Chapter Eight

TWO YEARS OF HORROR

 

After my confession to the Qantas doctor I left his rooms without any indication as to what was wrong with me, or whether there was any possible treatment, although within a week they had made appointments for me to see two leading psychiatrists. It was an anxious time waiting for the consultations, as I had no way of knowing what they were going to consist of. There was very little public awareness of mental illness and its treatment in those days. Was I in for electric shocks, a straight jacket, mind-bending drugs - who knew? I had no cuts or bruises, let alone any visible blood, so how could they cure me just from my explanation of the events on the aircraft and some gen­eral chitchat about my past?

 

No obvious notes were taken during my consultations, so I freely talked about my life and various adventures. I now realise that these conversations were recorded, as no one could remember that amount of detail for their reports. In anxious anticipation that this minor hick-up in my career would soon be over, I must have rung the Qantas doctor daily to see if there had been any results from my consultations. After two months of 'nothing yet', they told me to see another psychiatrist and, unbeknown to me, the diagnosis of this consultation was going to be the beginning of my nightmare, and the downfall of a once useful person in society.

 

What was Qantas's reasoning for ordering this third consultation after such a long period of time?

 

After a couple of consultations with the third psychiatrist, I was handed over to a nurse for 'thought-stopping treatment', and was given a book, Cure without Drugs. The nurse put me through some re­laxing exercises, which she also recorded onto a tape for me, finishing off the treatment by giving me a rubber band. This was to be worn on my wrist, and any time that I had an irrational thought I was to twang it, with the resulting pain being my cue to switch my thoughts to happy ones. I was told to practise this hundreds of times, which I did, with the thought of sailing Tic Tac in the pristine waters of Mauritius as my reward.

 

Thought-stopping treatment may have worked for some people, but it certainly didn't work for me. If only the recommendations of the first two psychiatrists had been put into place! My family couldn't under­stand the thought-stopping process and my relaxing moments seemed to them to be my excuse for shirking doing something for them. No one stops several times a day and lays down stretching their toes and other bits of anatomy for twenty minutes, was their unin­formed reasoning.

 

Although Qantas received reports from the first two psychiatrists suggesting that I needed treatment and medication, these reports were not handed to the medical section of the Civil Aviation Safety Authority (C.A.S.A.). Rumours were that my obsession was an elaborate hoax on my part to claim my loss of licence insurance, thus enabling me to get out of debt. The third psychiatrist that Qantas ordered said that my illness was not an issue, and only on the basis of that report was I cleared to fly. I wasn't told of the contents of these reports at the time; my first knowledge of them was when I asked C.A.S.A. for my medical file after Qantas had the police interview me on a possible extortion charge.

 

Anxious to return to work, I persevered with my exercises, and without any explana­tion from the Qantas doctor as to what was wrong with me, he cleared me to fly. If two engineers had said that an oil leak on an aircraft needed fixing and one said it was okay, I'm sure that the maintenance section would have said 'fix it'.

 

Being a little rusty on the operating procedures of the 747 after not flying for over two months, I spent several hours in the flight deck of a parked 747 reading my manuals and fondling the start levers in an attempt to urge the fas­cination from my mind. The ground engineers passing though the flight deck must have thought, is this pilot keen or what?

 

To try to take away the anxiety over my compulsion to carry out the phase 1, a simulator session was programmed for me to act out the emergency procedure. I felt that nothing had been achieved to take away my anxiety. The fear factor had been removed; I had lived through the 'fright' of crashing in the simulator too many times for it to have an impact.

 

Finally came the moment of truth; I was rostered to fly to Port Moresby and back with the chief pilot. Just before take-off he must have sensed my anxiety, because I still remember his reassuring words, 'hang in there'. The words and music going through my head were 'twang twang twang went the trolley', while at the same time the crew must have thought I was conducting a destruction test on a rubber band. Most of the flight was spent with my thoughts in Mauritius, but my feelings couldn't match my favourite memories.

 

My flight check was planned for the return trip and it was difficult to keep busy enough to keep my thoughts at bay. Although the chief pilot had cleared me to fly, several times I was chal­lenged as to who had reinstated me by other check pilots when they saw me in uniform. After a few months, those thoughts of sailing in Mauritius were not powerful enough to calm me down, and to my lovely wife's dismay it seemed that sexual encounters were the only memories powerful enough to keep the thoughts of the start levers at bay. To achieve these encounters while away from home, I would often miss out on my essential pre-flight sleep while looking for suitable company. Tiredness would completely take over and my duties at the end of a flight were carried out between micro-sleeps solely by instinct.

 

When the climb had been completed and the aircraft was at its first cruising altitude, I would, on most flights, slightly recline my 'u-beaut' seat, fold down the armrests and, aided by the magic of technology, call the galley and order coffees for the captain and me. It was always tactful to order something for the captain as well, as even if the flight atten­dants were busy a request from the captain was never challenged.

 

On most flights from then on I had to go through another ritual in which I would try to come up with an original one-liner, for the answer to my question would have a bearing on my wellbeing for the next few days.

'Excuse me, skipper, would you mind if we keep the fuel flight plan here?' I would ask fearfully as I took the folded piece of paper from its usual position behind the thrust levers. Placing it on top of the start levers to cover those demons from my view, I would respond to the expected 'why' by explaining my compulsion, and wait as my bizarre ques­tion was pondered. I was always in a dilemma as to what to do. My heart would be pounding and panic would fill my stomach. Should I tell or not tell?

 

Talking about my problem seemed to make me feel more at ease - but not so for some cap­tains, and they would watch me like a hawk, or not leave the flight deck for the duration of the flight. On a Qantas flight in 1980 the maximum flight deck duty time for each pilot was eight hours; however, I am sure some captains exceeded this when I was their first officer. It is now an accepted fact that talking about some mental problems can help in the recovery treatment, but all I knew at the time was that it was one of the things that helped me.

 

However, when chatting to the captain on a flight to Bahrain I mentioned that I was interested in a career change to computers, and as he was an expert in this field I was cu­rious to have his input. When answering his question on why I wanted the change, no sooner had the words come out of my mouth about my compulsion than he ordered me off the flight deck. Once again the second officer was 'promoted in the field', and for the duration of the flight the friction between the captain and myself gradually worsened and became very uncomfortable. At our hotel in Bahrain the captain conducted a conference call with the Qantas doctor and two senior pilots. I was sure he was expecting to be told to 'ground him' - but instead he was told that my illness was no more serious than a sore toe and I was to continue as first officer.

 

The air on the flight deck for the remainder of our flight to Paris and return to Sydney was so frosty it could be cut with a knife. The operation of the aircraft also suffered, as nothing could be discussed rationally while there was this hatred in my head for this person who had embarrassed me in front of the crew, flight attendants included. All through the return flight to Sydney I was going over my story, for while the captain had been talking to Qantas I had been talking to my wife, and had asked her to make an appointment with the chief pilot upon my return, as the captain had not allowed me to use the company's communications at Bahrain airport.

 

After reprimanding the captain for his actions, Qantas, in a letter to the Department of Transport about the in­cident, said I 'was removed from duty precipitously' and, as advised by the medical officer for Qantas, 'in my opinion quite unreasonably'. In this letter the medical officer also stated that 'Griffin unwisely chose to discuss his medical history' with the captain. As all I had been told by the Qantas doctor was that I would not do it and that there was nothing wrong with me, I was puzzled as to why the subject shouldn't be talked about. I realise now that he had acted as all captains should, according to the Australian Air Navigation Orders (1980), which state:

 

3.3 Mental Fitness

 

(a) The applicant shall have no established medical history or clinical diagnosis of either the following

( i ) a psychosis

(ii ) any personality order severe enough to have repeatedly resulted in evert acts

(b) The applicant shall have no established medical history or clinical diagnosis of a mental abnormality, personality disorder, neurosis, alcoholism or drug dependence which makes it likely that within two years of the examination he will be unable to safely exercise the privileges of the licence or the rating applied for or held.

 

Another frightening compulsion had crept into my head. On one of the main roads near my home there was a steel-sided bridge and it felt to me as if the sides were endeavouring to draw me into them like a great magnet. If I needed to use this bridge I would take one of my chatty sons with me to divert my thoughts, otherwise I would digress from that route and use a normal concrete bridge. A year earlier on one of my last trips to Mauritius, I had endured, while driving away from the hotel for a Saturday night out, a sudden compulsion to drive off the road into the sugar cane. My night out was brought to a sud­den halt, and after gingerly turning the car around the drive back to the hotel was conducted at a walking pace. It was as though my sugar cane thoughts had just changed to a steel obstacle. I am still haunted occasionally; unfortunately, this time the target is a semi-trailer. Apart from being stunned each time the incident occurs, my body turns to jelly.

 

When hearing of road accident statistics, I wonder if others with less control of their lives are plagued with a similar compulsion, and whether they succumb to its power. Apart from our normal vi­sions of road rage, I'm sure that there is also a large amount of 'in-car' road rage - if you get my drift. I now avoid driving with anyone in a car if there is going to be any possibility of conflict. For me, it's safer to catch a bus or a taxi.

 

I continued flying, with my obsession becoming stronger and stronger. The compulsion to close the start levers had changed; not only was I thinking of carrying out an emergency procedure in cruise, but I was thinking of closing the start levers on take-off as well. There was no reason, other than that I must show those who said that I wouldn't do it that I could and I would.

 

On take-off, if the captain was flying the aircraft, I would hold the control column pushed forward to keep a downward pressure on the nose wheels. The captain would use the nose wheel steering until a speed of eighty knots was reached, as at this speed there was enough airflow over the rudders to steer the aircraft down the runway. He would then take over the control column and continue the take-off. When I released the control column my hands would drop down to my lap or out of the way, but unfortunately my compulsion would urge my left hand to carry on further to the start levers. I would fight with myself at this critical time, and had any captain said anything to chastise me my rationality would have been taken over by ha­tred.

 

Before anyone knew of what I was about to do, the compulsion would have taken over, and without any conscience my hand would have slipped down to the start levers and carried out its desire, with the slight of hand of a magician. For the first minute or so after the take-off roll had commenced I forced my brain to only focus on 'don't do it … don't do it'. I must have often missed the important speed calls I should have given to the captain, but I was far removed from watching the centre line of the runway or any cockpit instruments.

 

I would like to draw your attention to the fact that, although a person looks perfectly well and healthy on the outside, they could be suffering a near-death illness in their head. Here I was, in what must have been one of the most critical aircraft manoeuvres, yet no one in the crew suspected what I wanted to do. Mental illness can't readily be seen, and I think that those who misguidedly believe that someone is just putting on an act should seriously reconsider their opinions and read some literature on the subject.

 

Mental illness is real.

 

There would have been no time for the captain to even think of restarting the engines. While he was in absolute shock from the sudden loss of power, warning systems would be activated, bells and hooters would be playing an opera, and the flight engineer would be blurting out the obvious failure of all engines, while at the same time my hand would be rejoicing in its timely victory. The aircraft and its hundreds of terrified panicking passengers would have quietly floundered down onto a poor unsuspecting neighbourhood. One hundred and fifty thousand litres of aviation fuel pouring from this giant 150 ton tanker would have incinerated residents and passengers alike, destroying countless lives.

 

It's too terrifying to think about, and I feel ashamed that I unwillingly had the desire to cause such a tragedy, but Qantas had denied putting me in the picture of my illness, had denied appropriate medical treatment, and neglected to offer me a suitable career change. The authorities inspecting the scene would have been left wondering if there had been a terrorist attack, for the catastrophic results would have been the same. I had no personal fear of this action or any thought of pain. Often in the simulator if a gross error on take-off or landing had been made, and there was a crash, at the instant the plane would have hit the ground the simulator picture screen would go blank and all the lights would come on. Were you in heaven? No, but you had most probably failed the simulator exercise!

 

At the time I was flying, Qantas had a three-pilot crew and during the cruise part of the flight only two pilots were required on duty, enabling one to take a break; this way keeping everyone inside the flight time duty limits. If and when the captain took his break - depending on how he felt about me - I assumed command of the flight deck and the safety of the hundreds of passengers. This complete responsibility of a 747 was overwhelming, as here I was with perhaps a very junior second officer who would possibly not initially real­ise that my sudden actions were not those of a genuine emergency. If the captain chose to walk through the cabin, most passengers would have been awestruck, hoping he might chat with them - but if they knew my feelings I'm sure most of them would have given anything to get off the flight.

 

I had honestly made my feelings clear to anyone who would listen, but no one ever suggested that I should stop flying or at least transfer to non-flying duties, of which there were several where my qualification would have been an advantage. If I had left Qantas it would have been without any security or loss of li­cence insurance.

 

The people in charge of my destiny were so convinced that there was nothing wrong with me that for periods of time they gave me sole discretion of millions of dollars worth of equipment, and the trust and safety of up to 450 passengers. I'm sure that passengers, when booking their flight, had complete faith that all the crew would be in perfect working order. A malfunction of any part of the aircraft found during a ground check would be referred to in the manual to ascertain whether it was safe to fly with that fault or not. The Air Navigation Orders, as mentioned before, were the guidelines for a pilot's health and should have been adhered to - thus indicating that for safety reasons I should not have been flying.

 

When I was in charge of the aircraft, flying into a thunderstorm always made me feel uncomfortable. The unknown factor of the extreme energy that a thunderstorm possessed was the cause of my uneasiness, seemingly making flying a contest between the thunderstorm and me. If the captain was asleep, I had no one to ask for advice and I could sense the other crew relying on me for a safe passage. At that time, except for turning on the seat belt sign, I had no thoughts for the feelings of the passengers. For me, it was as though the aircraft stopped at the flight deck door, just like in the simulator. The turbulence and the battering of hail on the windscreen is survivable in a car, as when it becomes too severe you can pull over and stop - but up in the clouds there's only one way to go and that's on. Trying to understand the weather radar in theory is okay, but it's a different story when the aircraft thinks it's a raging bull at a rodeo while you are trying to distinguish different shades of green on the screen.

 

One of my worst fears in turbulence was looking out of my window at the wing and engines. Oh, how they danced! The wings swayed up and down, while the engines had a dancing routine of their own. My thoughts would flash back to my childhood as I remembered making shepherd's whistles out of the aluminium from a scraped WWII aircraft. No tools were required by innovative kids; just break off a piece of aluminium, mark a line on it, and bend it backwards and forwards. Eventually a thin crack would appear, and with a few more rapid bends I would have the desired whistle shape. Watching the wings, I would wonder in awe who was doing the bending now and what shape they were after.

 

At times during a flight boredom would set in and, not wanting my compulsion to get a chance to infiltrate my thoughts, I would find some sort of paperwork to do. I would eat and drink to fill a few minutes as often as I could, and - worst of all - I would smoke dozens of duty-free cigarettes.

 

My home life was being affected, as aggression had become a regular part of my as­sociation with my wife and children. If upset by anyone, I would lash out by throwing something, and one of my sons reminds me to this day where fragments of a glass I threw at him are still embedded in the cupboard door.

 

I had long since given up trying to do the relaxing exercises in front of a bewildered audience on the flight deck, and the rubber band had to come off before my hand did, similar to a poor lamb's tail. Pilots and ground staff knew of my weird compulsion, yet nothing seemed to sway the medical sec­tion from their fixed opinion that I would never carry it out. After eighteen months my life was being ruled by the obsession and I had nowhere to turn for help, as all I could get from anyone was 'you won't do it'. At most stopovers I was using alcohol to excess to numb my feelings, and many a time while out for dinner with the crew I would have to ex­cuse myself and leave. I would leave some cash on the table to cover my meal and make a beeline for my room before collapsing. That was when I felt the full consequences of excess drinking, as the turmoil of one's head spinning in a whirlpool as soon as it hits the pillow makes one wonder what is worse, the illness or the cure?

 

I was now suffering depression at home, and my GP pre­scribed Serepax tablets (a tranquilliser) as he had only heard the term obsessive compulsive disorder in association with people wanting to wash their hands all the time. With Serepax at last I had a friend, and I would hide several tablets on me in what I thought was a completely safe place that would never be found by customs. If only they had no­ticed my guilt and searched me just once, the seriousness of my illness might have been recognised.

 

As soon as the compulsion sent shivers through me, I would casually reach into the fluff at the bottom of my change pocket and remove a half tablet from my pre-prepared stash. Sometimes the desire to have this 'fix' was so urgent that I couldn't wait for a drink from the galley to wash it down, so I would casually slip the tablet into my mouth and suffer the horrible taste. During this period of taking Serepax my standard of flying went dramatically downhill, and although I would study very hard in the days before a test, the check pilot would write in my notes, 'A poor effort. This pilot has obviously not stud­ied for the exercise.'

 

'I'm busting.' Everyone must have said that at some time. Do you remember being in an enclosed space with no toilet? The situation is usually no bother until you get that little inkling that you need to go. The more you wait, the more the nagging in your stomach has you trying all different positions - sitting or standing, legs crossed or uncrossed - until the pain is so excruciating that you don't know if you will survive or completely embarrass yourself. When you do eventually find a toilet, you feel the pain pouring from your body, to be replaced by a beautiful feeling of pain-free wellbeing.

 

That was the way my head was in the 747 cockpit. Slowly, the compulsive thoughts would start nagging at me, so I would try to refocus by increasing my workload. By eating, drinking coffee, and taking short bursts from my oxygen mask, I would try to distract the thoughts, and if all that failed I would just look out the window. Most of this viewing was at night and, apart from looking for a run-of-the-mill spacecraft, my ultimate goal was to find Santa Claus and his reindeer.

 

Imagine sitting in a pilot's seat and being so bored that when you looked at your clock you would calculate how many times you would have to watch the second hand go round on its long journey before the flight ended? At the eventual end of the flight the pain in my head would have reached its crescendo, but the most beautiful feeling I had was when the captain said, 'finished with engines.' I could now put my hand on the start levers without fear of the consequences. At last, after being tormented by them for the last ten hours or so, I could obtain my deserved relief and be able to close the start levers without any repercussions. Now, with a quiet sigh of relief as I left my sweaty seat, I would step over them, anxious to have my next drink to forget the pain.

On my last flight to the USA my mind was fuzzy, and while programming the navigation system I inadvertently put in a position with an east longitude instead of west. The error was not picked up by the other pilot when he checked the distance, as the error was made for the next position after the 180 degree longitudinal one, and it didn't matter if the position had been put in as either east or west, the distance was the same. Oh, the embarrassment of having a jumbo on autopilot turning for home of its own accord, and an observant passenger ask­ing a flight attendant why we were turning around! Fortunately, several minutes after put­ting in the wrong position, who or what had been looking after me in my troubled times jogged me to check what I had done, and unnoticed by the other crew I corrected the mistake.

 

I seemed to be coming to the end of my tether, and during our stopover in Los Angeles I became more agitated with each passing hour as I wondered how I was going to cope with the return journey. Putting on my uniform kicked off my panic onto its normal path, so to put a quick stop to it I hurriedly took two Serepax tablets. I was now becoming so afraid that I was going to carry out the compulsion and shut the engines down on take-off that I would resort to anything to drive the thought from my mind.

 

The captain had been hounding the second officer and me during the flight from Sydney, wanting an answer to a question he had asked us on a previous tour of duty. We couldn't find the answer to his ambiguous question, and even the wealth of knowledge gained in the training section couldn't help us come up with an answer he was satisfied with. In my mental condition I assumed that he had a personal vendetta against me, and I knew that the next take-off was really going to test my self control.

 

Fortunately for the passengers, on that flight from Los Angeles to Honolulu the cap­tain gave me the sector, so my thoughts and hands were completely focused on the task of getting airborne. But now my problems were only beginning. The particular air­craft we were flying was a Boeing 747 SP (special performance), which was shorter than the standard 747 and had slightly different operating procedures and speeds. Earlier in the hotel, I had no idea of the change of aircraft type and therefore had not checked my manual on the variances, so a few minutes into the flight it became obvious to the captain that I was not in complete control of the situation. Once again, the second offi­cer had the pleasure of being promoted and I was sent off the flight deck. Fortunately, the flight was not such a long one, and the only time I visited the crew was when called by the captain to sign my training report. I knew it must be bad, as the only time a pilot is required to sign a training report is when it is negative. With the hand of a bewildered first officer I signed where it was highlighted 'requires further training'; out of a rating of one to four I had received a zero.

 

I then knew that, for revenge, my compulsion would take over on the next sector with this captain, and I knew that there was nearly a one hundred per cent chance that I would put an end to everyone's speculation and prove them all wrong. On arrival in Honolulu, I decided that I was not going to be put in such a vulnerable position. I sent a message to flight opera­tions saying that my previous illness had become worse and that I wished to be taken off duty and be passengered home.

 

That evening I met up with the crew and after consuming enough alcohol to lighten up, the captain, on hearing of my decision, said that we could talk about it. I declined, as no amount of talking would have saved the situation if I had flown with him the following day.

 

On my return to Sydney I once again consulted with the puzzled Qantas doctor, who referred me to yet another psychiatrist. This psychiatrist made the diagnosis that my condition was 'totally and permanently curable' and treated me accordingly as he thought best, setting me on the pathway to ongoing problems that would impair the quality of my life.

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