We’re pushing back from the gate at Charles De Gaulle, heading for JFK.
Once back in the alley, we’re clear to start engines ‘4-3-2-1… “Starting four…
We have four good starts, call for taxi clearance and are cleared to taxi to runway 27.
"Ding Ding,” the interphone rings, it’s the purser. The flight attendant at five-right, in the far aft right side of the airplane, has reported what appears to be “an unknown devise” in the lay sink, as pointed out by a passenger.
I radio ground and tell them that we have to hold position for a few minutes. Captain Sheamus O’Conner sends Jerry Lovell back to take a look.
Five minutes go by very slowly. Jerry finally comes back and reports that there is a cylindrical device with what appears to be wires sticking out of one end, that is submerged in filthy water in a stopped up sink in the aft lay. “ I wouldn’t touch it,” Jerry advises.
“Alright,” Sheamus says, “we are going to taxi to a remote area, tell ground we have a possible bomb on board, get us instructions as to where they want us to go, for remote, and tell them the bomb is only a possibility, we don’t want to panic our passengers unnecessarily. Once we stop,” Sheamus instructs the purser, “start moving people forward, away from the tail, get them up into the aisles, I don’t care if there are seats available or not.”
“Should we evacuate! ‘Easy Victor?’”
“Not yet,” says Sheamus adamantly, “more people get hurt during evacuations then anything else. We’re not ready for that yet.”
As we taxi to remote, it becomes apparent that DeGaulle ground, disregarding our instructions, has called out everybody. It seems like hundreds of fire engines, ambulances, riot-police, sirens and blue flashing lights are surrounding our airplane.
Sheamus moans “Oh shit, those fucking Frogs! We told them to be discreet!” The French, as always, do things their way, they know best, they are French after all… “We have invented Aviation, and the language of Aviation. “…fuselage, empennage, aileron….” All French words, they point out. The Frogs refuse to speak English to each other on the radio within the dense Paris area, creating a hazardous situation for all the English speaking others, who now have no clue where the French planes are, or what they are up to.
Three hours later, the bomb squad has safely removed the device. It was only a toilet paper cylinder, complete with a glop of remaining toilet tissue still wrapped around it. Someone from maintenance had removed the tube, rested it in the lay sink while replacing it. In their haste to get off the plane, the tube had been left behind. Then someone had used the sink, clogging it with dirty, soapy water, submerging the roll, and creating what appeared to be a threatening device.
Most of the passengers were now demanding to get off the plane. We had no choice but to taxi back to the gate. Zeezu, our French-Israeli Station Manager in Paris, well hated for his abrupt manner and demeaning treatment of pilots and crew, has cancelled the flight.
Zeezu, now feverishly dealing with hundreds of pissed-off New York/French/Jewish passengers, tells us that “we are the least of his problems.” Under the circumstances, he is truly not to be envied. Hours later, having found flights or hotel rooms for our former passengers, Zeezu has deigned to get us hotel rooms back at the Sofitel, Saint Jacques. This bag-drag ends eight hours after the bomb threat, as we exhaustedly enter our new hotel rooms.
Dinner that evening became a communal affair. The entire crew of pilots and flight attendants, all nineteen of us, managed to pull a few tables together in the Mussel restaurant. All was going well, huge bowls, heaped full of garlic mussels were delivered all around, all except for Capt. Sheamus, whose placemat was left empty.
Finally, and with great fanfare, a huge covered tureen is placed before the Captain. The table grows silent as the Maitre D removes the silver cover from Sheamus’ bowl. There, floating in soapy dishwater is a toilet paper roll… “Surprise! “…bedlam.
Nineteen shitfaced crewmembers party till dawn, celebrating the rescue effort and our new notoriety. Sheamus and I stagger back through the lobby of the Sofitel, trying to avoid the plague of Japanese tourists in Paris on holiday. We enter an elevator, along with a Japanese matron and her husband, both dressed-to-the-nines, and silent. The elevator remains paused at the lobby level, when I notice that big band music is being piped into my consciousness.
As the doors close and we begin to ascend, I take the Japanese lady’s hand and I start to dance. She is so startled that she automatically follows me through my Arthur Murray routine. Her husband and Sheamus are rolling with laughter, as I time my dip and my bow perfectly to coincide with my exit from the elevator, which as chance will have it, is the first stop.
I replay, and enjoy, my own performance as I drift off to sleep in my room.