Forty years ago today, I got my first taste of real disaster reporting.
At 3:29 p.m. Sept. 9, 1969, a student pilot from Indianapolis named Bob Carey, flying a Piper Cherokee, collided with Allegheny Airlines flight 853 southwest of Indianapolis. Carey and the 82 passengers and crew aboard the DC-9 jet airliner died in the resulting crash.
The jetliner came down in a soybean field about 100 yards north of the Shady Acres mobile home park near London, in Shelby County just as a school bus was unloading children. Even though debris peppered the mobile homes and some aircraft parts punched holes in trailer sides, no one on the ground was hurt.
I was a couple of years into my career at
The Indianapolis News at the time. I got a call at home almost immediately and was at the crash site within an hour of the impact.
The authorities were slow to control the crash scene, making it possible for me and several other reporters and photographers to roam at will, including through the soybean field which was drenched with kerosene jet fuel.
The sight was grisly beyond imagining. The plane disintegrated upon impact and the force of those thousands of pieces of metal shredded everything it their path. I walked that field for at least a couple of hours. The sun set at 7:04 p.m. and I finally left the field when it became too dark to see where I was stepping.
In all that time, I didn’t see a single intact body – just scores of arms, legs, feet still in shoes, hands, the back of a man’s head, the contents of luggage and hundreds of dollars in cash. I touched nothing. Neither did any of my colleagues.
As I drove to the scene, I’d wondered how I would react to the carnage I was sure to encounter. Would I be overwhelmed? Would it get queasy, or worse?
As it turned out, I felt a cautious kind of detachment. Looking at those body parts, I couldn’t conceive of them ever having been part of living, breathing human beings. It was as if someone had strewn a truckload of plastic body parts through the bean field.
It was estimated that 12 seconds elapsed between the collision and the jetliner’s impact with the ground. The passengers had a full 12 seconds to notice the jolt of the collision, the rolling of their plane to the left into an inverted attitude and the plunge to earth. That’s the horror that creeps me out the most.
Their deaths must have been virtually painless.
I think about the crash and that soybean field every September and every time I fly.
I’ll think about it in a couple of weeks when I fly to Portland for my son’s wedding and realize that I’ve seen something none of my fellow passengers will never see – what happens when an aluminum tube full of people falls out of the sky.
Dan McGlaun, a private pilot, has an online analysis of the crash and its circumstances, including several of my photos. It’s at http://www.mcglaun.com/1969.htm
Going strictly by the statistics, flying is still safer than driving and nowhere nearly as risky as motorcycling. But I much prefer the measure of control I have on my bike to the helpless feeling of being a passenger on a jetliner.
