Every job has its aggravations of course, but apart from specialized jobs within the services, firefighters and police, there are few, I think that require the daily mastery of physical fear. Carrier aviation certainly does, at least in the beginning when an aviator is first building the shell of self-confidence to hermetically surround and enclose his anxieties. It’s really, really hard and you have to do it fairly precisely. Not everyone is equally successful. Not with the flying part. Not with the fear.
I was sent forward as a “must pump” to my first ship, then on the line off Iran’s southern coast. The Navy ordinarily tries to avoid sending newly qualified, or “nugget” aviators to deployed ships – having missed the training cycle in preparation for deployment they are at a profound disadvantage compared to everyone else. Too, injecting a new element of chaos into a smoothly operating ship and air wing team can be disruptive – the must pump can be a liability.
But the squadron I had been ordered to join had sailed with one less pilot than their usual deployed complement and two had been sidelined en route to the North Arabian Sea. The squadron could not sustain the required pace of operations down three pilots.
The first guy who got sidelined was a mid-grade officer who had come to the squadron with some professional baggage. Upon arriving he had manged to leverage a marginal reputation into multiple, shockingly poor examples of airborne headwork and leadership. Having finally lost confidence in his abilities, the CO benched him.
The second was a young lieutenant and A-7 transition pilot who had been a victim of a string of bad luck as much as anything else. He had flown a couple of scary night approaches in the recent past, including a “hook slap.” A hook slap is what we call it when a pilot ties the low altitude record crossing the ramp to land without actually crashing the airframe into the fantail. The hook hangs down a few feet below the landing gear, and is designed to strike the horizontal surface of the landing area – between the two and the three wire of a preference. In this case the lieutenant had gotten so low that even after responding to an afterburner waveoff he could not prevent his hook from “slapping” the rounddown all the way aft. The hook bounced up hard off the belly of the jet, but somehow managed to catch the two wire on the way back down. It was pretty hairy, by all accounts, and it had happened so fast. Got leadership’s attention.
As I’ve related before, those were the days of “throw him at the terror machine until he figures it out,” but a hook slap was evidence of trend in the wrong direction. Our man was in danger of losing his confidence. He wasn’t the only one.
The ship was due to spend a week loading ordnance at Subic Bay in the Philippines, so a plan was devised to fly him off to the nearby airfield at Cubi Point for some extra night landing practice. On his third night, just as he was regaining the sight picture and getting comfortable again, his port main landing gear axle lever arm fractured on landing, which those first generation lever arms had an all-too-frequent tendency to do. The landing gear’s collapse dropped the left wing tip down to the tarmac, and with the wing dragging on the deck, the jet scraped and screeched its way off the runway at midfield in a hail of sparks, thankfully coming safely to rest in deep, soft, wet grass. There was no fire, and the pilot was uninjured after his emergency shut down and egress. But he was pretty damned excited.
And he’d had enough.
You’ve got to know your limitations. He offered to the CO that he’d gladly be a “day only” player around the ship. The CO replied that only the varsity got to play on game day. That was that.
When I was an LSO a kid showed up behind me with a good record of flying in everything but carrier quals, where he was only average. He was the only new aviator in a very experienced set of junior officers for my second deployment, so the focus was almost exclusively on him.
He struggled a bit, especially at night. The new CO leaned on him pretty hard. When we got ashore, I went over to the simulator building with him over and over again, trying to get him to see it, trying to get him to push through. My impression was that he had a problem with his night instrument scan, especially his transition from the head’s up display to the shipboard Fresnel lens and lineup markings. During the transition from instruments to the visual environment, he could manage lineup, or he could manage glideslope or he could manage angle of attack, but not all three at the same time.
You have to manage all three at the same time.
When we got back to the ship again for our next training period, things had not markedly improved. He did fine in the daytime, but poorly at night. And then increasingly, the jets that he was scheduled to fly at night developed mechanical discrepancies forcing him to shut down and miss his flight. Discrepancies the maintenance guys had a hard time reproducing when it came time to fix the jet. People started whispering. Then they started talking.
Somewhere along the way he determined that his eyes were going bad at night, that he couldn’t see adequately. That his vision was to blame for his poor instrument transitions. The CO sent him to the flight surgeons who checked him out thoroughly and gave him a thumbs up. But he was convinced of it, could not be shaken. Something was wrong with his eyes. He got eased out, and that was I think the best thing for him. Best thing all the way around.
It’s not for everybody, and we all deal with fear in different ways. It’s even healthy to be a little bit afraid. I knew another guy once, close friend of mine. He went through a time in his life when he wasn’t afraid of anything at all. Absolutely no fear. Live or die was all as one.
That guy scared me.
(to be continued…)
I watched a tomcat do something like that hook slap bit on the Vinson. I didn’t see him actually catch the one wire because I was running the other way by then (lot of good it would have done me – but had to try.)
I can only imagine how scary it was for the two guys in the tomcat – because it scared the crap out of us standing back there alongside the landing area. It was at night and I just remembered thinking “Wow – he’s low” and then watching the lights disappear for a second, then pop back up in a huge burst of noise. Never forget it.
The gouge going around in my squadron is that your first CQ’s in the Superhornet will be with a fellow novice pilot when you’re at the FRS. Can you lend any credibility to this? It seems insane that they’d put a newbie ‘Fo in the backseat with a Nugget pilot and tell them “go have a blast” around the boat for the first time…
Just love those Tales of the Sea Service.
But just hate those (to be continued….)s
Reading that brings back some memories. Every story brought forth the face of someone I knew who did the same thing, had the same problems.
Two weeks into my first deployment, one of our Tomcat squadrons had a mishap on the ramp. We during our transPAC we only had one or two good fly days, fog and crappy weather the whole way, and no night CQ. The first few days back in the saddle we did day CQ to get the pilots back up to speed, then tried some night hops. We were just south of Japan and had Atsugi as a divert if required.
WX was good, but the seas were a little rough, so the deck was cycling a bit, including some dutch roll. One of the nugget Tomcat pilots was coming down the groove, cycling up and down with the deck. In close, on the ball, the deck did a half cycle, meaning there was a weird wave in the sea swell that only let it fall down half way before coming back up.
The Tomcat hit the ramp right at the intakes with the hook cutting a slice through the radar boxes below the round down. The main mounts left skid marks up the round down that arced out to the sides in perfect semicircles. When the plane hit, it shot back up into the air. The RIO was an experienced LCDR, and said at the top of the arc before they came crashing back down in the landing area, he saw a fireball in his mirrors and pulled the ejection handle. His seat fired as they were going down, so he was shot forward and got about one swing in the chute before landing on Cat 2. The pilot was command ejected as the nose hit the deck, separating the cockpit from the body of the jet at the intakes. Since his was a little flatter trajectory, he got one swing in the chute before landing in the resultant fire on the flightdeck. The nose/cockpit section ended up continuing down centerline and off the angle into the Pacific, while the rest of the aircraft caught the 2 wire and stopped in the landing area, on fire.
I was in the Hummer at the top of the Marshall stack when we heard the ELT’s and saw the sky light up. Got to go to Atsugi for the night with about 30 of my closest friends. Being the junior guy in my crew, I think I slept on the floor of the BOQ, there were only five rooms for all 30 of us due to the CAG-5 Change of Command the next day.
The pilot survived, but with significant burns on his arms and neck. After about a year, they sent him back to the training command for some refresher, but after a few flights he decided he’d had enough and hung it up.
Sorry, long story. Once I started it just kept coming out.
Fear of Flying… normally not much bothers me in a plane but the other day got my attention. Just bought a new (‘46) old classic and going over preflight for a taildragger endorsement hop. Looking at the strut attachment points at the fuselage. The gentlemen I was going up with told me he had a rear strut let go 30 feet off the runway in a similar vintage airplane which did all kinds of weird stuff to the wing’s angle of attack leading to a full powered uncontrolled descent back onto the runway. Sideways. The plane, skidded but didn’t flip over. Other than soiled tighty-whiteys no harm done to the aviators. You can bet your sweet _ _ _ I check those attachment points vigorously. You can get hurt even in the most benign airframes. So much for that war story. Glad I wasn’t my own. Don’t think I would go back up as I only do this for fun.
To live or die is all as one?
and what happens when one does not, when valor is outlived by the mundane?
Semicolon’s story got me thingking. It occurs to me that so often, even if there is pilot error, there is often a strong current of “acts of God” in mishaps (i.e. the half-cycle in Semi’s story). So, a question…
Those of you who were never in the middle of a pilot-error-related mishap (the guy who crashed, burned up, hit something, etc.), despite years of high-risk flying: Do you think you were that much better, or just damn lucky?
FbL, there’s all kinds of luck. Most you make. Some you take.
J, you’ll have to be patient and await part deux
You know Tim, I’m not sure how the Rhino guys are doing it, but I could find out. Phantom crews went out together for the first time, if I remember correctly, as I think A-6 crews did as well. Tomcat guys started out that way, but pretty quickly it was new guy up front, veteran RIO in the trunk. Checking on his insurance policies. When he wasn’t chewing on his nails, or listening to his hair turn gray.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Gray hair I mean.
Good stuff- again.
I was N.A.F.O.D. until…typical. I really was. Always happened to the other guy because, of course, I would of done this or that differently…all that is a friggin mask until you are part of a mishap investigation and everything ain’t so cut n’dry in your JG brain and you get to thinking…Man it’s a numbers thing.
Ain’t that sorta funny? Now I rarely exceed the speed limit.
BTW, 20-15 “Cheaters”, what’s wrong with ‘em? Insurance I say!
Sometimes plodders like me can eventually turn out to be decent ball flyers!
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RAG F pilots go to the boat with student WSOs.
FbL,
At the United States Navy’s Aviation Safety Officer school, we are taught that there is no such thing as a mishap caused by an act of God, or chance, or bad luck, or even weather (you prolly shouldn’ta flown into that thunderstorm, junior!).
Every mishap has a “causal factor” or two or three, or more, all of which can be traced to either a human decision (or lack thereof) or a mechanical failure caused by substandard production or maintenance.
And just so you non-initiated readers know who your are dealing with, Lex is pretty casual in his explanation of a “must-pump,” so I’ll give you a bit more depth. New guy’s at the ship are unpredictable and, as your broker may have told you, past performance is no guarantee of future earnings. It costs a lot of moolah to send a body to a deployed squadron, and even more to bring him back, so when they told us at the RAG that they need a “must pump” to go directly to the fleet, it was a big deal. To send someone out there and have them show their arse was very bad form for us trainers. The guy had to be an “A” player all the way. Ops O’s nominated them and RAG CO’s approved them, LSOs were also in the mix, as the pilot had to get 4 extra traps in RAG CQ (2 day, 2 night) and had to have good grades.
Nose
“barely-pump”
I’d be scared to death to land a plane on the deck of a ship. In fact, I’d have to be dragged kicking and screaming to the cockpit and then glued inside of it. I have so much admiration for you, Lex, and for all the pilots through the years, going back a long time now, who have been willing to undertake such hazardous duty for the country. This grateful civilian will never stop appreciating you and your mates. And I’m positive that you were indeed an “A” player all the way.
Thanks BDA.
I have a feeling this tale is gonna be a LOT better than that “other” Fear of Flying.
Had just checked into Barin Field for carqual training in 1955. As I walked towards the Officer’s Mess to eat lunch there were, as usual, many SNJs flitting about in various states of taking off and landing. One was taking off from the East field, which was right in front of me on my way to lunch. At about 500 feet the engine quit! The siudden silence caught my attention. I stopped and watched……curious to see what would happen.
It had been drilled into us over and over……….if the engine quits at low altitude, nose over and maintain air speed to land straight ahead. It was gospel. (And I’m quitye sure, still is.) A fellow student and friend had survived an engine failure on takeoff by doing the right thing just a month earlier.
Unfortunately, this student aviator ( I never learned his name) opted to turn back. With predictable consequences. The SNJ stalled and spun straight in. It crashed just out of sight behind the Mess. There was a loud crunching sound and black smoke erupted immediately. It was no more than 1/2 mile from where I stood. I watched, horrified as the crash trucks raced to the scene.
For a few minutes I considered my options. To this day I remember distinctly arriving at the conclusion that the poor guy just made the wrong decision. I don’t know why but in the core of my being I knew I wouldn’t do the same thing. In my mind the issue was settled. I proceeded to the Officer’s Mess and had a nice lunch.
I now realize that I had taken a giant step toward becoming a Naval Aviator.
I couldn’t be an aviator. I frickin’ HATE flying. Hate it. I’ve worked in the industry for years, I know how it all works, I understand the physics behind it, I get it, but I still hate it. My old job made it worse, looking at data for hours and hours of bad stuff. Bad bad stuff.
I have no idea how many times I’ve called my Dad from an airport before I was supposed to board, to have him talk me off that ledge. I’m not exactly a Naval Aviator’s dream to have as a daughter… However, I suspect in his career, talking his daughter down and getting her on a commercial flight was much easier than the ‘talks’ he had to give as a CO.
I had a “must pump” join me on cruise in the E-2, andon what I think was his 3rd or 4th flight, he was right seat on a night hop between the Malta and Libya FIR. We’d just pulled out of Turkey a bit a go, and having accidentally caught the Attaturk Trots, I was restricting myself to single cycles. Damned if the Voice of God didn’t come up and tell us to extend for another cycle. My stomach grumbled in response to his command.
Understand in the E-2 community that new pilots are like newly born Kangaroos, with just enough knowledge to crawl their way to the pouch where they can suckle. This as opposed to single seaters, who are like baby giraffes that have about 5 minutes to sort things out and start running before getting eaten up.
After a bit, I gave in to the inevitable, carefully explained to him what that INS thingiemabob did, to stay in a constant angle of bank and orbit this spot and if you feel a need to deviate DO NOT deviate to the south where Libya be, and headed for the stern of the E-2, where the makeshift head was. There were glimmers of understanding, but mostly fear in his eyes.
So there I sat, flight suit about the ankles, just waiting for an SA-5 to remove the front of my craft, me sitting there upon my throne in the windblast overlooking the entire Med from 20+ thousand feet prior to pitching forward and falling to my death with flight suit trailing behind like a drogue streamer.
My nugget finished his first command and is on to bigger and better things now. Heh.
P.S.: I meant “finished his first command tour”. I’m old now.
Taxi1- LOL. Great story- great lines..I’m seeing it. Leadership in action Naval Aviation style!
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Thanks for the great comments and stories in response to my question, guys.