The plan was for Romano to take sequential photographs shortly before and after we went through the vertical. Somewhere in the filmstrip would be the aerial image of the ages.
Al carefully analyzed our position relative to the sun and mountain and transmitted, “Mangy Angels stand by to descend.” We had just pushed over, when Romano radioed something garbled and unintelligible. A second or two later, lucidly now, he frantically exclaimed “We’ve gotta go back to Atsugi. Right now! We’ve gotta return to base!”
“You got a problem, John?” Al asked calmly as he leveled off. There was no answer, but we saw Romano in a turn back toward the air station. Filled with equal measures of curiosity and disappointment, we loosened up and silently followed Romano home, wondering what the dilemma was.
After we landed, the Mangy Angels convened at John’s jet, where he stood by the Banshee, pale as a zombie and looking as weak and bedraggled as someone who had just been mugged.
With sincerity, Al asked, “What happened, John? What went wrong?”
Sheepishly, Romano said, “I got sick. I threw up in my oxygen mask.”
We held back the chuckles in deference to our shipmate.
John added, “Not used to doing acrobatics, I guess.”
High-g flight was all in a day’s work for us, but the photo pilots hauled their birds around in acrobatics less frequently. Perhaps we should have figured on that beforehand. Shepard was disconsolate as we strode back to the hangar, Romano reluctantly in trail. We commiserated with our leader. We were thoroughly convinced that the world had just been denied the greatest aerial photograph ever taken.
Our carrier air group commander, colloquially known as the “CAG,” was a wonderful naval officer, the kind of man who symbolized not only the ferocity and skill of a combat pilot—he earned the Navy Cross flying the SBD Dauntless dive bomber in World War II—but also the flair and personality of the so-called type A personalities who populate U.S. naval aviation. At this writing, God bless him, Rear Adm. James D. “Jig Dog” Ramage still lights up a room when he enters and at the annual Tailhook Association conventions draws the attention of the young flyers like filings to a magnet.
Jig Dog is quick with a smile, is honest as the day is long, and was admired by seniors and juniors alike. It was Jig Dog who, in his later years, established the Enlisted Combat Aircrewmen Roll of Honor to recognize the unheralded contributions of that cadre of brave youngsters who shared the identical dangers in combat of their pilots in fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft.
In another example of Alan Shepard’s acumen and solid airmanship, he was flying on Ramage’s wing (while I was on Al’s) during a flight over the Korean landscape. We were above twenty-five thousand feet, and Jig Dog’s Banshee, in the lead, began to weave gently but erratically, as if he were inebriated. His Banshee rose slightly and then descended. This had a ripple effect throughout the formation as we worked to maintain position. Shepard, always thinking, always ahead of the situation, instinctively identified the problem.
“CAG,” he radioed sharply, “plug in your oxygen mask. Plug it in now! Do you read? Over.”
Ramage came back with a mumbled reply. There was a nervous silence. The oscillations of CAG’s jet lessened, and then settled down completely.
“Roger,” Ramage said, as if coming out of the ether. “I read you. My oxygen line came loose.” Ramage had been on the threshold of hypoxia (lack of oxygen), which conveys with it a sense of well-being, like drunkenness along with loss of motor skills. In an airplane that’s a recipe for disaster.
Later, on the Oriskany, Jig Dog went up to Shepard and told him, “Alan, you saved my life today!”
The Oriskany’s commanding officer (CO), Captain Griffin, was a likeable guy, but he wasn’t terribly happy with what our jets were doing to his flight deck. Our air group was the first to have three jet fighter squadrons on board. A squadron of prop-driven AD Skyraiders complemented our little air force.
The flight deck was constructed of mahogany over a base of Douglas fir, a combination that heretofore sufficiently withstood the beating imposed by propeller aircraft slamming down on it. We were still negotiating a learning curve with jet operations, and an element of that curve was landing technique.
We were flying the approach pattern like our piston-powered counterparts, turning in close to the ship and, when over the ramp, or stern edge of the mobile runway, taking a cut upon signal from the LSO. We would nose over and then ease back slightly, as the Banshee, now powerless, fell heavily from the sky. As a result, we were gouging up the wooden deck.
At the end of his rope because of the continuing damage, a furious Captain Griffin assembled the entire air group, including Jig Dog, at the touchdown area.
He pointed to the torn splinters of wood and patched holes. “You pilots are ruining my flight deck. It’s got to stop.” He then stormed off, knowing Jig Dog had a word or two for us. Jig Dog explained that the LSOs and the pilots had to do a better job of cushioning the landings, that we couldn’t continue to just hack power and plunk down.
Thus chastened, Jig Dog added a final sentence, one that became our motto for the rest of the deployment. “From now on,” he shouted, “Don’t dive for the goddamn deck!”
Cdr. Mickey Weisner became CO of the Ghostriders in 1953. A tough taskmaster like Carr and a seasoned aviator, Mickey was one of the incredible band of pilots and aircrewmen known as the Black Cats. They flew PBY Catalina patrol planes on daring and largely successful night missions against the Japanese in the Pacific during World War II.
VF-193 was tasked with evaluating and developing tactics to be carried out in the dark. Night flying had been conducted from the flattops during the war with propeller planes. The advent of jets created special challenges, particularly with respect to recovery operations. The angled deck was in development, as was the Fresnel Lens, with its yellow meatball and green datum lights to help guide pilots to safe landings. But at night we were still depending on LSOs to help bring us down.
In a prop, throttle response was virtually instantaneous. In Banshees and other jets of my generation, spool-up time—that interlude between the pilot’s pushing the throttle forward to increase power and the engines actual response—could be several seconds, a literal eternity when at certain points in the descending turn and final straightaway to touch down. Anticipation was the key—and concentration.
At night the LSOs wore coveralls with electrically illuminated strips on their arms and legs and likewise lit signal paddles. They were bright as Christmas trees as we sighted them about half way through our final approach turn.
Then and now, a night carrier landing is an exercise in maximum concentration, constant scan between the instruments and the ship, and as near perfect basic air work as is achievable by the individual pilot. It is the singular skill that distinguishes a carrier pilot from all others in the world of aviation.
Like most everyone else, I exhorted the Lord to provide a semblance of horizon when we conducted night landings. An overcast or moonless sky was the enemy, because, except for the minimally illuminated ships, the world above, below, and all around was black. The black of the sea blended perfectly with the black of the sky. Result: no horizon, no reference line, except what was available through the attitude gyro in the cockpit. A lapse in concentration meant an introduction to old man “vertigo.” He would tap you on the shoulder and say, “You think you’re upside down, but you’re really right side up.” The dictum all naval aviators are taught applied: BELIEVE YOUR INSTRUMENTS! Not your body.
I dreaded being the first one in the pattern, because the LSOs would be just “getting their eye.” They tended to improve with each pass.
We developed a traffic pattern that included a breakup well ahead of the ship at five hundred feet. As I passed the carrier downwind from a horizontal distance of approximately two thousand feet, I eyeballed the yardarm rising from the island structure, its lighted tip two hundred feet above the flight deck. Trying to fly at t
he same level as the top of the yardarm, I adjusted my pressure altimeter to two hundred feet.
A destroyer or a cruiser was positioned at the proscribed 180-degree position. I commenced a half-standard rate turn over the ship, eased throttle, and began a gentle descent from my already-low two hundred feet toward the moving runway. Alternatively, and with a rapidity inspired by the fear of getting behind the aircraft, I scanned the instruments and glanced out at the ship, repeating the sequence continuously.
At the ninety-degree position, I sought one hundred-feet altitude, aiming for seventy feet at the ramp, the very end of the deck. The deck itself was sixty feet above the water. That left ten feet from the cut to touchdown. We were taught that it was important to look for the reflection of our belly light on the water as a clue to and confirmation of our height.
Once, during a briefing in the ready room a pilot asked, “What if your belly light is out?”
Someone in the back exclaimed, “Well, that’s just tough shit!” This prompted a crescendo of laughter, typical of a naval aviator’s inclination toward black humor.
There was a tendency to overshoot on final, but from about seventy-five degrees on in, the LSO was a big help, guiding us in his nicely visible electric suit with the illuminated paddles.
The LSOs weren’t always perfect. One night I was in the groove, feeling pretty good about my approach, when the LSO called “Power,” meaning add throttle. I did so, got too fast, and took the cut, but because of my excess speed, I floated over the wires and plowed into the barrier. I wasn’t hurt, but the Banshee sustained minor wing damage.
Then there was the night John Mitchell put his F2H in the spud locker, the tail end of the carrier right below the flight deck. I had “trapped” and had taxied forward to the bow parking area. In the Banshee, we had to keep 70 percent rpm on the bird even when idling on deck. This was to generate air flow through the exhaust section to prevent pools of fuel from building up and creating a fire hazard.
People were moving about my aircraft, and I feared that my 70 percent power setting might blow someone over the side. So I came back on the throttle. Meanwhile, Mitchell, in his Banshee, was on final approach. Suddenly, a balloon of fire exploded from my tail section—a residual fire—visible for miles in the dark night, not to mention Mitchell in the final stage of recovering on the ship. Later, John told me that my bright fire did not cause him to crash. Nonetheless, his jet slammed into the back end of the Oriskany, the lower half breaking off and dropping into the water, while the forward portion containing John and the cockpit wedged into the ship and stuck there. Fuel from the Banshee sloshed onto the hangar deck, but thankfully there was no fire.
The crash and salvage crew rushed to the scene, their first priority being to save the pilot. A sailor wearing a silver asbestos suit worked his way to the cockpit. It was empty.
“Where the hell is the pilot?” he yelled. This was quickly reported to us in the ready room. Mitchell must have fallen into the sea. The ready room, normally a spirited chamber ripe with life, grew instantly somber. We hung our heads disconsolately, each fellow pilot mentally working his way through the loss of a shipmate.
Then the phone rang and the squadron duty officer (SDO), Lt. Wilmer Gilbert, answered. He listened for a moment then said, “Where are you calling from, John?”
For a crazy instant I thought, ‘Maybe he’s calling from heaven.’ There was an anxious moment, all eyes fixed on the SDO, who held his hand over the transmission end of the phone. “Mitch is OK!” he said excitedly. “He’s down in sick bay.” Chins lifted from chests; there was a collective exchange of questioning expressions, then a burst of cheers.
Incredibly, following the crash no one had noticed Mitch safely egress from the cockpit, nor did anyone pay special attention to him as he proceeded belowdecks to sick bay. He later explained, “I figured the doc would want to check me over anyway. So I just went straight to Medical.”
I’ve always wondered if anyone else in the annals of naval aviation ever pulled a disappearing act like John Mitchell’s.
We also flew night intercepts guided by the controllers on the ship. These were relatively routine events, hardly different from daytime exercises when we practiced pursuing an “enemy” fighter. Still, in the dark, one had to be very careful, because our airplanes in the dark were hardly more than a pattern of fast-moving lights in the sky.
VF-193 also experimented with nuclear weapon delivery techniques. Pilots were split into two groups, one focusing on night work, the other on the nuclear aspects. I was primarily a night flyer. Al Shepard was the only pilot who flew both night missions and nuclear weapons delivery. The latter, incidentally, consisted of low-angle loft, high-angle loft, and over-the-shoulder maneuvers, all designed to toss a bomb toward a target while allowing the delivering plane to achieve a safe separation distance from the subsequent explosion.
My first squadron duty clearly exceeded all expectations. Moreover, all the Ghostriders survived our two deployments. Our sister squadron VF-191, flying F9F Cougars, had less luck.
Chapter Five
FAST AND FASTER
I’m not sure how many times I had to shut down the J65 because of excessive vibrations, but it was more than several. . . .
ED HEINEMANN, THE GREAT CHIEF ENGINEER of the Douglas Aircraft Company during the 1950s, once said, “If the jet engine had been invented first, there might never have been piston-powered engines for aircraft.” Ed presided over the design of an impressive array of airplanes, especially the “Sky” series, which included the Skyhawk, Skyray, Skywarrior, Skyknight, and Skylancer. He knew his stuff. Another of his axioms was, “Acquire the engine, then build the aircraft around it.” Which was his way of saying the obvious—the engine is the heart of any flying machine.
The Douglas Company’s experimental Skystreak and Skyrocket clearly demonstrated we could go higher and faster. The former achieved two successive world speed records of 640 and 650 miles per hour (mph) respectively in 1947, well before the booming 1950s. The swept-wing Skyrocket reached 1,238 mph in level flight and peaked at 83,235 feet in a climb test in 1951.
Every new type of aircraft had to undergo extensive testing at Patuxent River before approval to enter full-scale production. Moreover, thanks to the British, whose innovative achievements included the angled deck, the mirror landing system, and the steam catapult for aircraft carriers, there was an escalating need for test work. Envisioning this, and not a little influenced by Alan Shepard, who had already done test flying, I applied for TPS.
It was with disappointment, then, when at the completion of my tour with the Ghostriders, I received orders to the training command as a flight instructor. I would be able to bag a lot of flight time teaching others how to fly the Navy way, but I desperately wanted to be a part of this fast-blossoming jet age. Turbine power was key to the technological boom that was propelling us into new regimes, the unknown some called it, and I wanted to be a part of it. Moreover, the Korean War had ended, but the malice engendered by America’s troubles with the Soviet Union had created the Cold War and the consequent rush to arms.
Lieutenant Commander Al Shepard had been ordered to a unit involved in aviation training devices, a career step that held no appeal for him. Somehow, he was able to convince the powers that be to send him back to Patuxent and engineering test pilot duty instead. I was inclined to dutifully accept the cards I had been dealt. However, to my elated surprise, my application for test pilot training was approved by a board convened for that purpose, and my orders to the training command were rescinded.
Before checking into TPS, I was sent to the University of Southern California to attend its highly regarded Aviation Safety Course, an excellent prelude to test pilot duty, although it portended frequent assignments to accident investigations, of which there was a near abundance at Pax. Among the school’s technical courses was one in aircraft investigation procedures. I was the first graduate of this school to matriculate at the TPS, so I was desti
ned to serve on a number of the boards formed following flight mishaps. This was a dreaded endeavor, necessary but sometimes demoralizing, because there often were fatalities involving people I knew and had flown with. At the same time, these in-depth and incredibly detailed investigations served, to a degree, to prevent future accidents. Quite often the findings of these boards resulted in design changes to aircraft.
After my return from sunny California, Anne and I packed up our belongings, shipped what we could, and drove cross country to Maryland and a pastoral sixty-four hundred acres originally called Cedar Point but now commonly known as Patuxent River.
The air station at “Pax” had been established during World War II, and because of its remote location on the shores of Chesapeake Bay with the Atlantic Ocean to the east; it was an ideal site for testing the new birds developed by the Douglas, Grumman, Chance Vought, McDonnell, and other companies.
Anne and I couldn’t have been happier, because we would be living in a recreational paradise, with water sports and rolling green landscape. I would also be reunited with irrepressible Commander Shepard.
We would also become friends with another illustrious pilot destined for glory, John Glenn, then a Marine Corps major. The sober-minded but affable Glenn is one of the most pleasant individuals I ever knew and was the equal of Shepard when it came to flying. If it came down to who of the two was the best, I’d still give the edge to Shepard, but only by a centimeter or so. John and his wife, Annie, and Anne and I and our children had a full social life at Patuxent, highlighted by waterskiing on weekends during the summer months. The Glenns lived just down the street.
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