The Good Shepherd

Albany Tower, this is Cessna 72163. Over.

Cessna 72163, this is Albany Tower. Over.

Albany Tower, this is 163. I'm in the vicinity of Albany flying VFR [Visual Flight Rules] on a training flight from Mansfield, Mass., and I think I'm lost. Over.

163, this is Albany Tower. We are fogged in. Do you have any idea where you are? Over.

Albany Tower, this is 163. I have no idea where I am. Over.

By his own admission, 24-year-old Guy L. Stultz "didn't have the brains to be worried." There he was, in a Cessna 120, flying at 4,000 ft. in bright morning sunshine above a solid overcast, over the Helderberg Mountains of New York. Married, father of three small children, an appliance-installation man, Stultz wanted more than anything in the world to be a commercial pilot. Under the G.I. Bill, he began taking flying lessons. This day, with 67 solo hours, he was on a cross-country solo hop, from Mansfield to Albany, to Buffalo and back. And he was hopelessly lost.

Sixty miles west of Albany, an American Airlines DC-6, carrying 45 passengers from Boston to Syracuse, heard Albany Tower trying unsuccessfully to renew contact with Stultz. American's Captain Walter Moran, 46, a cool, methodical veteran pilot (14,000 hrs.), called the tower, offered the routine courtesy of relaying messages. From Albany Tower came the news:

American 215, be advised that Cessna 163 is being flown by a student pilot on his first cross-country flight. He advises us that he has only one hour and five minutes of fuel left.

Says Moran: "The picture changed completely, from a routine effort at radio assistance to the possibility of a protracted search with little promise of success. For even if we did make contact, this young pilot would still have the problem of descending through the overcast without instruments."

As Moran turned northeast toward Albany, he called Student Stultz, told him to begin circling and watching for the DC-6. A few moments later, Stultz called:

American 215, this is 163. I see a hole in the clouds. I see a building. I'm going down for a look-see.

Stultz's last words got cut off, and in the American cockpit the crew froze. "We thought he had bought the farm," says Moran [meaning that he had cracked up]. But Stultz came back on, called happily that he had spotted an air marker on a roof below. It told him that he was above Coeymans Hollow. Albany Tower, checking with state police, informed Captain Moran that Stultz was only 20 miles south of the field. Moran radioed:

Cessna 163, fly 019DEG magnetic. We are going to try to intercept you in your course line that you are now flying. Keep an eye out for us.

It was half an hour before Stultz spotted the airliner below him. Together they flew above the woolly overcast toward Albany. Stultz heard Moran again:

We have just been advised that there is a break in the clouds in the Schenectady area. We're going to take you to that break and descend. Just follow us.

Okay, American . . . This is Cessna 163. American, you're pulling ahead of me.

Okay, take it easy, continue to fly your present course. We're going to get you down all right. Take it easy.

I'm not worried. I'm just hungry.

Says Moran: "He just thought he was hungry. His stomach was tied in a knot."

Hungry or scared, Guy L. Stultz found his hole in the clouds, made his safe descent to Schenectady Airport. Back in Brockton last week, Stultz got a call inviting him to have dinner with Pilot Moran, who admired him for his coolheadedness, if not for his skill. Upshot: a tentative job offer from American. It was not a pilot's job, to be sure--just unloading baggage and cleaning cabins. But Guy L. Stultz figures that if he can continue his flying lessons, "I'll be building up seniority with the company, and when I get my license I'll have it made."

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