by Ed Cobleigh
I really wanted to first check out how flight operations are conducted anyway. I have never seen a carrier flight deck in operation and it is a real trip, scary and impressive at the same time. Somehow, the Chief and I manage to traverse the open air mayhem without incident and we start downstairs to the lower decks of the carrier. We descend several sets of stairs; the Chief calls them "ladders." The Chief leads me along a labyrinth of halls ("passageways") and through open watertight doors that periodically interrupt the passageways. I don't want to know why they need watertight doors in the middle of the ship.
The chief shows me to my bunk in the bowels of the Hancock and I throw in my scruffy duffel bag. I ask the Chief to wait while I stow my gear, as there is no chance I could ever find my way back up on deck again by myself. I should have dropped bread crumbs on the way down.
As he waits for me, the Chief asks if I have ever been at sea before. Not wanting to be branded a landlubber, I tell him that I used to be a commercial fisherman. To be honest, I add that I have never been on a naval vessel before tonight and certainly not on any ship of this size. I neglect to mention that my limited time as a commercial fisherman was spent helping my uncle catch channel catfish on the Tennessee River in a fourteen-foot outboard skiff.
The chief briefs me on life on board the Hancock; how to find the latrine (which for some reason he calls a "head") where the chow hall is located (a "galley"), when chow is served, the general layout of the ship, and what to do if there is an emergency. Evidently, the worst thing that can happen at sea is fire. I have to know how to reach the flight deck if there is a fire somewhere on the ship, to know where my life jacket is located, and how to swim away after jumping seventy-five feet down from the flight deck into the shark infested South China Sea. After a cup of coffee and this cheery briefing, the Chief takes me up to the "island," the part of the ship that sticks up from the flat flight deck. It is a good spot from which to watch the squadron return to alight back on board.
The ocean is rough tonight and even a ship the size of the immense Hancock responds to the heavy seas. I am told in "Pri-Fly" (which is the naval equivalent of an airfield control tower) that the landing zone on the deck is pitching up and down by twenty feet or more. I am used to landing strips that stay put, so to me this sounds like quite a challenge for the returning aviators.
A loudspeaker somewhere above in the ceiling (the "overhead") commands, "Prepare to recover aircraft."
The deck crew scrambles to evacuate the landing zone at the rear ("aft") end of the flight deck. There are four steel cables stretched across the deck to snag the tail hooks of the jets as they attempt to land. Off in the pitch-black night behind the ship I see the red and green navigation lights of an A-4 on final approach to the Hancock. In the dense, humid night air, I can't make out the aircraft itself, only the nav and landing lights. The lights get brighter and farther apart as the jet silently approaches the ship on final approach. Only when the Skyhawk gets within one hundred yards of the back of the ship do the dim deck lights illuminate it. Then, I can discern the outline of the A-4.
The Skyhawk with its landing gear, wing flaps, and tail hook dangling, flies very slowly over the landing zone. The jet is descending at the same time the pitching deck is ascending. The A-4 hits the deck, or is it the deck that comes up and hits the A-4? In either case, there is a terrible impact producing a thud that I can clearly hear all the way up in Pri-Fly. I have no doubt that jet is badly damaged. The spindly looking landing gear on the A-4 is compressed instantly to the stops and the tail hook catches a cable. I'm glad it does, as it would be a bad scene if this totally wrecked aircraft were allowed to go over the side into the ocean with the luckless pilot still strapped in the cockpit. The derelict jet pulls the cable out a hundred feet or so. It is caught slightly sideways in the extended wire.
With its stubby body, short, swept-back wings, tall landing gear, and bulbous cockpit, the A-4 looks like a giant, gray fly snared by a four-strand steel spider web. The desperate pilot obliviously jammed the throttle forward at the last instant in a vain attempt to save the situation. The doomed A-4 is brought up short by the cable, despite its engine screaming at full power.
I am shocked and appalled; the first carrier landing I have ever seen in person results in a terrible crash. No one seems hurt, but I'm certain the jet is a write-off salvage case, despite the fact it appears to be still intact, no pieces have fallen off, yet. As I watch worriedly, a sailor with what looks to be a long crowbar runs to the jet caught in the cable. Is he going to try and extract the injured pilot? I expect the fire, medical, and rescue crews to arrive soon, but they are nowhere to be seen. The sailor pries the arresting cable from off the jet's tail hook and another sailor in front of the A-4 gives the unlucky pilot the same "tail hook up" hand signal we use in the USAF,
To my amazement, the sailor in front of the jet commands the wrecked A-4 to taxi toward the front of the ship, the pilot must not be unconscious. The arresting cable is retracted, snaking across the deck like a skinny steel python. What is left of the Skyhawk somehow taxis forward under its own power and everyone's attention is focused on another set of nav lights approaching the ship on short final approach. The second landing is, if anything, more violent than the first, but again, no one is concerned but me. The second Skyhawk to crash on the aft deck taxis forward on the ship, again as if nothing is amiss. At this rate, the Hancock will soon be out of serviceable aircraft.
I slowly get the picture that these semi-controlled crashes are somehow normal. How can such a thing be? How can a machine built lightly enough to fly sustain the impacts that I am witnessing? How long do these jets last, a week? Skyhawk after Skyhawk arrives back on the Hancock in similarly violent fashion as the first two. Well, if these navy guys think this cruel display of aircraft abuse is normal, who am I to argue?
As I watch, an A-4 misses all four deck wires and continues on off the ship again. The landing zone is canted at an angle of about twenty degrees to the long axis of the ship; this very short runway leads off the left-hand side. The steel tail hook of the Skyhawk skips across the metal deck spraying sparks as the jet takes off again. I see now this is why the pilots ram their throttles home when they touch down. If they miss all the wires, they simply perform a touch-and-go and keep going. If they were to pull the throttles back before catching a cable and then miss them all, they would end up with the fishes before they could get the power back on. I'm used to pulling the power to idle at touchdown or before in my Phantom. I don't know if I could get the hang of this aircraft carrier landing technique or not.
Once the final crash, I mean landing, has been demonstrated, I find my way down below decks by following a returning pilot to the squadron ready room. This is a windowless, low-ceiling room, the shipboard home of the squadron I am supposed to smarten up. It is filled with chairs bolted to the floor ("deck") facing a low-rise briefing platform. The Squadron Operations Officer and the Squadron Duty Officer each have desks along one wall. The squadron guys filter in after stowing their flight gear and debriefing the intelligence shop on the meager results of tonight's missions. They are swilling soft drinks and coffee. I decide not to tell them about the free mission booze the USAF provides us after every combat sortie.
I am eager to start discussing Paveway laser-guided bombs, but now is not the right time. First, everyone has to watch some television. There is a TV camera buried on the centerline of the flight deck facing back up the glide path. It tapes each landing and identifies each aircraft's tail number (which for some reason is painted on the nose) so each pilot can view his own landing in retrospect on the ship's TV channel. After watching the horrific landing impacts from the island, I am interested to see the deck's eye view of what must be the USN's greatest hits.
On the left ("port") side of the flight deck, near the touchdown zone, there is a perch for a junior officer called the Landing Signals Officer or LSO. The LSO talks to each pilot on the radio during his approach, coaching, encouraging
, chiding, and being a general pain in the ass. He also grades each landing and the scores are recorded, superimposed on the TV tape. The LSO platform is located adjacent to the cabled touchdown area for a better view and also to ensure that if something goes dreadfully wrong, the LSO gets wiped out along with the errant pilot. This ensures dedication and concentration on the part of the LSO.
The pilots and the LSO watch all the landings on the VCR and comment on every one. This is serious stuff, with not much joking around. Obviously night carrier landings are a major preoccupation of the squadron's pilots. I keep my mouth shut for once and listen to the chatter in the crew room. I hope to get a feel for the atmosphere in the squadron before I try and communicate with VA-212's members about laser-guided bombs. All I hear are vivid accounts of the night's landings on the boat. There are no discussions of the missions, the bombing, the targets, the defenses, or of anything else but the landings.
I ask one of the A-4 guys, "'What did you hit tonight?"
He replies, "Oh, some night FAC found some trucks in Laos, but I couldn't work the target over. I had to salvo my bombs to get back to the ship with enough gas to make three passes at the deck if I had to."
He then went on to tell me all about his landing and wanted me to see it again on TV.
These warped navy jocks have turned fighter aviation on its head. A landing is merely something you do at the end of the flight. You can take pride in doing it well, but it is only a punctuation mark on the sentence of a combat sortie. In a USAF fighter squadron, no one discusses landings; they are assumed to have occurred safely. The focus is, as it should be, on accomplishing the combat portion of the mission, not on what happens just before you taxi back to the ramp. However, these A-4 drivers seem completely obsessed with their landings. Maybe the fierce deceleration produced by the short arresting cable has bruised their frontal lobes. Yeah, that's it. When their brains impact the forward bulkhead of their skulls, the mental image being processed, i.e., the carrier landing in progress, is implanted into their minds, erasing any combat results.
I decide that I won't bring up the subject of Paveways until I have had a chance to scope things out more. I also want the pilots to get over their obsession with getting back on the boat, so they can pay attention to what I intend to say.
I'm bunking with the XO, the Deputy Squadron Commander (not the brandy classification of the same name, XO); his roommate is on detached duty ashore in Saigon, probably teaching those guys how to land an airplane on a boat. I heard that US Navy ships are dry with no alcohol allowed. The rumors must be true; I haven't seen any booze. How can you debrief a flight without adult verbal lubrication? Surely this regulation left over from the Prohibition era Navy doesn't apply to us USAF types. So I have secreted a quart of Jack Daniel's in my duffel bag. I think I had better tell the XO about it. When I do, he thanks me politely and adds my offered bottle to the locked cupboard full of booze located in our room. We start in on one of the open bottles, drinking and discussing the differences between USAF and USN operations.
After several drinks, I'm feeling no pain and decide to turn in. I rack out in the upper bunk and fall asleep listening to the noises a giant warship makes in the night. About two hours later, the PA system comes on with an emergency notice that wakes me up.
"Fire in the number two paint locker,"' it says.
That sounds serious. Mentally I run through my options. The Chief said that in case of fire, I'm to fetch my life preserver and make my way to the flight deck. I have no idea how to get to the flight deck from where I'm sleeping and I'm not sure I could make it anyway after half a bottle of Jack Daniel's. I say to myself, "I can either die in bed or overboard in my life preserver with the sharks. The sailors are either going to put the fire out or they aren't. Either way, I can't help." So, I turn over and go back to sleep.
***
It's the next morning and I'm in Pri-Fly overlooking the huge deck and watching daytime flight operations. The takeoffs and landings are just as scary and violent as they were last night, but under the hazy tropical sky, operations seem less ominous than in the dark. The white foamy wake of the ship is now visible, stretching for miles behind the Hancock. The churned water gives the impression of a visual glide path indicator on the surface of the sea to guide returning aircraft.
The flight deck crews are scurrying around readying jets for launch, fueling them, loading them, and generally giving the impression of a parking lot/service station from Hell.
Suddenly the ever-present PA system barks loudly on the flight deck.
"Prepare to launch the BARCAP!"
The action below me, which was merely busy now becomes frantic. Two fully outfitted pilots sprint from the base of the island. They run toward two F-8 Crusaders parked out of the way, behind the island in the niche left by the angled landing zone.
I ask the guys around me what is going on and in between commands to the crewmen running about below they tell me what the term BARCAP means. There are always two Crusaders on alert duty, with fully loaded internal cannons and two Sidewinder missiles on each. Two pilots are at the ready at all times. If any bogey, or unidentified aircraft, appear to be headed for the ship, the F-8s are quickly launched to identify it and shoot it down if need be. The USN doesn't have enough aircraft to keep a MiG CAP constantly airborne, so they sit what we in the USAF call "strip alert." The Crusader jocks' goal is to be airborne in fifteen minutes or less. This is similar to how the USAF Air Defense Command operates, with interceptors on ten-minute alert status. The acronym stands for Barrier Combat Air Patrol, or BARCAP. The F-8s, once launched, will serve as an airborne barrier to prevent enemy air attack on the ship. I am also on the ship, high in the vulnerable island, so I think the BARCAP is an excellent idea. However, the scene I am watching below has its downside.
I think to myself, "This is just great. The MiGs are airborne and these navy guys are getting launched to intercept them. Meanwhile, I am stuck here on this floating airport hundreds of miles from my Phantom. If these two Crusader weenies come back with a MiG kill, I intend to throw up."
There is only one obstacle between the Crusaders and the MiGs. That is a gaggle of half a dozen ready A-4s on the flight deck blocking the F-8s from reaching the catapults waiting to launch them to possible glory. While the F-8s'engines whine into life, the sailors are working at a feverish pitch to clear a path for the BARCAP flight to taxi to the front of the ship. Yellow tractor tugs are towing jets out of the way, teams of sailors are pushing Skyhawks around by hand, bomb dollies are moved, everyone is turning to and clearing the deck. They are trying to launch the Crusaders immediately; if the F-8s get a kill, the whole ship will rejoice. I fully expect the frenetic crowd below to push several A-4s over the side to make more room, but in the time it takes the Crusader pilots to strap in and crank their engines, a narrow alley is cleared between the A-4s and the taxi path to the catapults is open, but just barely.
The pair of Crusaders is lashed to catapults, the safety pins are pulled off the Sidewinder missile launchers, the flight leader is given hand signals to go to full military power, and then to light his afterburner. However, in haste to get the two jets spotted forward and readied for flight, someone has forgotten to deploy the Jet Blast Deflector. The JBDs are Ping-Pong table-sized sheets of steel that fold up from the flight deck behind each jet on the catapult. Their purpose is to deflect skyward the supersonic blast from the jet engine of the aircraft about to be launched. This prevents the howling jet plume from cleaning off the deck behind the catapult of men, material, and other aircraft. However, the JBD has to retract to allow a plane to taxi over it to get to the catapult. Whoever is supposed to deploy the JBD up after the Crusader has passed over it is asleep at the switch.
Without the deflector up, the Crusader's afterburner torch is pointing directly at the Skyhawk just bumped from the number one position for takeoff. The A-4 is loaded with two drop tanks, six 500pound bombs, and a pilot. It was pushed off at an angle to the catapu
lt, making way for the taxing pair of Crusaders. Once they passed his position, the A-4 pilot started to pull in behind the catapult to resume his mission once the F-8s are launched.
The Crusader's jet blast catches the Skyhawk under its right wing and picks up the smaller jet like a toy. The A-4 almost tips over, but its left wing tip touches the deck. For seconds that seem like hours, the little A-4 is balanced on its left main landing gear, nose gear, and left wing tip with the right wing sticking up in the air and the right main wheel off the deck.
At last, the deck crew notices the impending disaster and gives the Crusader pilot the cut signal, a finger drawn across the throat of the catapult launch officer beside the jet. The Crusader pilot cuts his engine to idle. The Skyhawk, no longer tipped in the air by the jet blast, slams back down on its three wheels.
Sheepishly, the remiss deck crew raises the JBD and the Crusader is given the signal to stoke his engine again. The BARCAP leader is launched followed shortly by his wingmen and they turn right, join up, and climb out, their J-57s still roaring in full afterburner, looking for MiGs.
Everyone,, not the least me, breathes a sigh of relief that the A-4 victim of the afterburner plume didn't flip over, explode, or catch on fire. I'm sure that pilot will have something to talk about now in lieu of how tough his last landing was. To my amazement, the subject of all the concern is spotted on a catapult and launched as if nothing has happened. After seeing the little jet tipped up like a Tonka toy I wouldn't have walked under its wing, much less flown in it. I guess these navy guys consider their planes as commodities to be used up. Maybe the dangers of landing on a twenty-foot pitching deck at night swamp any concerns about structural integrity caused by being body-slammed by jet blast.
