There I Was: Conehead Catches A Wire [LONG]
Jeff Crowell
They'd told us we probably wouldn't sleep well this night,
and they'd been right. But the alarm finally went off
and it was time to get up. A quick peek out the window
showed it was going to be another great day in paradise.
If you're serious about learning to fly, south Texas is,
indeed, paradise.
It is 8 April 1983.
Today, if all goes well, I am going to join a select
group. It's not enough that this is something I have
always dreamed of doing. The previous day we'd had a
safety brief in the Ready Room. After the film detailing
every dreadful way things could go pear-shaped around
floating airfields, LT Spencer, our LSO, explained that
in the history of the world, something less than 200,000
people had ever been carrier-qualified at any level. So,
no pressure at all-just go out there in your Tango Two
Charlie War Guppy, two touch and goes, four traps, piece
of cake, be safe, have fun.
Shyeah, right.
The group-grope brief went on schedule at 0600, then
three of us broke off to hold a separate brief with
our flight lead. One of the odd-seeming things about
Training Command carrier quals at the boat is that you
always go solo (on the other hand, if you look at it
from the POV of the poor sonofabitch in the back seat,
it makes sense, right?). Our instructor lead would
drop us off at the break, orbit overhead until the four
of us were done, then lead us back home-as junior
birdmen we were not trusted to fly back and forth on
our own (likely a good thing). As eager as I was to
go and do this thing, somehow the day was running at an
ever-increasing pace and it felt like I was getting
left behind. The butterflies were getting a real
workout!
We walked on time. Preflight, startup, and taxi were
routine and we joined up in the hold-short. 10-second
trail takeoffs, and Dash Four was aboard by the time
Lead rolled out from the rendezvous turn. Life was
good! Odd as it seems, given NAS Kingsville's location
(Baffin Bay extends to within a mile or two of the
runways), we just didn't fly over water very much, so
it was odd somehow to hear Lead call "feet wet." By
now the butterflies had grown into bats. Big bats.
Two-pound fruit bats with wingspans measured in feet.
Lexington, our destination for the day, was about 75
miles offshore, so it didn't take very long to get there.
Planes from Bugtown (NAS Beeville, Texas) were working
the pattern when we arrived, so we held overhead for a
while. While we waited for our Charlie time, I looked
down and wondered at what I saw. I had taken the tour,
had stood on Lex's deck while in ground training prior
to Primary, so I knew how bloody huge that deck really
was, but let me tell you, friends, that ship looked like
a bathtub toy from this perspective. Little white-
painted gnats flitted around a deck that looked like a
playing card from 4500 feet. I'd spent 6 weeks aboard
USS Midway for First Class Cruise while at the Academy,
and I was at least mentos enough to know that even that
big deck would have looked tiny at this particular
moment. The bats in my stomach had graduated to turkey
vultures by now.
We took the opportunity to recheck our tip tanks empty,
it being bad form to lose 'em when trapping. Finally
we got our Charlie signal, and off we went to get set up
for the pattern entry. We flew the best formation of our
lives as we cruised up the ship's starboard side-better
dead than look bad, right? I sneaked a look or seven at
the deck as we came beam, and she didn't look any bigger
from 1200 feet than she had from 4500. Seven and a half
gallons of adrenaline were sloshing around in my
bloodstream and I was about to land on an aircraft
carrier!
Lead set us up with a good interval and broke into the
downwind, then climbed up to hold in Delta at 2500 feet.
I counted potatoes to gain interval as Dash Three broke,
then followed. Flop, chop, drop, etc., and I rolled out
on downwind at 600 feet. I always flew with the gunsight
on (it just felt better that way), and it showed that I
was a bit inside the other planes in the pattern--too
much adrenaline during the break, I guess, so I took a
little cut away from the ship. AOA cross-checked with
weight and airspeed, trim was good, everything looked
good. I had a chance to catch a couple deep breaths,
spit out a few vulture feathers, and here I was at the
abeam. As the LSO platform disappeared behind the tip
tank I rolled left, made my radio call, and started
flying instruments.
Base approach speed for the Guppy is 93 knots plus fuel,
which is a snail's pace compared to modern shipboard
aircraft, but you couldn't have proven it by me. The
world was whizzing past as I worked for my checkpoints,
and my stomach was knotted up tight. I picked up the
ball at the 45, half-cell high, and I started working it
down right away. Across the wake, I squeezed off some
power as those big straight wings came level. And
ballooned anyway, but caught it quickly enough. OMFG
that deck looks small, and is getting smaller as I get
closer. Isn't that counter to the laws of physics? The
training kicked in and the next ten seconds my scan went:
meatball, lineup, angle of attack, meatball, lineup,
angle of attack, meatball, lineup, angle of attack,
meatball, meatball, meatball, WHUMP. I got a glimpse of
a rising ball as I went past, but lineup and vector were
pretty good. Power up and boards in at impact (and at
that descent rate it ***is*** an impact, let me tell
you), backstick and off we go! Wing-dip to the right to
parallel the ship's course, climb to 600 feet, pick up
the interval, turn left, rinse and repeat. The deck
hasn't grown any larger since last time. A better start
position this time, a little settle into the wires.
Climbing out, worst butterflies (Andean condors!) yet
until I hear The Words: "Three Five Zero, lower your
hook."
Apparently I haven't scared the LSO too badly just yet--
some guys do get sent away at this point--and for the
first time ever in the air I grabbed the hook handle
(the handle is actually shaped like a hook to help you
know what lever you're yanking without coming inside to
check). There's no cockpit indication for hook position,
hopefully the damn thing works. Don't need no stinking
toilet paper rolls at this stage in my nascent aviation
career....
Everything goes as smoothly as it might, given that the
ol' adrenal glands haven't given it a rest even yet,
until I get to the abeam position. Even when solo, I
always speak the landing checks aloud, it's just a habit
I've developed. Here we go. "Three down and locked,
flaps half, hook up--oops, hook down, uh, hey, what comes
next?" Honest to God, people, I actually had to say
"hook up" aloud to get through the GD checklist! Each
time I came around I'd say "hook up" and touch the hook
lever to check it full down. This brain flatulation took
a couple seconds, delaying my turn inbound and making me
deep in the groove at the start. Hey, a couple seconds
more to fly the ball isn't bad, right? Meatball,
meatball, meatball THUMP powerboardsohgoddon'tletmebolter!
A jerk on the straps and the next thing I knew I was
full-stopped with the engine roaring at military. A
bored-looked yellowshirt to my right was waving his hands
at me, one fist grasping the other thumb and rocking it
back and forth, waiting for the stupid nub to wake up,
re-cage, and throttle back. Once I'd done that, the
tension of the arresting wire pulled me backwards--odd
sensation!--and out of engagement. Hook up, power up,
get the hell out of the way because the next guy is
rolling into the groove, and forcing a foul deck waveoff
definitely falls under the heading of "looking bad."
This was really the first chance I'd had since pattern
entry to catch my breath. Once I'd taxied up to the JBD,
I had a chance to raise my visor and wipe off my face.
The guy on the cat in front of me turned up the power,
and the turbulent flow of his jet blast roiling over the
JBD struck my Buckeye's tall vertical tail, shaking the
plane. My heart rate was finally about to drop below a
million when the cat fired and the JBD began to lower to
allow me forward for my chance at glory. Okay, forget it,
here comes a million beats a minute again. The Guppy
doesn't have nosewheel steering, so the deck guys hook up
a tiller bar to steer the jet, all I have to do is play
power and brakes as they work me up the deck and onto the
catapult track. Weight board is good, here we go.
The Guppy is too old to have a launch bar. As you taxi
forward the planehandlers hook up the bridle, a V-shaped
wire rope with eyes in the ends of the arms of the 'V'.
These loops engage aft-facing hooks forward of the main
gear struts; the apex of the 'V' attaches to the shuttle,
the part of the catapult that is visible on the flight
deck. The bird is also old enough to use a breakable
holdback, a small, machined dumbbell that fits into a
socket in the keel of the aircraft; the other end of the
dumbbell fits into a socket on the end of a cable attached
to the deck. This serves to hold the aircraft in
engagement until the catapult develops enough power for
us to (hopefully!) go flying.
You can learn a lot about a taxi director's expectations
by his body language. Brisk movements and head bobs
mean you should move at a higher rate of speed than if
he is moving his hands slowly. As you move into position
the nosewheel actually rides up the sloped rear face of
the shuttle and drops off the steep front, and about that
time the holdback comes up taut. As you reach that point
the taxi director is barely moving his hands. Ease
forward, easy, easy, clunk! There's the holdback, the
director opens his hands to signal 'brakes off', sweeps
a hand below his waist and the plane squats a little as
the catapult is tensioned hydraulically (slack is a Not
Good Thing!). It is at least theoretically possible for
the cat to fire at any point now, so heels on the deck,
brakes off and the throttles go all the way forward.
The engines spool up rapidly as I watch the gauges,
everything stabilizes in the green, looks good. Flaps
half, trim to takeoff, hit all four corners with the
stick, rudders full both ways, free and clear. Eye
contact with the shooter now, he's pointing at me and
twirling his other finger over his head. Oh my head,
this is for real! All those newsreels, all those movies,
but this is ME! I sit up straight and, heart in my
throat, fire off the best salute of my life (you only do
it the first time once!). The shooter snaps back a
sharp response, I face forward and press my head back
against the headrest. An eternity limps by, two seconds
of forever, a flicker of movement out of the corner of
my eye, and the catapult fires. The plane hunkers down
for an instant, then slams forward.
As weird as it sounds, you don't want to hold the stick
when the catapult lets go. If you did, you might add
in some aileron as the stick snaps back (and believe you
me, it WILL snap back!). Instead, you do your best
Johnny Bench imitation. You open your right hand as far
as it goes, tuck your elbow back between your kidney and
the sidewall of the seat, and position your hand right
above your crotch. The catapult tries to fling the
airplane out from under the stick, and inertia pivots
it back into your waiting hand as the world dissolves
into a blur. Grab the stick grip tight and see how much
juice you can squeeze out of it.
Oh. My. Effing. God.
You know that feeling in the pit of your stomach when
the elevator drops away? That's how it feels, only
that sensation is oriented back into my spine, not
downward. The tires whine a crescendo on the nonskid
for the longest 2.5 seconds of my life, then everything
but the stick flies forward as I fly out of the bridle
and out over the water. It feels as if the jet has
slowed abruptly, but in reality I'm still accelerating,
just at a slower rate. The nose programs up smoothly,
and I catch it at 10 degrees. I'm tempted to radio back
to the ship and ask them to look for my stomach, I think
it fell out back there about midway down the catapult
track.
Pass number four, I'm too tight at the abeam and have
to work much harder than should be necessary to achieve
a proper start. THUMP! There's the decel, power back,
a hurried swipe at my sweaty face, and here we go again.
Once again on the cat, engines screeching, controls
wiped out, shooter saluted, I recall that corner-of-
the-eye movement I saw last time and spare a neuron to
wonder what it was. So I look. Just ahead of me, down
in the catwalk is a guy standing by a console, both
hands in the air like he's a holdup victim. As I watch,
he reaches down, slaps a button, and POW! the cat fires.
My head slaps sideways against the headrest and sticks
there under the acceleration. I cut my eyes left in an
attempt to see where I'm going and am treated to a
close-up view of the edge of my helmet, and not much
more. Great. I'm roaring down the track at 12Gs and
can't see where I'm going. Fortunately I've
successfully emulated Johnny Bench and am hanging onto
the stick for dear life. The cat stroke ends and I fly
away, snapping my head forward, resolving to let the
damn catapult operator perform his heroics without ever
looking at him again.
By the fourth trap the old heartbeat has slowed down a
little, but as I taxi forward there's a new reason to
worry--it's time for The Words. All that's left to do
is to go home now, but first the LSO will pass
judgment. The numerical average of the grades for all
six passes must equate to a passing mark or I'll get a
downcheck. At best, a 'down' means recycling through
the workup period and another trip to the boat in two
or three months. At worst, the coming flight home will
be my last as a pilot.
After a seeming eternity: "Three Five Zero, Paddles.
You're a qual."
I shout a war whoop into my oxygen mask, then key
the mike and try my best to sound like I'm not surprised
by the news. "Three Five Zero, roger."
Thundering down the cat track I can't resist another
Rebel yell, then it's gear up, flaps up, climbing
through 600 feet on heading. The Boss helps out with
a traffic call and I join on Lead as Dash Two, the
first of my flight to complete. I feel the strangest
combination of emotions I have ever experienced, a
mishmash of exhilaration, exhaustion, and some sort
of weird letdown. There's not much talk on the flight
home, I guess maybe the other guys feel the same way,
too. Shutdown, then, and the light breeze along the
flight line keeps the engines turning slowly. The
compressor blades tinkle musically as I climb down,
talk briefly to the plane captain, and head back for
the Ready Room. I stop briefly, turn and look back at
my trusty steed. She's not much to look at, maybe;
fat-bellied, straight wings, dumpy silhouette and
bulbous tiptanks. But she's mine.
And now, today, I'm a carrier pilot.
Ed Rasimus
<jeffDOT...@hp.com> wrote:
>Conehead Catches A Wire
>
>And now, today, I'm a carrier pilot.
>
And will be for the rest of your life.
Simply sierra hotel! BZ
Ed Rasimus
Fighter Pilot (USAF-Ret)
"When Thunder Rolled"
www.thunderchief.org
www.thundertales.blogspot.com
Mortimer Schnerd, RN
> Conehead Catches A Wire
Great story! You do understand you have to be totally insane to do those sorts
of things, don't you? Thanks for posting.
--
Mortimer Schnerd, RN
mschnerdatcarolina.rr.com
Andrew Chaplin
news:kLadncI_5qI0BSXb...@giganews.com...
> Jeff Crowell wrote:
>> Conehead Catches A Wire
>
>
> Great story! You do understand you have to be totally insane to do those
> sorts of things, don't you? Thanks for posting.
If it weren't for the totally insane people who really have done those sorts
of thing, this news group would be not worth the paper it's printed upon.
--
Andrew Chaplin
SIT MIHI GLADIUS SICUT SANCTO MARTINO
(If you're going to e-mail me, you'll have to get "yourfinger." out.)
W. D. Allen
just work!
WDA
200 traps, one barricade
end
"Jeff Crowell" <jeffDOT...@hp.com> wrote in message
news:f99tff$4u9$1...@usenet01.boi.hp.com...
Jeff Crowell
>> Conehead Catches A Wire
Mortimer Schnerd, RN wrote:
> Great story! You do understand you have to be totally insane to do those
> sorts of things, don't you? Thanks for posting.
Dunno about insane. The adrenaline blast is addictive, in my limited
experience.
Everything else seems pale and pallid, sorta half-toned by comparison.
**That**
may be the insane part! ;-)
My experience was about as vanilla and routine as it gets, really, though it
was
plenty enough excitement for me at the time! One of my buds, in another
flight
later that day, had an engine stagnate at 50% rpm off the cat on his second-
ever cat shot. The War Guppy's performance suffers on one engine--that's
why
you take off with half flaps, she won't hold altitude on full flaps with
only one
pilot-cooling device running; if you fly very carefully you may milk a
100fpm
climb out of the jet until you can get the gear up, then life gets a bit
easier.
Packman (note spelling, the callsign came from his favorite sexual practice
and
we'll say no more on it) did it right. Everyone on the frequency was
yelling at
him to fly on-speed and get the gear up, he did so, was shepherded home,
jumped out of the plane long enough to take a leak, traded jets, and came
back
to finish his qual, same day.
Yeehaw!
Jeff
John Carrier
nations since Ely in January 1911. An additional 300 and change join the
ranks every year. By comparison, there are over a million lawyers in the US
and we're making approximately 30,000 new ones every year.
R / John
John Carrier
Keep it in the middle,
Masher
"John Carrier" <jx...@comcast.net> wrote in message
news:ToOdnZfo8tzTcCXb...@comcast.com...
Brian Trueman
Gernot Hassenpflug
> Conehead Catches A Wire
Fantastic reading. Thanks for sharing.
--
BOFH excuse #427:
network down, IP packets delivered via UPS
Jeff Crowell
>> Lt Spencer was wrong. A bit over 80,000 have been carrier qualed ... all
>> nations since Ely in January 1911. An additional 300 and change join the
>> ranks every year. By comparison, there are over a million lawyers in the
>> US and we're making approximately 30,000 new ones every year.
>You're in a more exclusive club than you supposed.
Yeah, I saw where you were headed with that. In fact,
I suppose it was even better at the time! Lessee, 300 times 24,
carry the seven, er, the club was a lot smaller then!
I'm more likely to trust the good elltee's knowledge than my
creaky memory. This all took place exactly half my life ago!
Jeff
John Carrier
Only 1/2? US PTR is just shy of 300 plus a handful of foreign (mostly
French). As recently as the mid-80's it was in the low 500's. Post WW2 up
till the early 70's, around 1000 with T-28/S-2 quals. The big surge was
1941-45 obviously.
Japan made a fair number in the 30's through 1945
The Brits had a fleet air arm, still have a few harrier guys for their
"carriers"
French of course
Aussies, Brazilians, and others operated CV's at one time or another
Russians dabbled
Not many folks in the bigger scheme of things. Interesting thing, they no
longer give you a number when you get your wings.
R / John
Andrew Chaplin
Leave us not forget H.M.Canadian Ships Warrior, Maggie and Bonnie during the
period 1947 to 1970.