Free Flight 232: A Story of Disaster and Survival by Laurence Gonzales

from both Al and me. As he was not on headphones or microphone, he several times asked, Where do you want to go?”
    In a documentary film by Errol Morris, Fitch said, “ It just became like the airplane was an extension of me. And I could feel these stimuli coming at me before I actually felt them or saw them.” He said that at one point, “it struck me like a thunderclap. Dear God, I have 296 lives literally in my two hands.”
    Dvorak recalled that as the plane approached Sioux City, “Al told me to run the throttles.” Dvorak’s seat swung around in tracks so that the second officer could operate the throttles on takeoff. Fitch relinquished the throttles to him for a time and sat in the jump seat behind Haynes. “I was all in the seat, strapped in and running the throttles,” Dvorak said, “and Denny was over my shoulder saying, Do this, do that, and I finally decided that he’s been doing it and he knows what it takes, it’s not the right time for me to learn what the differences are.” Haynes, Records, Dvorak, and Fitch all had 296 lives in their hands at one point or another during the flight, but Fitch handled the throttles longer than anyone else. He brought the plane in as safely as anyone considered possible, given the dire circumstances. Yet the crew wound up resenting his outgoing public persona.
    Rosa Fitch, Denny’s widow, said, “ My husband was a hero , not only in what he did on July 19, 1989, but in the way he lived his life every day.”
    Tammy Randa, Dave Randa’s wife, said this about Fitch: “ The first time Dave mentioned Denny Fitch to me he [referred to] him as the ‘man who saved my life.’ We also attended his memorial service in May of 2012, and when Dave introduced himself to Denny’s daughter, she immediately started to cry. I could tell that her childhood was also deeply affected by the crash. I also spoke to Denny a couple of times . . . and got the impression that he was very friendly and thoughtful. Sounds like some may have felt he was a little arrogant, but nonetheless, I have a wonderful husband (and in-laws) and two amazing children thanks to him and the other pilots that day.”
    Brad Griffin had shoulder-length hair and a handlebar mustache. He wore jeans and—apart from the sandals—looked as if he would be at home among the cowboys in Colorado where he lived. Now he watched Dudley Dvorak “sprint” back through the cabin. He later said, “I mean, he’s running to the back of the plane.”
    “I wasn’t running,” Dvorak countered. “I might have walked fast. You don’t do anything like that on an airplane, because that can cause panic.” On the other hand, numerous passengers told of being alarmed at how fast the flight engineer was moving down the aisle.
    Griffin was on his way to Battle Creek, Michigan, to play golf with his brother. “I’ve got my golf clubs,” he recounted. “I’m excited. My brother and I are best friends. This’ll be the first time I’ve done this with him. I’m looking forward to seeing my family, which is from Michigan.”
    In the boarding lounge in Denver, Griffin had given his ticket to Susan White. He boarded the plane and was greeted by Jan Murray in first class. After takeoff and lunch, he decided to get up from his aisle seat in the second row on the starboard side. He wanted to stretch his legs and look out the window. He was traveling in a luxury craft on the Nile of the sky. Life didn’t get much better. “I’m standing looking out the emergency exit window, and then all of a sudden, the plane just shook and I was knocked to my knees.” He hurried to his seat and fastened his seat belt. Over the next few minutes, he and Michael Kielbassa, thirty-eight, beside him in the window seat, discussed the fact that the plane wasn’t flying right. “Now there’s starting to be tension with the crew, and my thought comes and goes: you know, you can die on this plane.” He decided that he had better start meditating,