Another lighter moment occurred when I was “chasing”—that is, flying wing—during a test in which the lead pilot was to fly the F8U Crusader at Mach 1.1 at one thousand feet altitude over Chesapeake Bay. Visibility was bad that day because of clouds and haze, forcing us a little bit closer to land than intended. The commander of the test center received a call from a high place in Washington the next day and was asked, “Did you have any planes flathatting over the eastern shore yesterday?”
“Absolutely not,” said the CO. “My boys would never do that.”
Apparently, we had flown over a duck blind where some prominent Maryland citizens were hunting and scared all the ducks away. Our boss’s authoritative response worked, and the matter was not pursued further, so we got away with that one.
I spent a good portion of my test pilot tour with the F8U Crusader, especially the -3 version of the fighter, which was a wonderful flying machine even though it never went into full-scale production. The most salient feature of the Crusader was the two-position wing: raised for slower flight, down flush against the top fuselage for fast flight. In terms of competition, the -3 version was up against a formidable “opponent,” the F4H Phantom II built by McDonnell, which eventually won the production contract. The thinking at the top level of decision makers favored a fighter with two engines and two crewmen, which was the case with the F4H. It was in a Phantom II that I met my Waterloo in Vietnam. The F8U–3 was the one in which I traveled twice the speed of sound as described in the prologue of this book.
As a project pilot for this version of the Crusader, I spent considerable time at Edwards Air Force Base in the Mojave Desert of California, where weather conditions in this remote area were ideal for flying and where the hardpacked surface of portions of the desert were perfect for landing if you couldn’t make it back to the paved runways at Edwards.
The -3 version had the same platform as its predecessors, except for a thicker fuselage needed because of its more powerful J75 engine, which could produce twenty-eight thousand pounds of thrust compared to the earlier versions with J57 engines. These had approximately eleven thousand pounds of thrust. By comparison, the F4H’s J79 power plant gave the Phantom II thirty thousand pounds of thrust.
The legendary Capt. Bob Elder was on our test team, flying the Phantom along with Cdr. Dick Gordon, who later became an astronaut, while Cdr. Larry Flint, Lt. Cdr. Don Engen, and I flew the Crusader. Engen was one of the Navy’s most illustrious aviators. He rose to the rank of vice admiral and, after retirement from the military, held a variety of key positions, including administrator of the Federal Aviation Administration and director of the National Air and Space Museum, a tour of duty cut short when Don lost his life in a glider accident.
Sandy McDonnell, the dynamic and often crusty head of his own company, told the Phantom pilots they were not to exceed Mach 1.5 in flight. This irritated Bob Elder, because he knew the Phantom could easily reach Mach II. We had no such restriction on the -3 version Crusader. As it turned out, I substituted for Larry Flint, who wasn’t feeling well on that fateful day in September 1958, and became the first Navy pilot to reach Mach II in a Navy airplane. Contractor pilots had already taken the -3 version to Mach II.
It gets a bit complicated, but a sample of the technology that was part of our daily regimen had to do with ram effect at high Mach number, ram air being air shoved into an air intake by the motion of the intake through the air. Ram effect produced a significant increase in thrust at high Mach numbers. In the -3 version, rifling along at Mach 1.8, we achieved more excess thrust than we did at Mach .9, even though drag (the retarding force acting on an airplane traveling through the air) was higher at Mach 1.8.
The powerful jet engines of the day could do wonders, but they had bugs in them that could also create sudden disasters. For example, there was a tendency to get compressor stalls when shutting down the afterburner at high Mach number and reducing power to “normal” engine operation. A compressor stall is a condition that occurs when some of the blades of the whirling turbine meet the airflow at such an angle that there is a reversal of air flow, often leading to flameout of the engine, accompanied by nerve-rattling explosive bangs as the compressor seeks to stabilize itself.
If you came out of afterburner at Mach II in the F8U-3, a severe compressor stall would occur, possibly damaging the engine. The engineers designed a bleed valve that allowed air to escape to alleviate the “transient,” which occurred when going from full afterburner to no afterburner. For the pilot, this meant coming back on the throttle to a point the bleed valve kicked in, then reducing the throttle further to come out of burner.
Even as lieutenants, some of us traveled to Washington, D.C., to brief Navy leaders on the various aircraft we were testing. Having to stand at the podium and address a gathering of seniors, including flag officers, and explaining in lucid terms its pluses and minuses was an imposing but valuable experience. Even though he was from Texas, home state of the Chance Vought Company, developers of the Crusader, Sen. Lyndon Johnson, then chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, did not arm twist his colleagues to pick the F8U-3. It was a tough decision, but the F4H won out.
The test pilot experience enabled me to boost practical skills as an aviator while embellishing my theoretical knowledge of how an airplane works. It’s like a baseball player improving his hitting and fielding acumen while grasping a greater understanding of how the whole game is played. In essence, we learned why an aircraft behaves the way it does when you manipulate it with the flight controls and the power plant.
I liked what Rear Adm. A. M. Pride said about test pilots and hoped his words applied to me, at least to some degree. He was commander of the Naval Air Test Center in 1953 when he said that test pilots had “The priceless gift of intuitive discernment between cause and effect. All the truly great test pilots have had it.” Another in the pantheon of naval aviation heroes, Pride was instrumental in the development of early carrier landing systems, and he also test flew the innovative auto gyro, a combination fixed/rotary-wing aircraft.
Chapter Six
OUT OF THE COCKPIT
Admiral Anderson directed, “I want the Washington Post newspaper outside of the stateroom door of each of the visiting officers every morning. Please see to that.”
EVER HEARD OF A BICUSPID AORTIC VALVE? I’m one of an extremely small percentage of people who has one. It’s part of the cardiovascular system, and although I was unaware of its existence and had passed a dozen thorough flight physicals in my career to date, it doomed me from consideration for assignment to the Mercury program as an astronaut. The aortic valve has three leaves that close during the breathing process. One of my leaves was missing, which precluded complete closure of the valve, and that allowed an almost-immeasurable amount air to leak out, creating a very slight heart murmur, or aortic insufficiency.
The Mercury program was America’s fledgling effort to put men into space. Manned, experimental flights had probed the tropopause, up to twelve miles above the earth, and even the stratosphere, from twelve to thirty-one miles above the globe. In 1958 the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) launched a search for seven aviators who would become the nation’s first astronauts. It made sense to seek these potential pioneers among the community of experimental test pilots in the Navy, Air Force, and civilian categories. Consequently, I became a candidate for this coveted duty.
John Glenn, Alan Shepard, and Wally Schirra, also a Test Pilot School graduate, sailed through the qualification process, impressing everyone with their sharp minds, physical fitness, and proven superior flying skills. I passed all the preliminary physical and mental tests in good shape. At Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio, along with other candidates, I was whirled about on the business end of a centrifuge arm at high-g forces and was also placed in a chamber heated to 120 degrees for forty-five minutes. Sensors were attached to our bodies to record how we reacted to this rather severe stress test. NASA was concer
ned about the astronauts’ ability to withstand heat because of the aerodynamic heating they would experience on reentry into the atmosphere following a mission in space.
I felt fine afterward, but after studying the data sheets, the medicos and specialists who had monitored the test detected the slight heart murmur caused by the bicuspid aortic valve. The chief Air Force fight surgeon asked the flight surgeon at Patuxent River about the murmur and was told, “Not to worry. It wasn’t a problem.”
I was on pins and needles because astronaut duty was a dream assignment, not for the publicity it engendered but for the opportunity to be on a new leading edge, the threshold of space. I was sent to the Malcolm Grove Clinic at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland for a personal interview with the chief cardiologist of the Air Force, where I spent an entire day being interviewed.
“You have an aortic insufficiency,” he told me. “You may have had rheumatic fever in your infancy.” This was news to me. I had an illness-free youth, apart from injuries related to athletics. “You’re in extremely good shape otherwise. But the tolerances for the astronaut program, by the very nature of what we’ll be asking the astronauts to do, are extremely strict.”
In other words, it wasn’t my destiny to ride a rocket into orbit. I wouldn’t be part of the history-making pursuit of going to the moon. My friendships with Al Shepard and John Glenn, though everlasting, would never be the same. Less important, I would miss being there when Al, ever the clown, undergoing a proctology exam at the Lovelace Clinic in Albuquerque, New Mexico, proclaimed, “It hurts but it hurts so good.” Or later on during a psychiatric test, when Pete Conrad, shown a blank piece of paper and asked what he saw, answered, “It’s upside down.” I would miss those shipmates.
Disappointed, I perked myself up with the realization that things usually worked out in my favor. I certainly had no complaints about my career pattern to date. In time, I adjusted and looked forward instead of back.
Cdr. Joe Moorer (USNA 1945), who was operations officer at the TPS at Patuxent, recommended me to his brother, Rear Adm. Tom Moorer, who was seeking a flag lieutenant. Tom Moorer was a phenomenon, a World War II hero who had become a flag officer in only twenty-six years of service and who now commanded Carrier Division Six, home ported in Mayport, Florida, and based on the USS Saratoga (CV-60) when deployed. Anne and I packed up the kids, had our household effects shipped, and motored to Mayport.
A flag lieutenant is an “aide,” and the aide’s duties range from valet to confidant. He’s the admiral’s right-hand man, oversees his appointments and meetings, makes sure the car is there to pick up and deliver him on time, and masters the protocol so necessary when dealing with dignitaries and other distinguished guests. He communicates with counterparts likewise employed and often deals directly with other flag officers. Do it right and performance as a flag lieutenant can’t help but enhance a career. I rationalized to myself that this was a sound pathway for me. I had been in the cockpit for a solid eight years. This duty would broaden my experience in the Navy.
Although I was in for incredibly long work days, often eighteen hours nonstop, the job was a blessing, because I worked for Tom Moorer, a man destined to become not only the chief of naval operations (CNO) but chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, from 1970 to 1974, as well. He was a respected power broker and leader of men, and the personification of a southern gentleman with a will of steel. The down side was my family situation. I didn’t know it when the tour started, but I would be away from Anne and the kids for great chunks of time over the next two years.
Actually, I made it to Mayport in May 1959 before Moorer and served as temporary aide to the incumbent, Rear Adm. George W. Anderson (USNA 1927). Anderson was another front-runner, who eventually became CNO from 1991 to 1993. I was heaved into the caldron from the get-go.
The admiral was hosting a North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) committee of four-star officers called the “NATO Standing Group,” which was visiting the Saratoga while at sea off the Atlantic coast, and I was charged with handling the details of meeting. An absolute stickler for military protocol, Anderson was a picture-poster admiral, a handsome, well-built man with silver hair, a winning smile, and perfectly tailored uniforms. When he commanded the Sixth Fleet, it was no wonder his voice call was “White Charger.” He could have played himself in the movie. He favored white uniforms in season, and for special occasions he especially liked the “choke collar” formal attire that most of us dreaded. Khakis were more comfortable and far easier to maintain, but the staff had to follow suit and don whites as well, a huge pain for them.
Before the NATO officials arrived for the visit, Admiral Anderson directed me, “I want the Washington Post newspaper outside the stateroom door of each of the visiting officers every morning. Please see to that.”
That was not easy to do, but I arranged for the newspapers to be flown from the nation’s capital at “oh dark thirty” to Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point, North Carolina. From there, one of our twin-engine Traders, referred to as the “COD”—for Carrier On-board Delivery—would collect them and haul them to the carrier. We managed to make deliveries on time.
It’s best to stay on the good side of any flag officer, particularly one like Admiral Anderson, who went on to earn a third star.
I’m glad I wasn’t his aide when he was commanding the Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean. The story goes that his flagship, the cruiser USS Des Moines, had executed a “Med Moor” in Barcelona. A Med Moor entails backing the ship to the designated pier so that it is aligned perpendicular to it. As a result, there was a sole accommodation ladder on the fantail for enlisted personnel as well as officers and any guests. When moored parallel to a pier, there are separate accommodation ladders for sailors and officers.
Admiral Anderson had gone ashore one evening to visit a group of civilians. Unexpectedly, by the crew, anyway, the admiral invited his group to visit the Des Moines that night. Rather late in the evening the admiral and his entourage trooped along the pier and were approaching the Des Moines, when, to the horror of the admiral, not to mention his guests, they found the fantail area littered with drunken sailors in various positions of repose and disarray.
Predictably, Anderson blew a fuse. While it might have been overreaction, he ordered that senior shore patrol officers from that point on would be captains. That meant destroyer division commanders were among the four-stripers relegated to standing watches normally assigned to commanders and below. That fuse, by the way, stayed lit for over a month before tension in the ranks eased. Impulsive as he might have been, he impressed people and achieved goals on a continuing basis.
Admiral Anderson had a good sense of the spectacular. We had aboard a photo-Crusader, the camera-equipped F8U-1P. It carried flares for illuminating night photography. Ejected from the jet in the daytime, the flares produced brilliant flashes against the sky. One day he sent a dispatch to the foreign flag officer on a NATO ship and said, “I plan to salute your flag at 1420 hours.” This befuddled the foreign ship, because we were nowhere in sight. But the F8U-1P was catapulted on its mission, flew to the foreign ship many miles away, and, once over it, fired fifteen flares at precisely 1420. This was Anderson’s way of rendering honors at sea.
Anderson loved ice cream. While on the Saratoga one day, he rode a helicopter to visit personnel on an accompanying carrier, the USS Essex (CV-9). While there, he consumed some particularly delicious ice cream, which prompted him to send a flashing light message to the Saratoga, saying, “The Essex has good ice cream.”
Capt. John Hyland called me, described what happened, and asked, “What does he mean by this?”
I said, “Captain, I think Admiral Anderson is trying to tell you that the Saratoga doesn’t have good ice cream.”
Hyland summoned his supply officer, and an ice cream improvement program commenced immediately, with, fortunately, good results
Admiral Anderson was CNO during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and after he retired from
the Navy, Pres. John F. Kennedy appointed him as ambassador to Portugal.
I gained new insights into Navy operations from the vantage point of surface officers, those who run the ships. It took some time, but I qualified as a tactical watch officer, having acquired a whole new portfolio of knowledge and a profound appreciation of surface warfare operations, particularly how challenging it is to maneuver large groups of ships on the rough and busy seas.
I’ve read countless biographies of great leaders, especially those in the armed services, and am fascinated by the fact that each possessed a style and demeanor unique unto himself. Their common denominator was the ability to get the job done regardless of individual style.
Tom Moorer was a different animal altogether from Admiral Anderson. My days were exhausting and eventful at his side, but I wouldn’t trade them for a ton of gold. Because I traveled extensively with him, we held countless personal discussions, from which I derived a kind of mental handbook of sound leadership traits. One of my perennial questions to him was, “How are you able to make decisions so rapidly?”
“The important thing is to identify a course of action and get everyone supporting it and involved in it,” he explained. “The average mistake that many people make is delaying making a decision. By the time action is taken, it’s been overcome by events. Don’t waste time researching every possible course of action to come up with the best one. Decide on one that you believe might work and get your people started on it.”
He believed that the average officer is, basically, reluctant to make a decision, that he or she will vacillate and delay. Consequently, they “delay” themselves into a much more difficult situation or risk losing an opportunity to resolve a situation. He wasn’t impetuous, but he did have a way of coming up with commonsense courses of action expeditiously. Part of that is a given talent; part of it is based on experience. It didn’t hurt that his breadth of knowledge on tactics was remarkable.
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