SUN ‘N FUN…WEAPON SYSTEMS TEST
Air Force Armament Center, Eglin AFB, Florida,
Jul 1956-Dec‘59
Upon arriving at Ft. Walton Beach we encountered
the worst housing situation we ever faced in the
service. We were permitted to stay in visiting
quarters for a week, and it was the worst I have
ever seen. Martha considers cockroaches the
filth of the earth and the place crawled with
them. If we turned on a light at dark, they
would scurry across the walls and floors.
No permanent base housing existed and rentals
were scarce, low quality and expensive. We
lived in ‘squatter’s quarters’ the first year
but spent most of our free time on the beach
anyway. A group of very small and old houses,
called New Shalimar, was privately owned and
rented by the owner, with some sort of a loose
deal with Eglin wherein the base’s only
authority was assignment of residents. The owner
set and enforced rules. Our next-door
neighbors, with 5 kids, had repeated problems
with the septic tank in their yard and
complained to the base, about the odor and
health risk. The owner sent a man over to break
the main drain from the house to “fix” the
backed up drainage, with a warning of eviction
on the next complaint to the base, and he meant
business. When government owned, Capehart
housing, was completed on the base, about a year
later, it was heaven to us.
Our first action, after getting settled in our
shanty, was to buy a ski boat, so we could join
the practice of spending weekends on the beach,
morning till night. Skiing was done on the
Chocktawhatchee Bay and its inlets and there
were innumerable beaches, mostly unoccupied.
The bay led through Destin Pass directly to the
Gulf of Mexico, the source of excellent fresh
fish, and a beautiful beach.
Our Air Force Armament Center test guys and
families spent entire weekends on “AFAC Beach”
on the bay. Mile after mile shoreline were
undeveloped so we could chose and named our
spot. The new lifestyle was especially good for
the four of us from the outset since we lived in
that little home, happy to have a roof, but
relieved to be out of it often. We went through
our first hurricane in it and the eye of the
storm passed directly over us. How small was
it? Martha kept a little clothes washer, no
luxury with two kids, in one of our rooms and
extended a drain hose out the window on
washdays. Probably helped to cleanse the
neighbor’s yard after the owner’s sewage
modification.
Martha and I made the most expensive purchase of
our lives, a beautiful new African mahogany
speedboat, with Evinrude motor. Every weekend
with our AFAC group, we would borrow cooking
pots from the GI mess hall, and fry the catch of
the day and hushpuppies, after some of us took a
run out on the gulf for fishing, usually king
mackerel. Or, we’d boil crabs, which we caught
in the bay. There was a communal atmosphere
sharing the watch and protection of the many
kids so the adults could enjoy the activities as
well. It was a wonderful place for the entire
family, from early morning till dusk, and that
lifestyle resulted in a few of the families
being there on extended tours. It certainly
enhanced lifelong friendships.
|
AFAC Beach |
During that first year after we arrived a young
helper in a boat storage facility, lit a welding
torch and accidentally destroyed the entire
facility and our boat, motor, skiing, safety and
fishing equipment. A boat was too much of our
recreation to go without and I bought a
replacement, which was capable of skiing,
fishing or cruising. It was equipped with two
bunks and a head, below deck.
One weekend when Ellen Chaplin’s Dad and Mom
were visiting, Chappie and I, took his
father-in-law, out on the Gulf for some
fishing. Ellen’s Dad, Robert D. “Ark” Newton.
I learned in recent years that he
was a famous football player in the history of
the University of Florida Gators, a member of
its Hall of Fame and the Southeastern Conference
Champs in 1923, as well as establishing a
longest punt record to this day. He was a
record setter in field events, as well, earning
Golds in broad jump at 22 ½ feet and discus with
over 133 feet, and was all Southeastern champion
in the Pentathalon and he ran second in the
220. Check out the size of the leg and shoulder
pads for a running back and its clear those old
dudes were tough!
|
"Ark" Newton |
We, three, were caught in an unusual storm and
my boat went down in the Gulf of Mexico. I
actually came closer to dying twice that day
than in years of flying excitement. Beside
coming close to drowning, the safety glass
windshield was shattered by the huge waves that
swamped us, and we were badly cut and bleeding
in an area that was always loaded with large
sharks, as we were reminded as we flew over,
especially when the tide flowed out with bait
fish into the Gulf, and the tide was running out
fast. As we were going down I realized one of
my flying buddies, “Red” Snyder, had borrowed
all but two life vests. Without letting them
know, I instructed Chappie and Bob put them on.
Moments later we were washed overboard as the
boat, with its heavy inboard engine went quickly
under, providing no sanctuary for us. We were
in the pass between the bay and the Gulf of
Mexico and were quickly washed out into the
Gulf, but as the boat went down, a wooden cover
for the inboard engine popped up and I clung to
it. I had removed that cover only weeks before
and the screws were so tight I had to drill them
out, but the grip was fortuitously weakened!
My two passengers, more buoyant, were quickly
washed away from me and passed out of sight away
from shore, except momentarily as the giant
waves peaked with them. There was a single
light buoy in the Gulf outside the Destin Pass
and I could see that and seemed to be floating
toward it, but like me friends, saw it only when
each wave lifted me. I had one chance for
survival and that was swim to it with the help
of the outward currents, but with the infrequent
views and no background but the sea, I had great
concern about swimming on line to the buoy.
Suddenly, I was swimming with the shore ahead
and knew I now had to swim against that strong
current, me not a strong swimmer .... I was
being swept to sea. I knew that was my only
hope of survival, and started swimming with all
the speed I could muster, but I had been
released from hospital with pneumonia the week
before.
I truly I had taken my last possible stroke
against the current, when I reached that small
sanctuary, and had swallowed so much water, I
regurgitated before I could climb aboard. When
I recovered enough to climb a few steps on the
ladder, I could see my friends bobbing southward
and getting very small. At that moment I was
really panicky for them, when I saw how I much I
had been cut by the broken safety glass shards
of the windshield. They also had to be
bleeding, and faced a night among the sharks.
It was getting late in the afternoon and from
the beginning recovery before the next morning
seemed dim, but a tourist had seen us through a
telescope and reported our plight. A base
helicopter was there in a while, but our brush
with death was not at an end.
The helicopter didn’t have capacity to make a
rescue so a courageous commercial fisherman with
his son standing and tied on the bow, picked us
up, and very nearly had a fatal capsizing, while
returning on the great waves over shallow
shoals. He could only use the boat like a
surfboard to come out and return over shallows,
since the pass was too severe even for his large
boat. As we got to the critical shallows his
son visually searched for the deeper point while
his dad maneuvered to catch a wave. At the
critical moment over that sandbar, the prop was
lifted out and the boat swung sideways, out of
control, and was rolling over with no more that
a foot of water between us and disaster.
Suddenly, the giant wave caught up, the captain
regained control, and those two very brave
fishermen saved us. That sea journey met the
highest level of risk that Chappie or I ever
faced flying and was far worse more disturbing,
out of our element.
There
were two distinct flying organizations at Eglin,
the one we joined, Air Force Armament Center (AFAC),
under the Air Research and Development Command (ARDC),
while the other, Air Proving Ground Command was
a Tactical Air Command test unit, which
performed operational tests of fire control
systems and weapons, and tactics for flying
units. My first assignment was to the “Gun
Section” of the Engineering Directorate. I was
assigned as a test engineer/pilot on improved 50
caliber machine guns for the F-86, which
involved a lot of ground firing and quite a bit
of rather boring firing without targets over
the Gulf of Mexico, with the usual test reports
etc. The actual amount of firing against a
banner target, something I never tired of, was
very limited. Fortunately, in short order, I
was transferred directly to test operations
where flying duties not only became primary, but
more interesting and variable, but not
immediately.
One of my
earliest tasks was in support of an electronic
dive-bombing “harp” to replace manual ones.
These were ground-based devices to accurately
measure the dive angle of fighters in
dive-bombing tests to better assess performance
of weapons and sights. Sensing dive angle was a
precious art for dive bombing, since it was an
important parameter for accuracy. The ground
observers would report my dive angle to me
continually and I developed an uncanny judgment
of my true dive angle. At that time and until
later years in Vietnam, dive-bombing skill was
not on my list of priorities, still dreaming of
air combat, hoping that if I ever returned to
combat it would be to complete an unfinished job
that was nobody’s fault but my own!
I doubt
if many pilots ever heard of the harp. Even the
manual version would have saved flying time and
money and trained dive-bombing faster, better
and cheaper. I would discover as a commander in
Vietnam, the schools never did learn how to
effectively and efficiently teach that most
difficult art to pilots. I was able to set the
accuracy record in abbreviated training
primarily because I had the experience at Eglin,
even though I never had a project there that
allowed me to actually dive bomb.
Different
weapons tests were conducted on one of the many
ranges scattered around the huge base area,
large and uninhabited tracts. I would find ways
to spice up a dull mission with small air shows
for the ground test crew. Once, after
completing a test, I flew away at low altitude,
out of view. I had not flown this particular
range before but made a surprise high-speed
pass, up-side down at less than 20 feet, in an
F-86. Unlike the F-100, which had a small
reserve for inverted flight, the earlier jets
had none. You’d just better not overextend
yourself while inverted. The F-86 would spit
out puffs of black oil smoke, as if the engine
had quit, which made the show more spectacular.
The range
was clear of trees and I was so low I would have
to climb inverted to gain enough wing clearance
with the ground to roll out, but I had not
noticed a line of telephone poles, crossing the
far edge of the range until it was too late to
make that inverted push-up, being still upside
down, and miss the wires! I stayed low, heart
in mouth, hoping I was below them, but the poles
were old, abandoned and unwired. Having lucked
out there was no reason to miss the finale,
which was a continuous string of fast barrel
rolls on my steep departure climb. I suspect
those range operators saw more air shows than
anyone else on base, and we had a lot of formal
demonstrations there.
Around
that time the Air Research and Development
Command was designated Air Force Systems Command
(AFSC) and our AFAC was combined into the new
Air Proving Ground Center, with all test
operations consolidated. For those of us from
AFAC, our command level was elevated from
Colonel Arthur Cruikshank, a celebrated member
of Doolittle’s Raiders of Tokyo bombing fame, to
Maj. Gen. Joseph Kelly and his deputy B/G
Ernest Warburton.
A moment
of tribute to Art Cruikshank, is in order! On
the Doolittle raid he had to bail out in
Japanese occupied China. He was captured by a
Japanese soldier, but then overpowered and
killed the man. He dragged the head with him as
he entered a Chinese village, in hopes they
would hide and protect him. It worked, and
their underground got him to safety and he
finally made it home.
Very
shortly after joining these new commanders, I
arrived at work one Friday morning, I was
instructed to fly an F-86H, which was the final,
biggest and most powerful version of the famous
Sabrejets, to the Air National Guard at Bradley
Field, Connecticut. The aircraft would have
short legs, without external fuel tanks,
normally used for cross-country. What a
misfortune, considering Martha and I had invited
about 50 people to our new home on the base for
our biggest party, ever, that night. I rushed
to the base airline ticket office and I could
get the only airliner home that day, if I made a
non-stop flight to Bradley, and wasted no time
departing. I was unfamiliar with that
destination but one of the guys said that
Bradley Airport was on the south bank of the
river directly across from a large airport of
the Pratt & Whitney jet engine factory.
Couldn’t miss it! During a quick stop at base
operations to grab a map, check weather and file
clearance, I determined the distance and headed
for the airplane. I was so hurried that I didn’t
even unfold the map when I saw the factory and
the river, right across from it was BRA... the
remaining letters truncated by the fold line of
the map. The fellow knew what he was talking
about!
I
calculated that a cruise-climb to maximum
altitude and the forecast winds would allow me
to make it if I shut down my engine for a long
dead-stick glide after I passed New York city to
my right, then an air start with just enough
fuel to land, and I could catch the commercial
flight at Bradley. In event of failure to
restart, I was absolutely confident in my
ability to make a dead-stick landing. My plan
was practical because weather en route was
beautiful, and I was experienced in dead-engine
gliding for range extension, something I learned
the hard way my first real dogfight.
Things
went well and visibility from altitude was
unlimited and my progress showed it would be
tight but I could just make it with power-off
glide. I made all the necessary radio calls on
route, shut down the engine and began my long
glide. About 50 miles out in the glide, I tried
to call Bradley tower and got no response. All
calls failed....my radios were dead, and so were
my options, so I continued to an initial point
for a power-off 360 landing approach, starting
the engine at the last minute to save my 30
pounds of fuel for glide extension, if
required. I was pre-occupied by a lone private
aircraft, appearing to be on very extended
downwind for my runway. I had only this chance
at landing, without enough fuel for a second
one. I easily cut well inside and turned on a
short final approach to my first real look at
where I must land, an unbelievable view. There
was a high earthen dam immediately at the
approach end of a runway, which seemed more like
a short country lane. This dike effectively
reduced the landing space available. It was
extremely narrow and proved to be only 2000 feet
to land and stop, one-quarter the length of an
average military runway. I had given up all
options, when I descended from above 40,000
feet, but I landed successfully, on the shortest
runway I’ve ever heard of a jet fighter landing
on, before the days of VSTOL, with grass growing
at points, through the blacktop. Having often
practiced short-field landings with the more
difficult F-100, stopping proved to be no
problem, especially without fuel weight.
Before I
could dismount, an Army National Guard jeep
pulled up and I hollered with amazement,
“Bradley Field?” “Nope, this is BRAinerd!
BRAdley is 30 miles up the river.” The kind
lieutenant was the pilot of an Army Bell H-1
utility helicopter and only military aircraft
based there. As soon as I grabbed my airplane’s
documents out of the gun compartment, we headed
for Bradley. I was determined to make the
party. There was nothing to be done with the
airplane but leave it on the end of the runway;
there were also no traffic problems or paved
taxiways at Brainerd. I hurriedly got the Air
Force Guardsmen at Bradley to sign the receipt
for the airplane, optimistic that the guard
would retrieve that fine airplane and forget the
matter.
Not so!
The regular Air Force liaison officer to the ANG
at Bradley was a friend of Colonel Szeniewski,
another of my new superiors, and had called him
over the weekend. Being unaware of what would
await me on Monday, the party was a great
success, and a catharsis to my faint, lingering
concerns about consequences for that days
adventure.
Early
Monday morning I was summoned to B/Gen.
Warburton’s office and learned first hand about
an American Indian on the war-path, And How!
Under the circumstances, my story was that the
runway looked OK and I thought it was Bradley.
The truth until I had no option and the little
runway looked real good when I got my first peak
at it, Bradley Field or not. The general stuck
with his point that I should have noticed the
small size and reconsidered the landing. He
would definitely not be sympathetic to the
answer that I was in a dead-stick glide with too
little fuel to go anywhere, and was so busy
looking at the light airplane trying to land
there for me to even look at the airport. I
didn’t want to disturb him further!
I contend
that my answer was close enough to fact that I
have never downright lied to a superior officer,
and my first question to the helicopter pilot
confirmed it. As I approached that landing, I
was too damned busy to unravel the puzzle!
Shortly
after my chewing-out from the general, Captain
Alonzo J. “Lon” Walter Jr., a fine friend and
smart-ass, presented me a nameplate for my desk,
properly including my correct initials, “Rong
Way SMITH”, a slick or sick joke,
referencing an infamous early pilot dubbed Wrong
Way Corrigan who, in a bid to emulate Lindberg
illegally took off in New York, flew to Paris
and claimed he lost his way to California. The
friendly abuses picked up even more when someone
posted a clipping from a Connecticut newspaper
that bragged about the first jet to land at
Brainerd field and how they took the wings off
to truck it to Bradley. At least I gained
celebrity, near Brainerd, though never returned
to enjoy it.
The dead
stick experience I gained, first in the Korean
war, and then in my assignment at Albuquerque
made it possible for me to make it to a great
party including good friends, Lon and Doris
Walter, Howard and Madonna Leaf, Ed and Ellen
Chaplin, Bud and Stacey Gallup and others
who in spite of my extreme efforts to be a good
host, tormented me about that, my only mistake
in 20 years of flying ....... except for a few
tiny goofs!
Just
before that occurred, I had been designated as
the alternate pilot for an air-show feat that
had never been performed before. At the
upcoming Joint Civilian Orientation Conference,
JCOC, the pilot of an F-100 fighter would
attempt to shoot down a very small towed
airplane/target with 20 mm cannon, in front of
the grandstands. The JCOC was an important
occasional event, which included a firepower
demonstration for a special list of American
business, government and celebrity guests of the
Defense Department. Flying as the alternate, I
would merely take off and later breakaway, out
of sight, before approaching the stands filled
with 20,000 or more spectators, unless the
primary had to abort for mechanical problems,
which very rarely happened. This was to be a
first time for an aerial “kill” for the crowd
and would be very difficult, especially in the
F-100, against a target with small wings,
vertical tail only, and a 20 inch diameter
fuselage, which had to be directly hit,
precisely in front of the crowd and with enough
angle off to avoid hitting the towing B-57
bomber. Since failure was a real possibility, I
had mixed emotions about the risk of my having
to shoot, after my cross-country fiasco,
especially when I was flying an event that was
getting top billing from General Warburton, but
the odds were near zero I would be called on.
The big
moment arrived and we two took off in formation.
My lead, a senior major, could not get his
landing gear up, with repeated tries, the one
time in my thousands of flights for that to
happen. He had no choice but to abort the
mission, returned to base and I was it! To be
in position for the event it was necessary to
fly high above and behind the target, to be able
to make a diving S-turn down on the target at
the proper point to shoot the target and destroy
it directly in front of the stands. Even in
shooting a full size enemy airplane, you don’t
have to worry about exactly what point in the
sky you get him, but that too was vital for
this, plus the target was miniature compared to
the size of a Mig-15. At least it was not going
to evade, which was scant encouragement.
Only the
lead had actually practiced. If I reached
firing range from the target at the right time
in front of the stands, but my angle off of the
target’s path was too great I would have to pull
high g’s and be very unlikely to hit that
target. High g’s induced sighting errors and
caused the bullets to drop drastically below the
sight line. Reduced probability compounded with
the small target, almost assured failure. On
the other hand, if I adjusted too much to avoid
that failure, I could end up driving right up
the tail of the target, providing an easy kill;
most likely of the bomber also. There would be
no chance to shoot, with such great risk of
shooting down the B-57.
Another
consideration, even before starting the firing
pass, was the difficulty to remain in position
for my high-side gunnery pass, while the bomber
was flying his continuing racetrack holding
pattern well ahead and below me. And to be in
position to discern when to dive down from my
perch because the target was so small, it lacked
real perspective. Starting down at the wrong
place could get me the kill, but not in front of
the audience. The stigma of complete failure
would have come from anything but a shattered
target and been devastating for me. All of that
and I had General Warburton on my mind as I
waited to start my firing pass. It seemed an
eternity waiting our turn, the big sweat! I
blasted the target to pieces right in front of
the grandstands.
At the
traditional flying-suit beer party in a large
hangar, General Warburton happily approached the
major and gushed praise on his “kill”. Finally,
when lead was able to get a word in, he pointed
to me and told the general what happened. The
general’s smile abruptly disappeared, as he
wheeled about and walked away, without a word,
but thereafter he treated me as if nothing bad
had ever happened. I suppose that was his way
of saying my slate was wiped clean for a new
start. Because of that success, this mission
became standard for the JCOC and was later
included in a far more important show. After
this, I was always primary pilot. I never went
in with absolute certainty about the result, but
I never had a failure. And I discovered in time
that General Warburton was really and kind and
fair gentleman.
The firepower demonstrations had inherent risks.
One of our guys, Captain Jerry King,
paid the dearest price. He was to dive bomb
with a thousand pound live bomb load and timed
fuses. Those fuses had a small propeller on the
nose, held still during flight by a piano wire
attached with two redundant metal ‘Fahnstock’
clips. When the bomb was released the wire
stayed with the airplane and the propeller
turned an exact number of times to explode a
calculated distance above the target. For some
reason, human or mechanical, the wire withdrew
while in flight and the bomb exploded, still
attached to the airplane wing. After the
funeral, his family moved away and sold Jerry’s
speed boat which
Ed and Ellen Chaplin, Bud & Stacey Gallup, and
Martha and I purchased, with a buy-out handshake
between us for whenever one or the other
transferred. Reading that now sounds very
callused, even though life must go on after
death. It reminds me that as the years passed
and I saw more acquaintances, comrades and
friends die doing the work that we all chose and
desired, just how one’s mind adjusts to resist
the temptation to consider the thought, “I could
be next.” It almost never crossed my mind and
when anyone lost the ability to control that
thought they were generally future casualties or
veterans who had resigned.
That boat was big, very old and beautiful. It
was a classic: A Gar Wood speedboat, with a big
Chrysler marine engine. It was double planked
and we spent months re-caulking it, refurbishing
the engine, repainting it, and Martha, who has
long been a skilled seamstress, upholstered the
interior. When we would ski behind that hummer
we really had some wakes to jump.
Lon
Walter had arrived at Eglin in 1953, after
returning from flying Sabres in the Korean war,
at about the same time as my comrade, Bob Ronca
of the 335th in Korea had also
arrived. Between Korea and Eglin, Lon had
gotten his Master of Science in engineering from
the Air Force Institute of Technology, and he
too then went to the Test Pilot School. Lon was
assigned as the program manager on a new and
improved fighter gunsight, the K-19, under
development for future fighters. He and Bob
Ronca, along with a British RAF pilot, Bruce
Cole had the fighter pilots dream of shooting
aerial gunnery on a typical banner target for
months. As a result, they contributed to the
perfection of a sight that was to see important
combat service on the F-101, 104 and 105, and
that would prove effective against real vehicles
in my future, in that case ground vehicles.
Squadron leader Cole returned home to England
and died in the crash of a Canberra bomber that
lost controllability in bad weather.
Bob Ronca
and I were competitive and began a series of
challenges in the F-100, literally by
coincidence. We both liked to hotdog the
take-offs in the F-100, an airplane not too
blessed with acceleration and lift at take-off,
so required some effort for spectacular effect.
Shortly, we were being scored by all of the
F-100 crew chiefs on the line, agitating for a
contest. Their ratings of us were based on the
sharpest rotation and steepest sustained climb
immediately on take-off. Holding it low to gain
speed before climb was routine but these guys
were expert and discerning critics and were
looking for immediate climbs at lift-off. But
the ground crews could not judge our speed on
the ground and we each began to hold our
airplane down to achieve higher ground speed and
a faster rotation and steeper and longer climb
before we had to push hard over before a
dangerous steep stall.
My
fortune was that I ended the contest, and maybe
it was both our good fortunes. On my last
attempt, unbeknown until I landed, I had rotated
so rapidly that I literally rubbed the
afterburner vanes on the runway, without serious
damage to them and without scraping the tailpipe
or even the tail-skid which was extended, with
landing gear down on take-off, but its purpose
was to protect the tailpipe on landing. This
required one devilish fast rotation and wheels
high enough off the ground before the A/B
dragged in order to miss everything else on the
airplane and clearly established the absolute
limit of safety, ending the contest. I got one
hell of a steep and sustained climb, and good
score, it was really miraculous that I did no
serious damage, which could have spelled
disastrous power loss at that critical point.
Bob and
Millie were a gregarious couple and great
friends. He was a real competitor and a hero to
the end, which occurred in South Vietnam when he
continued attacking a ground target in spite of
significant damage to his airplane because of
the dire need for his help, by ground troops.
He was the recipient of a posthumous Air Force
Cross, one of the first of that medal, which was
second only to the Medal of Honor. Millie, a
very lovely and kind lady, and mother of their
children survived Bob only briefly before she
was overcome by cancer. Martha saw Millie in
Maryland for a last time, shortly after Bob was
killed, when they had dinner before Martha sold
our home and with the kids, joined me in my
training for Vietnam. Millie was so attached to
Bob that his passing had taken much of the joy
from her own life.
One of my
closer calls while flying fighters was in a rat
race with Bill Haynes. It seems we kept running
into each other throughout our careers, even
going to work for the same company after we
retired, but this run-in was nearly final. We
began a series of very violent scissor maneuvers
in an effort to get on the opponent’s tail and
win. Suddenly, we passed very closely in high g
turns and at the second we passed, we both
reversed in the blind with a max 180-degree roll
and high ‘g’ pull to gain ultimate victory. We
found ourselves with a split second to avoid a
crash directly on top of each other, cockpit to
cockpit and we reactively both rolled left. Not
worth explaining, but it’s a 100% probability
that a fighter pilot will instinctively roll
left in crisis, especially if he ever flew
behind a propeller. My wing passed between his
wing and tail and missed his cockpit by a couple
of feet. My claim is as winner since my wing
passed just behind his, but I can assure you he
would refute a verdict, because neither of us
made that next roll-and-pull necessary to prove
victory!
On
another occasion while we were still at Eglin,
Bill and I had made a long journey, landed at
Tinker A.F.B. to visit his Mom in Oklahoma City,
and then continued to another base to refuel.
It had been a long day and after midnight we
departed from Scott Airfield, Illinois into a
cloudy rainy sky, just plain ugly, for a long
flight home. I was in the back seat, since we
were alternating on each leg, and was nearly
asleep as we climbed out. I was suddenly
awakened by a very unusual sound in jet flight —
Complete Silence! Almost before I was fully
awake Bill had already hit the air-start switch
and turned on the main fuel switches, necessary
for flight, but prohibited on the T-33 during
take-off. I guess Bill was a little sleepy,
also----But he was Quick!
Everyone
that ever spent much time in fighters has
stories to tell of the near misses. And Bill
was no exception. Here are two he related to me
recently, from his time at Eglin, typical of
what we faced. He had encountered a transient
interference when he tried to pull back on the
stick for a heavyweight take off in a F-100, as
he tried to rotate the nose. He stop-cocked the
throttle and applied the brakes twice, didn’t
blow tires. Lon challenged his shut down of the
engine, as a risk of losing brake pressure, but
Bill reminded him that the system was good for 3
braking cycles, after shut off. Bill never
forgets a thing he has read. In the other
incident, he had the engine of an F-86H runaway
to 105% rpm, drastically high, so shut it down,
the only practical response. He tried an air
restart but got a lot of threatening noises so
shut it off and made an excellent dead-stick
landing. That proved to be a very wise
decision. It turned out that the compressor had
been breached, a very high probability of
rupture and explosion had he continued to
operate it. I am hoping that Bill will get to
make a flight of the full size Wright Flyer
airplane, which is being tested for a flight on
the 100th Anniversary of Flight at
Kitty Hawk. Heck, I would vote for him to get
the first flight. After all he almost started
flying with Wilbur and Orville, as a recent
picture of him displays.
|
Haynes in cockpit |
On a
Friday morning, I was dispatched to fly a T-33
to Oakland, California for an upgrade at a
contractor’s facility. I would pick up one that
had completed its mod, and was told I must get
it off the ground by 12:00 noon Saturday or they
would charge storage fees. I had gone to high
school in nearby Alameda CA, attended University
of California and my best H.S. buddy, Phil
Thormahlen, lived there. I hadn’t seen him for
years. We went to a bar to celebrate, where the
bartender was also our H.S. chum. Fortunately,
I left a wake up call at the hotel or I’d still
be there, but I had to order buckets of ice to
put in the bathtub just to be able to get out of
there that morning.
Complete
immersion in ice water proved very effective for
recovery, though quite painful. I was exhausted
by that torture treatment, but had no options.
As I dressed, I discovered an empty wallet. A
panic search of my clothing came up with bills
in every pocket, more than I started with. I’m
sure my buddy’s, equally smashed, had stuffed
some in a pocket every time I tried to pay.
I got to
the airport and filed clearance to land at
Albuquerque, where my parents lived, knowing I
was only good for one leg of my journey home. I
would sleep for as long as it took, then fly to
Florida. I was climbing west toward ABQ at
about 20,000 feet when something happened that
we only read of in Emergency Procedures, it
never happened to my knowledge, to anyone! The
procedure said, “In event of a Forward
Fire Warning Light: Shut down the Engine and
Bail Out Immediately”. Explosion was imminent,
it concluded. Suddenly the Forward
Fire Warning Light was ON!
I felt so
bad that I unscrewed the little cover that was
over the light, took out the bulb and put the
parts in my pocket, so I could ignore it. After
all, Emergency Procedures are advisory and the
final decision is left to the pilot. I feel
sure the writer never considered a pilot who
felt as bad as I did having such an emergency. I
assure you it was the forward and not the aft
light, the latter being rather frequent and
unimportant, because the ground crew was
astounded when I gave them the parts and wrote
the aircraft up. I never was so happy to get in
bed and slept like a log. The failure proved to
be an electrical short, and I proved to be a
genius although never so recognized until now,
Thank You very much!
Startling
occurrences like that one are not unexpected.
Another time I was flying in the front seat of a
T-33 out of Eglin with another pilot in the back
heading into an area of heavy thunderstorms, not
unusual going north from Florida in the summer.
Fighter aircraft, with rare exception had no
radar to avoid storms and were being buffeted
around. Suddenly we were struck with the
heaviest hit of lightning that I ever
encountered, accentuated by the back-seater’s
simultaneous scream amplified by the intercom
which rattled my cage. He had actually been
struck by the lightning to the extent of light
burns on both arms, fortunately most of the
charge stays on the outer shell of a closed
metal object, like an airplane. Imagine the
surprise for him of that shock, perfectly timed
with the bang and momentary blinding flash. He
must have conjured Hades in that flash. He had
both arms up on the metal canopy structure,
which was the most comfortable position for a
passenger, especially in such turbulence.
One of my
most frightening moments occurred when I was
chasing my greatest and most enduring friend on
an early F-105 test flight.
|
Early Model F-105 |
Capt.
Howard Leaf, now retired Lt. Gen. and ex-Air
Force Assistant Vice Chief of Staff, had a
control failure going extremely fast on the
deck, bailed out and miraculously survived. He
is, beyond doubt, the most dedicated but
stubborn man I’ve known, bar none. ASAP, I went
to see him, in his bed at the base hospital.
His body was black and blue, literally, even the
whites of his eyes were bloody-red. As I walked
in, one of his legs had slipped off the bed,
adding to his pain, but he was struggling in
spite of the pain to interlock the toes of the
other foot trying unsuccessfully to help lift
it. He refused to summon a nurse as a matter of
“pride”. I can’t remember whether I put the leg
up or left him to reconsider his decision and
pride. After all pride goes before a fall, even
if it’s only one foot! Howard and I fought
(verbally only) many times when flying together.
Smart move because I knew he boxed at Colorado
School of Mines, if not St. Louis University
where he got his Masters Degree. He was a rule
maker and I a rule breaker. Our careers present
a comparative lesson for young folks, who aspire
to careers at the top echelon: Follow the
rules! He worked his way to general while I
played and neither of us would change things, I
am sure. He is one of the most honorable and
conscientious officers I ever knew and missed a
chance at his fourth star because he would not
succumb to pressure from the Chairman of the
Armed Services Committee, Senator Sam Nunn, on a
matter of principle and integrity, at the peak
of his career.
Of
course, I knew much earlier that he was a man of
deep principles, but a self-styled ruler at
home, in his own mind. He had profound rules
for the family. One was that it was always
appropriate to use the public library. He used
to sit at my house reading our Encyclopaedia
Brittanica, while denying that his kids needed
them at home. Howard was not cheap, just
stubborn and here was the clincher. He was
adamantly opposed to television for his kids.
Please recall that in 1980’s kiddie shows were
really that. Mary Beth, the eldest of the 6
Leaf kids, was 5 years old or so, at the time
she disappeared. It was nearly dark and we were
all frantic. We searched the neighborhood, until
a neighbor noticed a youngster watching T.V.
with his kids. The only difference was that
Mary Beth was the one outside, peeking in. The
Leaf household got its first television set, and
I became aware for the first time that Madonna,
not Howard was commander!
If you
were a dyed in the wool fighter pilot, you never
stopped working at becoming more competitive. I
always thought there were advantages to a
fighter pilot who could get the most performance
from his aircraft, even at the lower speeds, so
I practiced it. I was able to do loops
starting level at landing speed, for example,
starting pull-up for a loop without exceeding
115 knots in a T-33, which was about minimum
final approach speed. There was a measure of
necessary risk because these low speed maneuvers
were only possible at low altitude where the air
is dense, so the altitude and speed were
gradually reduced together in the learning
process.
We were
taking the Nation’s premier celebrities on T-33
flights during their visits to the firepower
demonstrations, since commercial jets were not
yet in operation. It occurred to me that a
brief solo demonstration, before they were taken
for their flights, would add to their excitement
of flying in the same airplane. I felt it was
possible to take off with minimum fuel weight,
immediately starting a climbing slow-roll while
the gear was still retracting, adding to the
intrigue of viewers. Then continuing into an
extended Cuban 8 to a landing in the direction
of takeoff, nearly staying over the airport
runway the in whole maneuver, with a second slow
roll thrown in for good measure. My plan was
that immediately after the slow roll on takeoff,
the Cuban 8 would begin with a ¾ loop and
180-degree rollout, and then diving to pull-out
at 20+ feet and a low pass for the viewers, with
a slow roll, followed by another ¾ loop and half
roll to land straight in at the point on the
runway I started take-off run. There was purpose
to the second slow roll because it would extend
the upwind run enough to make room for the last
half of the Cuban 8 and landing in the take-off
direction. The celebrities might not recognize
the degree of difficulty, but would be
impressed. The jocks would recognize it and
that’s the hardest group to satisfy and the ones
a fellow pilot cared most about impressing.
I had
completed a local flight in a T-33 with a pilot
from one of the labs in the back seat. We were
nearly ready to land, so fuel weight was low, a
necessity for slow speed max performance. I
usually practiced low speed stuff at about 4000
feet for a margin of safety, even though dense
air of lower altitude increased the ability to
complete maneuvers so there was a risk tradeoff.
I did one low speed loop, which brought great
surprise and delight that it was even possible,
from the guy in back. I decided to simulate a
roll on take-off, which I felt real casual
about, expecting it would be the easy part
though I’d never tried it. After that I could
put it together with the Cuban 8, and do the
complete routine.
I had
made enough low speed loops to know the Cuban 8
would be an easier and much safer maneuver,
without necessity of the full pullout from a
loop and I anticipated no trouble with this low
speed slow roll on take-off. I extended gear
and flaps and slowed to take-off speed then
“began take-off” by adding full power and
started the roll. A slow roll is most difficult
at the two 90 degree points when one wingtip is
pointing directly down to earth. It demands
that the lift holding the airplane in the sky
comes from the lower side of the fuselage acting
as an airfoil, since the wings are vertically
aligned at those points, which makes rudder the
only usable controlling surface to keep the nose
up and aircraft under control. At 4000 feet, I
was overly demanding of the airplane, making
sure of a climb for a truer simulation of a take
off presuming a runway was just below. I would
know I was successful only if I ended higher
than the ‘start altitude’. Everything went well
until ¾ point of the roll, when the speed was
slowing from my climb and the high drag and I
needed maximum rudder. Suddenly, we snapped
into a full-fledged spin. I was concerned the
other pilot might bail, so I kept repeating, “
It’s O.K., I’ve Got It”, as nonchalantly, as
possible. The spin training in TPS served me
well. My partner in this adventure seemed very
calm about it then, or at least afterwards, and
I suppose he thought this was intentional.
In the
actual take off it would be possible, by
delaying the take-off roll, to gain a little
altitude and higher airspeed to provide safety
margin, compared to my trial. I chose to test
in the extreme in an airplane not too trusty
with heavy sideslips. After finding that this
margin was not available, I decided the thing
was too risky around an airport full of people
and that ended my thoughts on it.
We had
some fantastic weapons delivery pilots for the
JCOC, like Maj. “Krop” Kropenick who had more
jet time than any pilot in the Air Force in 1958
and surely must have dive-bombed more, also.
Bill Haynes passed along this story to me about
Krope: “He flew everything with wings in the
36th Tac Ftr Group at Furstenfeldbrueck,
Germany, when I was there in the early 50's. He
was famous for having flown a Douglas B-26 by a
San Diego air show with both props feathered,
turned behind the stands and came by with them
feathered … again!” Krope flew so much and he
was single and flying was his life and his
wife. It was ironic that some 5 years later he
visited Martha and me at Edwards for dinner at
our home and pulled out a huge pile of pictures
of his kids and spent most of the evening
describing them for us. He had become a family
fanatic.
Some of
the pilots who were almost fixtures at Eglin
were show masters, where we are talking live
weapons, 500 lb. bombs, napalm, rockets and
cannon fire, delivered directly in front of
grandstands for tens of thousands of visitors.
At each show one of our F-101A pilots would come
in on the deck in front of the stands, nearly
supersonic and do an attack on a target using
the Low Altitude Bombing System (LABS) designed
for nuclear tactical delivery. He would complete
the Immelman (half loop to inverted, then roll
out level) to exit in the opposite direction,
providing maximum distance away at bomb impact.
At the exact vertical in that maneuver, the
system released a 500-pound bomb, with a smoke
trail for visual tracking by the crowd, and the
bomb trail would rise above 20,000 feet and then
fall straight down. The only safety margin, it
wasn’t explosive, but from anywhere in the area,
the smoke trail made it look like the bomb was
coming straight down at every viewer and it
almost was. And, by the way, ever bomb dropped
previously in front of the stands were fully
explosive.
The grand
finale was a fireworks show that no one ever
forgot. The huge B-52 bomber would begin a pass
toward the front of the crowded stands and miles
short would start dropping individual 500 pound
live bombs in a string which formed a perfect
visual pattern to the ground and exploded on
impact, one by one, until the proper point to
salvo the many, many remaining bombs in a single
cluster in front of the viewers. The sights and
sounds were memorable to everyone who ever saw
that.
I had
flown my first JCOC in a F-100 on the wing of
Capt. Bob Brinkman, early in my tour. Bob was a
fine pilot and hero who, along with his ECM
Operator, Vince Sciangio, gave their lives while
flying Wild Weasel (F-105F) attacks at low level
on a Surface to Air Missile site, near Hanoi.
In the early days of the Weasels it was not
uncommon for crews to risk such suicidal dangers
to try and protect the strike force, without
even the minimal benefit of the standoff
missiles, which were used later.
A couple
of us were sent TDY to the Pentagon to work in
the highly classified Air Force Operations
Center. Those of us who were versed in planning
and flying the air shows were to plan a fabulous
fly-by, highly classified until the scheduled
day, that it would be flown down Pennsylvania
Avenue in D.C. for a special honor on behalf of
the President of the Republic of Germany, Willy
Brandt. As much as the planning was of interest,
I hoped I would never return to the Pentagon.
The good part was that I worked directly with
Col. Jack Bradley, who had been our 1st
Fighter Group Commander. For that brief period,
I got a chance to know him and appreciate how
fine a man and great leader he was, besides
being a fighter Ace, with 15 kills in Europe. I
had missed the opportunity to know him as a 2nd
lieutenant in the 27th squadron at
Rome NY, and this made up for that loss.
Near the
end of my tour of duty, three of us went to Las
Vegas NV, to perform two shows in successive
days, projected for 100,000 attendees from Los
Angeles and surroundings. Our Commander of Test
Operations, Col. Bill Colgan, Lon Walter and I
were there for practice, then the shows. I was
to perform the shoot-down of the towed aircraft
target, but with attendance predicted to reach
100,000, and Nellis, the base of the Air Force
Fighter Weapons School, home of TAC’s best, it
increased pressure. I decided to fire closer
than usual to the target to reduce risk of
missing in front of such crowds. Closer range
demanded a more precise attack, but I had gained
experience in this mission and I could not
fathom facing the thought of a miss, knowing
that what the spectators would see would be the
impression of Air Force capability that they
would take home. I was successful and totally
destroyed the target aircraft for both shows,
however on the first day its severed wing flew
up and luckily hit just over my engine air
intake and slid up the windscreen, which
propelled it high enough to miss the rudder,
creating no damage, only red paint marks on the
airplane. I knew it could have been disaster
had it impacted a few feet lower, on the engine
air-intake. The next show, my reactions were
honed. When I saw the target ‘explode’ I pulled
up sharply, to avoid ingesting debris in the
engine. It hit my fuselage, at a steep angle of
attack, just below the jet intake. The result
this time was quite damaging since it tore gear
doors, damaged the fuselage ribs, bent and tore
the skin in front of many fuselage ring-frames,
but the gear came down, the airplane was
repairable, and everyone was so happy with the
results that I never heard a word that wasn’t
complimentary, even the folks from whom I had
gotten the airplane. In fact, their C.O. loaned
me two 100’s a few days later, for an important
personal request.
Nellis
AFB is the home base of the Air Force
Thunderbirds and the team was there for the
show, and being compared to other teams of the
free world flying also. One of the Thunderbird
pilots was finishing his tour of duty so I asked
the T-Bird leader, Maj. Robbie Robinson for a
try out. I knew that team members were chosen
from Tactical Air Command, but it was worth a
shot. He acquiesced, but couldn’t use the team
airplanes and that’s when the Fighter School
C.O. came through for me with loan.
We flew
to Thunderbird Lake, their practice area, and I
went through all the formation maneuvers a
couple of times on his wing, varying my flight
position for him, wing and slot. Robbie told me
he would request my transfer and, since I was
outside Tactical Air Command, he urged me to
make a formal request for transfer, which I did
as soon as I got home. My request for transfer
was endorsed and forwarded to Systems Command by
APGC commander, Major General Kelly, with
his recommendation for approval. He felt it an
honor to Systems Command for one of us to be the
first outsider from Tactical Air Command to
break into the T-Birds. I learned that Robbie
was about to finish his tour also, but was
unaware that the new leader would be Hoot
Gibson, on whose wing I saw my first enemy Mig
shot down when Hoot became an Ace at that
moment. Had I known that, the outcome may have
changed. In the meantime, I had been authorized
to travel with the team for their next show at
Daytona Beach Speedway and got to fly practice
shows in their airplanes with the full team, so
felt I was on my way to satisfy another dream.
My luck
ran out! Shortly after returning home our
General received an unusual response, a rebuke
from Systems’ Headquarter, whose Deputy for
Personnel and only a Bird Colonel, just happened
to be the brother of AFSC Commander, General
Bernard Schriever. The general is arguably the
most recognized of the commanders of Systems,
even to the present, because of his
accomplishments with ballistic missiles and
space systems. His brother, the colonel,
refused APGC sending a graduate engineer to move
outside the command, “to play around flying” and
he ordered me to report to Vandenberg AFB, as a
Titan Missile Test Officer. If that wouldn’t
have been my last wish for my career, I don’t
know what could have seemed worse. In those
days, with the growing interest in missiles, it
usually became a new career path, not just a few
years.
It was
not unusual that after a couple of years, even
in a fine flying assignment I was getting
anxious to move on to a new challenge. That had
begun to be the case at Eglin, for me and a
couple of years with the Thunderbirds, would
have been just the cure, even though I faced
more time away from Martha and the kids than I
preferred.
But
Missiles, Woe is me! Off to the land of
wingless, pilotless missiles ….. Space Artillery
Officer, Captain Smith, Reporting as Ordered,
Sir!
Well, at
least I later received a nice trophy of these
events, in an autographed photo from the new
team.
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