, I received the cool, professional, "welcome aboard" greeting that FAA Aviation Safety Inspectors always receive from a crew when are given the word that FAA is going to perform an enroute inspection.
If they were not happy with me being on board initially, their sense of humor sure did not improve after we boarded the aircraft and the left engine failed to light off and the seven Albany passengers had to deplane.
The co-pilot was now checking his watch as he paced. It was obvious that he was anxious to fly the trip, anxious to put a few more hours in his log book, anxious to move up in his chosen profession. Have you noticed that most people on their way up are always anxious and self-centered? Earlier, the dispatcher told me that the co-pilot had interviews scheduled with three major airlines in the next two weeks. His future looked bright, he had set his goal and he was almost there. But now another delay, he was now stopped again--this time by a man in a winter parka.
The captain, ex-military retired C-141 driver, who had more silver in his hair than black, sat relaxed in a old chair reading the sports section of the Washington Post. Every now and then I noticed he smiled as he peeked over his reading glasses and watched his co-pilot wearing out his shoe leather and patience. I wondered, could the captain, with a sense of irony, be reliving through his co-pilot the same feelings, desires, and pressures that the quest for the front seat in heavy iron and the four stripes of power demand?
Looking back out the window I notice that the mechanic has finished installing the igniter box and secured the cowling. Immediately, other ramp personnel attach the tow bar to the aircraft and begin towing it to the gate.
The mechanic, now in one quick motion developed from years of practice, opened, entered, and shut the door to the line office keeping the loss of warm air to a minimum. His entrance was almost as fast as the second or two it took his glasses to fog.
The co-pilot, now visibly irritated at being delayed, grabbed his chart bag and overcoat and started for the door. He stopped, turned, came back to the dispatcher desk where the mechanic was standing, looked him in the eye and said, "You cost us 25 minutes, we missed our gate time." The mechanic, who was patiently polishing his glasses with a paper napkin, slowly considered the co-pilot's attack and quietly said, "I figure we are 33 minutes late, but the ball is now in your court, and you'd better get a move on." The co-pilot was about to say something he would probably regret later when the captain diplomatically interrupted and asked the mechanic to sign off the discrepancy and the flight release block. The mechanic complied by signing his name and certificate number which approved the aircraft for return to service.
The captain gave him a big smile, thanked the mechanic, and told him how much he appreciated the fast service and turned to me and asked if I was ready to board. "One minute, Captain, I would like to take a look at the maintenance record sign off. I'll bring the maintenance record with me." As the mechanic turned the maintenance record around so I could check his entry, the co-pilot, who was now being hustled out the door by the captain, could not resist taking one parting shot at the mechanic. "Better come with us right now, Mr. Inspector. It'll take the "Grease Monkey" another 33 minutes to figure out how to sign his name again!"
In that room, two aircraft mechanics jaw muscles tightened ever so slightly, mine and the man in the winter parka. The remark--although not aimed directly at me--hurt. Old familiar anger rose from my belly. Just enough of it slipped pass my defenses to flush my cheeks and, just as quickly, the anger faded. I reasoned the co-pilot, like many others, did not understand what it meant and what it took to become a mechanic. Let it pass.
I checked the record entry, thanked the mechanic, and shook his hand, picked up the maintenance records, and boarded the aircraft in plenty of time before the passengers were seated.
The trip to Albany was uneventful and thanks to a good tail wind, ATC direct routing, and a wee more power than normal, we were only seven minutes late at the Albany gate. I spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon performing an inspection of the commuter's maintenance facility. Because of a scheduling change I found myself with the same aircraft and crew for the trip back to Dulles. Again the trip was the kind I like the best--uneventful.
After the passengers deplaned and the aircraft secured, the crew and I were walking together to the parking lot when the co-pilot asked me, "What exactly is an FAA Aviation Safety Inspector for Airworthiness, and what does he do?" In the 10 minute walk for the gate to the employees parking lot, I explained that FAA Airworthiness Inspectors certificate and inspect mechanics; certificate and inspect air carriers, repair stations, and mechanic schools; perform accident investigation; and give aviation safety seminars. It was one of my better attempts, I thought, to explain and justify my paycheck.
In the parking lot, I shook hands with both the captain and co-pilot, mentally noting the difference between the pilots' smooth grasp versus the mechanic's callous one. As I was persuading the government car to start, the co-pilot pulled up in his red Firebird, rolled down his window, and said, "Keep up the good work, Mr. Airworthiness Inspector, and keep an eye on those "Grease Monkeys" for us." Before I could answer, he let out the clutch and was gone. I never saw him again at Dulles. I heard that he got that job flying the heavy iron. That was over six years ago, but I am still bothered by his remark. Now more than ever, I very much would like to sit him down and explain to him what it is like to be a mechanic. I want to tell him who we are, what we do, the responsibilities that we carry, and how much we love our profession.
Maybe in your travels you might run into pilots who still likes to call us "Grease Monkeys." I would consider it a personal favor if you could just tell them three things about mechanics for me.
1. Tell them that mechanics love their aviation profession just as much as pilots do. But there is a difference. Pilots are in love with the magic and freedom of flight that flying an aircraft allows them to experience. Mechanics, on the other hand, carry on a technological love affair with the aircraft itself. This technological love affair is a complex one, involving hard numbers, close tolerances, and no margin for error. Because of this marriage of human feelings to technology, it is very hard to explain to someone outside this very private, very personnel profession what we are feeling when we take a sick aircraft and put it back in the air again. Perhaps, that is why no one sings songs or writes poetry about mechanics and their profession.
2. We have worked very hard to become an aircraft mechanic. We are the only maintenance profession certificated by the Federal Government. Just to qualify to take the battery of three written, three oral, and three practical FAA examinations for the mechanic's Airframe and Powerplant rating, an applicant must first graduate from an FAA approved Part 147 Aviation Maintenance Technician School. The school must cover 43 subject areas and provide a minimum of 1,900 hours of instruction.
If an applicant makes application to take the examinations on practical civilian or military experience, he or she must show the FAA a minimum of 4,800 hours of airframe and powerplant experience. Perhaps a better way to remember the numbers is to compare them against 1,500 hours for an ATP or 1,680 required class room hours for a 127 college credit BS degree. In addition to the investment in time and training mechanics have to invest heavily in their tools. An average start up tool box will cost a mechanic approximately $3,000 to $4,000. We have earned the right to work on aircraft.
3. Mechanics are the muscle and bones of aviation. We are the quiet professionals who are working around the clock to ensure the safety of thousands of passengers on thousands of aircraft every day. We carry the burden of responsibility for thousands of lives willingly. Why then, since so much depends on the maintenance profession, would you want to call us "Grease Monkeys?" Can you picture aviation without mechanics? Thanks for listening.
My Dad always told his impatient customers that they had two choices--it can be fixed quickly or fixed correctly. To the condescending customers, he reminded them that he must know something they didn't, otherwise they would have repaired it themselves. This article is dedicated to all mechanics and especially to their children who were expected to apologize because their parent was "just a mechanic." --from the Associate Editor, a mechanic's daughter and proud of it.
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"Grease Monkey"