Survival

Last week, Sarge posted about cold exposure in Korea during the winter.  That reminded me of this "war" story.

So,  There I was....* A brand new First Lieutenant at my first operational tour in the 80TFS "Juvats" at Kunsan AB ROK.  I have completed my area checkout and am now an operational Fighter Pilot.  That having been said, my operational skills do not accurately reflect my self image. 

Who I was
Source: 

Who I thought I was

Source: 

In any case, the Wing is about to be given an ORI (Operational Readiness Inspection).  As I've mentioned elsewhere, an ORI is intended to determine the Wing's overall combat readiness and capabilities.  The reality of the inspection is that it is an evaluation of the Wing and Squadron Commanders and determines their future potential for promotion and a continuing career in the Air Force.  To be sure, individual screwups, even by lowly First Lieutenants, are not career enhancing either.  Let us just say ORIs are stressful for all hands and leave it at that.

Based on the high stakes and my low experience, I have been relegated to the night schedule.  Out of sight, out of mind as the saying goes.  The ORI is in February.  The inspectors will be cold and miserable enough during the day, there's no reason to expect to see them at night. 

The ORI team arrives and we're off to the races. Airfield attack horns going off, Gas Masks and MOPP gear being donned, missions being flown, it's a busy time, even at night.  The rules at the time were you could only fly twice at night as opposed to three times during the day.  We would show at the squadron about 8, brief at 9 for an 11PM takeoff.  Missions were usually 1.2, so we'd be down about 12:15.  We'd do a quick turn and be back in the air about 1:15 on the ground by 2:30, debrief and leave the squadron as the sun was coming up around 6.  Head for the quarters and try to sleep.  Get up and do it again.  This goes on for a few days when just before leaving the squadron, I get called in to my Flight Commander's office and told I'm going to be taken off the schedule for this evening's flight.  I've been selected for a "good deal".  

The ORI wants to evaluate the Wing's survival skills.  They've got an instructor from the survival school at Fairchild on the team and they want to take someone out overnight and see how they fare.  My Flight Commander says that since I just went through the school the end of November, I was the best choice.  Yeah Right!

Later that day, I show up at base ops and meet the instructor.  I've got my flight gear with me,  He's got a seat pack from an F-4 and a parachute.  In short I've got what I'd have if I had just jumped out of a jet.

Survival Gear which didn't usually include a bottle of Champagne

We board a Huey (a terrifying experience, there's really only one good time to be on a helicopter.  When it has just picked up your pink butt in a rescue.)  

I digress.

We fly North for a bit and land in a frozen rice paddy just as the sun starts to go down.  The instructor and I get out and the Huey disappears to the south.  I recognize where we are generally.  We're in airspace that was named MPSA (Maverick/Pave Spike Area).  We used it all the time to train with training versions of those weapons.

I'm in the general vicinity of the Hwy 32 Marker in the top center

As I said, the sun is going down and the wind is coming off the Yellow Sea at about 15-20k.  It's starting to get very cold.

While the instructor is setting up his tent, cot, sleeping bag and small cook stove, he's quizzing me about initial post ejection survival procedures.  Finally, he's all set up and he's ready to show me my luxury quarters,  He hands me the seat pack and parachute and we're off.  We hike for a couple of miles and climb a hill that's above another rice paddy, frozen.  It's dark.  He asks me what my priorities are now.  I ask him, is this war or peace time survival.  He says peace time.  I say, get out of the elements, attempt to contact someone, and stay warm.  He says your radio is busted.  OK, I look around.  In the field are several Hay Ricks, large piles of the stalks of Rice left behind after the rice was harvested. 

Hay Rick
Source: en.wikipedia.org

I walk over to a group of them and find a couple that are fairly close together and perpendicular to the wind.  I knock down some of the hay into the gap, spread the parachute on top of that, then knock down a bit more on top.  My very own sleeping bag!

He asks "Now what, you going to bed?  I say, "Nope, I'm going to start a fire"  I look in the seat pack for the strike anywhere matches that are in the kit and they're not there.  He laughs and said "I took those out to complicate the exercise a bit for you."   No Problem.  I walk over to the Rick I've decided will be my fireplace, reach into my survival vest, pull out a flare, and light the night end.  

Source

As it ignites, he says "Don't! That'll cost the AF money!"  I reply "Good" and push it into the Rick. 

Slept warm and toasty all night.  The next morning I woke to the sounds of a Huey landing.  The Huey driver said he saw the smoke and fire and knew who was who.

I did learn that I needed to have my own survival kit with what I considered absolute essentials, one of which was matches.

Death and Love

Arlington National Cemetery at Dusk on New Year's Eve, 2014

Death never seems to be far away. People die every day. Sometimes after long and fulfilling lives. Sometimes after lives that were cut far too short.

This subject has been weighing very heavily upon me these past few days.

My friend Buck has been gone for over a month. I still miss seeing his comments. I'll go to his place and wander through his old posts, remembering.

Then today this, over at Skipper's place, the news of a young man lost far too soon. A young man whose parents are friends of friends.

I cannot begin to imagine the grief of his parents. I cannot pretend to "know" what they are feeling. I pray every day that I never know that pain.

The fear of losing a loved one is ever present. Most of us try not to think about it, we push it away and hope and pray it doesn't happen to us or to people we're close to.

But it does. And it hurts.

They say that time heals all pain.

They're wrong in one sense, that pain stays with you until the day you die.

Our sincerest hope is that when we die, we are reunited with our loved ones in the "sweet by-and-by." It's what I believe. It's what I hope.

I do not fear my own death. We all die.

I fear the death of those I love.

So, does one not love in order to avoid that fear?

No. For then this life would be truly pointless. And I know in my heart of hearts that it is anything but pointless.

We're born, we live and then we die. Hopefully, somewhere in there, you find people to love, people who love you.

So yes, mourn those who have passed. But remember their lives and how much they enriched your own life.

Without love, life is a living death.

I've been there, I don't ever want to go back.

Dawn, the 15th of January 2015.
Another chance to celebrate life.

Rocket

So, There I was….* Assistant Ops Officer of an F-15C Squadron at Kadena AB Japan.  It’s the first Duty Day after New Year’s, and The Boss has called the Ops Officer, myself and the four Flight Commanders into his office for a meeting.  It had been a very restful Holiday Season after a very eventful past couple of months.  We’d been to the PI for an extended Cope Thunder helping the RAAF check out in their new F/A-18s, the usual rotations to the ROK for Alert at Osan AB or Kwang Ju AB.  We’d even had the opportunity for some unusual formation flying.

Santa had been somewhat good to me, I’d received orders.  I was going to Ft Leavenworth KS for “ArrrrrMeeee Training Sir”  (AKA Command and General Staff College).  I was to report mid-June for “Army Kindergarten”, intended to get us somewhat up to speed on all things Army.  The downside was my Wife, Mrs. Juvat (AKA Capt Juvat to the personnel folks that worked for her) was staying at Kadena for a year along with my 6 year old son and as yet unborn but coming, daughter.  A good assignment that would be better with my family.  It is, what it is.

That, however was 6 months in the future, I still had a lot of operational flying to do.  In fact, later today I had a 2 v 2 similar flight lead upgrade ride to give to one of the guys who’d been in my flight while I was a flight commander.  He went by Rocket an epithet bestowed on him with all the love that a fighter squadron can convey.  In prior posts, discussion has waxed and waned on the various means someone acquires a “Call Sign” and by what means the actual name could come from.  Rocket had come to the F-15 through a “pay your dues” tour.  While I don’t recall what it was specifically, it had to be either a First Assignment IP (FAIP) or a Forward Air Controller (FAC).  I’m certain enough, within the constraints of my memory, to decide it was a FAIP.  I base this on his evolution as a fighter pilot.  He had absolutely no problem with formation or instruments, which was common in FAIPS.

Rocket had progressed through the various phases of fighter pilot checkouts with the normal ups and downs for a first timer.  Some classic mistakes, some boneheaded ones, but none of them call sign caliber.  So, he went by “Bob”, which was natural as his first name was Robert.  He kept trying to encourage us with suggestions, but we were having none of that.  As Sarge has stated, your call sign is given, not taken.

It was one Friday nite and we’re in the squadron bar.  (Yes, children, Fighter Squadron’s had bars back then, with Beer, and we drank beer on Fridays in the squadron.  Come back when you get over the vapors.) So, Bob and I and a couple of others were drinking beer and shooting watches and cussing and scratching and engaging in other no longer allowed activities, when the wives arrive.  This generally happened around 6 or so and was a not so subtle hint that we needed to wind things down and take them over to the Skoshi Koom (Skoshi being, we were told, “little” in Japanese and KOOM being the acronym for the Kadena Officers Open Mess). The Skosh was an offset of the Big Club, had a couple of dining rooms as well as (cover your ears, kiddies) a bar.  The Wing frequented it as our unofficial club.

Well, the wives arrived. One of them had a stunning extra with her.  Rocket, who was single, took site of her and was off like a ….

Well, you know what happens at the end of the rocket burn, right?

Ergo, Rocket. Rocket, you are, Rocket forever you shall be.

As Sarge so frequently tells me, Juvat, you digress get back to the meeting.

We’ve all gathered, and the Boss hasn’t come in yet, so we’re all, even the OpsO, trying to guess what the subject is.  In walks the Boss, we all rise (yes, the Air Force, even Fighter Pilots stand up when a commander enters the room, don’t get all teary eyed).  He motions us to our seats.

“Guys, the Wing King has a good deal for the Squadron”  Oh no, here it comes again.

“The Squadron that had been tasked to provide Red Air for the next Cope Thunder has had to pull out. PACAF asked the Wing if one of our squadrons could fill in.  The Wing King chose us.”  Pandemonium breaks out.  Cope Thunder was just about the best flying we had available and we’d been back from it less than a month.  Plus it was at Clark AB PI, doesn’t get much better than that.  (Side note, I think it was a Navy F-4S squadron, doesn’t really matter they weren’t there.)

We’re scheduled to deploy in 2 weeks.

Time passes quickly and we’re now down in the PI, playing Bad Guys, which is not a role we played very often at Cope Thunder and the fact that we’d done it during our last Cope Thunder against the Aussies probably was a factor in our selection.

I’ve got the afternoon go leading a four ship, but am not the mission commander.  So while I’ve got some mission planning to do, I’m also available to be SOF for the morning go.  This means I have to attend the morning mass brief.  I’m there, taking some notes, getting a general feel for the plan. 

The mission commander has a typical plan for dividing responsibility for defending the airspace.  Essentially, a line from Clark to High Peak to Hermana Mayor (a large island a few miles off shore) will divide the Land approach from the shoreline approach and a line from Clark to the mouth of the river at Botolan will divide the Shoreline approach from the Spratley’s approach.  Reasonable visual references to try and help provide physical separation between flights.  Briefing completed, the morning go goes about the business of going. 

I get back to mission planning.  I hear the Blue Force Jets taking off.  The intervals of 10 second take off going on for about 10 minutes is a big hint of identity.  20 minutes later another minute of 10 second intervals alerts me that Red Force is airborne and I am on Duty.  This means little more than the Duty Desk knows where I am in case the 3TFW SOF needs Eagle specific emergency procedure help. 

About 20 minutes later, I hear a knock it off call made on Guard.  Uh-Oh, that’s never used at Cope Thunder unless something bad has happened.  A couple of minutes later the SOF phone rings, there’s a couple of seconds and I hear “He’s right here” and hands the phone to me  I feel sick.

I identify myself, and the SOF says “we’re not sure what’s happened yet, but it looks like we might have lost one of yours, please notify your Senior Rep (The Vice Wing King was deployed with us) as well as Home Base.  We’re doing a head count and will let you know as soon as we know anything definite.” 

I look at the schedule and make a note of the names and tail numbers assigned to the morning go.  I notice that all my guys from my former flight were airborne.  Time is stopped.  I want to know who, but don’t want to know who.

I call Chambers Hall and ask to be put through to the Vice Wing King.  He’s left the building.  Call the Club.  Nope not there for breakfast.  Decide to call back to Kadena, and get put through to the Wing King.  Explain what I’ve been told as opposed to what I know to be true so far.  He tells me to call back every 10 minutes until directed differently.

The SOF calls back and says we’ve definitely had an Eagle hit the water, in the vicinity of Hermana Mayor.  Well, that eliminates the Boss who was in the Southern Vector, however, my guys now represent 6 of the 8 remaining possibles.  I call back home and report that info.  Jets are starting to come back down initial.  I’m listening as they check in on tower.  The flight in the center vector checks in with four.  It’s definitely one of mine.  Finally the last Eagle flight checks in, One, Two, Three.

Rocket.

The Vice shows up and I fill him in on what’s happened.  He tells me to continue and he’ll contact Home for now.  The guys start coming back in the squadron and I have them give me all 12 VCR Tapes and put them in a safe and lock it.  I tell them to debrief and take copious written notes. When done, sign them and give them to me.  They’re added to the safe.  Pretty soon, the 3TFW Wing Safety Officer comes up and signs for all that material.  The Vice relieves me, grounds the squadron until further notice and I head back to Chambers Hall.

There is a Wake at the Club that night.  That’s the only thing I can think of to describe it.  No other squadron showed up, for dinner, beers, crud or anything.  Just us.  There were some old retired fighter pilots there, who kept a lid on things. 

The next morning, The Boss calls us all together and tells us what he knows.  Rocket had been involved in a mid-air with another Eagle!  The Blue Force had used Hermana Mayor as a Nav point and Rocket as #4 had seen them.  He’d called the tally to his lead who cleared him to engage.  Rocket’s flight was in the Eastern sector.  Rocket began a left hand turn while looking down to keep tally on the bogeys.

Simultaneously, the flight in the Middle Sector’s #2 guy was on the east side of his flight and sees the bandits below.  He calls the tally to his lead who cleared him to engage.  He starts a right turn to keep a tally on the bandits.

Distance between the two flights was about 8 miles, between the filght leads about 12, neither flight lead was aware of the other flight.

Extensive modeling after the fact determined that Rocket had milliseconds before impact begun to commit the nose of his jet down taking it slightly out of the flight path of the second jet.  The horizontal slab of the other jet passed through the canopy of Rocket’s jet killing him.  Since the Eagle will trim itself automatically when the stick is held steady for a second, the airplane was trimmed for a couple of degree nose low moderate bank which it held until impacting the water. The other Eagle thought he’d hit jet wash, came back to Clark and landed normally.

This happened 25 years ago today.  F-15C 78-534 was not recoverable.  There was enough DNA recovered to confirm Rocket’s death.

The squadron is cleared to fly two days later.  It was not the same, and it took us a while to get back up on step.  We finished out the exercise without further incident and deployed back home.  That was to be my last Cope Thunder.

Two weeks later, I received a package in the mail from PACAF headquarter, containing these two photographs.  Rocket is #4.

A week or so ago, PA posted about the last 7 seconds.  I’m convinced those 7 seconds were no different than any other 7 seconds in Rocket’s life.  One instant he’s there, the next he’s not.  As I sat down to write this, I realized that’s probably the best possible way to go.

*SJC

A Flanker Flyby on Friday

I don't think any of us here at the Chant ever thought the Russian Bear was asleep forever.  While their Communist economy couldn't survive the Cold War, there was little doubt that even a touch of capitalism instituted there, no matter how corrupt the society is, would eventually yield returns, and some of that cash is being injected to their Air Force.

If their forays into the Ukraine and Crimea weren't enough, they seem to be back to their old tricks in the Baltics.

It's the weekend and I just felt like sharing.  Feel free to read the whole story here:

Watch A Russian Jet Intercept A Portuguese Surveillance Plane

Tales From the Ramp - Front Radar Scopes

The Pilot's Office in the F-4D Phantom II (Source)

So a long, long, long (long...) time ago, I was a Weapon Control Systems (WCS) maintainer on the mighty F-4 Phantom II. Specifically the C and D variants of said flying beast. I spent roughly seven years of my semi-illustrious Air Force career doing that particular job.

My two major assignments in WCS were Kadena AB, Okinawa and Kunsan AB, Republic of Korea. At Kadena we had F-4Cs and F-4Ds and a squadron of reconnaissance birds (the RF-4C, which I didn't muck with). At Kunsan we only had the F-4D. Now this story is about some fun I had on an F-4D in Korea. When it was cold outside. Oh dear, it was cold outside.

So there I was...*

Now normally I worked in the Radar Cal Barn in Korea. This was not an actual barn but was, in reality, a hangar. For aircraft. As seen below.

Radar Cal Barn at Kunsan with a victim aircraft in work.
8th Component Repair Squadron (CRS)
(Photo by Gary Knight, from his Facebook page, I worked with Gary in Korea. A fine fellow.)

Note that I said "normally" above (Skip can tell you all about "normal," he'll mention that from time to time).

Occasionally we CRS types would get called out to the flight line to do, ahem, "real work." I guess that requires a bit of an explanation. We WCS types existed in 3 organizations in the wing. We had a guy on the Wing Staff, as a Quality Assurance inspector (I got to do that for a few months) and then we had folks in the CRS and in the Aircraft Generation Squadron, or AGS. The AGS folks worked the flight line. Think outdoors, in the cold. Well, in the summer it could be nice, as long as it wasn't raining.

The AGS folks would typically check out jets with busted radar systems and then either sign the write-up off for various reasons, or pull parts off the bird to bring them into the mock-up. The mock-up was over at CRS, we had a radar system mounted on a test bench which we could use to troubleshoot a Line Replaceable Unit (LRU) and either tweak (align) it back to usefulness or send it off to the depot for repair. Either way, we'd supply the AGS folks with another LRU which they could then mount back on the jet to repair the original problem.

(For those who must know, every F-4 had to have its radar system checked out every 180 days. This is what we did at the Radar Cal Barn. We had test equipment and such which we used to align and tweak the radar system to its optimal condition. Just like new. Well, sort of. Most of the jets were already pushing 10 years in service. That was old for a Phantom, many of which had seen some pretty hard use in Southeast Asia.)

So one day, I can't remember why**, we got the call to head out to an aircraft to remove the pilot's front radar scope, that thing with the big round glass thingee in the opening photo. Just above the attitude indicator and sporting a number of light gray knobs around the big round glass thingee. (I used to know what all those knobs did, now I'd have to look it up in a tech order. It's been a long, long time...)

Normally, (there's that word again) removing the front scope wasn't that hard. Pop two Dzus fasteners on either side to disconnect the glare shield, undo two cannon plugs on the left side of the scope, one cannon plug on the right, undo two bolts (either side of the scope, I think) and presto, Mr. Radar Scope slides right out.

(Source)

At sea aboard USS Abraham Lincoln (Oct. 18, 2002) -- Aviation Electronic's Technician 2nd Class Tony Komljenovich from Cleveland, Ohio, assigned to
Fighter Squadron Thirty-One (VF-31) troubleshoots the wires on a cannon plug of an F-14D Tomcat.
U.S. Navy photo by Photographer's Mate 2nd Class Virginia K. Schaefer.

Not so fast there Hoss!

I forgot one little detail, see that little green scope in the next picture? (That's the Radar Homing and Warning, or RHAW, scope, as I recall. I also recall we just called it the "ECM Scope." ECM standing for Electronic Countermeasures. This was all, dare I say it, a long, long time ago...)

One slight problem, to get one's arm through that little hole in that bracket one needs to strip down to one's t-shirt. The bracket was a really tight squeeze with a shirt on.

Did I mention how freaking cold it was that day? It was OMG cold that day. Me and Klepper were already freezing our arses off as we had not expected to have to work in the Great Outdoors that day but had anticipated being in our nice, warm hangar.

So neither of us was wearing long underwear. Now my braves, in the days before Under Armor and other sorts of new-fangled, lightweight undergarments for to keep the cold, cold air away from our precious skins, we wore long underwear, long johns as they were also called. Bulky and made you sweat like the very Devil indoors with any sort of heat on.

Long Johns. Sexy, neh?
Public Domain Photo

So we precious radar calibrators tended to make do with long sleeve shirts and a field jacket. (What's that? Pants? Of course we were wearing pants. Jolly jokers!)

So Davy (that would be Klepper's first name, his Christian name, ya know, his given name...) are already freezing our butts off as we are preparing to take this scope out of the jet. (As I recall this particular jet was broken, but it had a good front scope. This was known as "cannibalizing" one broken aircraft to fix another, not so broken, aircraft. Of course we had permission. Ya can't just run around taking parts from one bird and putting them on another without permission. That would be chaos, dogs and cats living together...)

I'm in the cockpit, I figure I'll disconnect the scope and then slide it out and hand it to Dave. Let him muscle it down the ladder. (For those things were somewhat heavy and kind of awkward. Dave being the younger guy, I figured I'd let him have the glory of being all physical and what-have-you with Mr. Radar Scope.)

So, Dzus fasteners popped, left side cannon plugs disconnected, ECM scope is out and...

Crap.

Time to get cold. Damn cold. That is, it's time to strip down to my t-shirt, pop that right side cannon plug off, bundle back up, pass the scope to Dave and...

Ah crap.

Now the cannon plugs on the front scope are supposed to have little wings on them for to make it easier to disconnect them in the close confines of being under the front windscreen. Both left side plugs had them, the right side did not.

Damn it!

Now this would happen from time to time. Sometimes a cannon plug would go bad, usually a pin wouldn't stay seated and the entire plug would have to be replaced. (And yes, Virginia, I do have a story about replacing a cannon plug on a jet. But not today...)

Someone had replaced this plug and used the wrong plug. Well, electronically it was the right plug but it didn't have the little wings. So I had to ask Dave to hand me the pliers.

Something like these, but not nearly as fancy. (Source)

Yes, I am still standing in the front cockpit, sans field jacket, sans shirt and yes, I am freezing my nads off. (Not to go all technical on you, but that's what we called it then, it's what some of us call it now. "Freezing one's nads off." A term almost medical in its own way. Hhmm, I wonder what the Latin equivalent of "nads" is?)

Dave hands me the pliers and I reach through that miserable little bracket with its miserable little opening...

And drop the pliers.

Yes, I may have used a few choice Anglo-Saxon epithets, a couple of naughty words in Korean and I may have gotten somewhat upset. But I calmed down, for I was a professional mind you, pulled my arm out of that miserable little bracket with its miserable little opening and retrieved the pliers. (They had just slid down towards the front of the windscreen. Fortunately.) 

Pliers in hand and shaking like I was having a seizure (did I mention how cold it was) I went back in. This time the plug came off, this time I got the scope out and handed it to Dave. Who got it down off the jet and darted into the shelter to call the shop.

Shelters at Bitburg (I circled one in yellow, I'm helpful that way.)Public Domain Photo

Meanwhile I bundled back up as best as I could and tried to get warm again. In my heart, I felt that I could never possibly ever, ever be warm again. I was shaking, my nose was running and I felt frozen.

Now I know I've been colder than on that day. Before and since.

It could not have been less than 10°F that day, no wind.

But it was a wet, right on the coast, bone chilling cold. The kind of cold you only feel being near or on the water. Damn it was cold.

I'm shivering now, just thinking about it.

And people ask me why I only spent 7 years in aircraft maintenance.

Okay, I may be stupid, but I'm not that stupid. No sirree Bob. A couple of years later I got myself a desk job, an indoor job.

No more front radar scopes for me in the dead of a Korean winter. No thank you!

No more miserable little brackets with miserable little openings and cannon plugs with no wings and, and, and...

Okay, I'm all better now.

Like I said, that was a long, long, long time ago.

Uh no, I don't miss it. (Well, maybe a little...)



* SJC
** Now I remember. The jet in radar cal had a bad scope, nothing forthcoming from Supply so we couldn't finish that jet and get the next one towed in. So Job Control sent us out to grab the scope off another jet that had multiple issues and wouldn't be flying any time soon. As one gets older, the memory seems to work in fits and starts. If at all!

Rollin' Rollin' Rollin'

The Viking was a great airplane for a Naval Flight Officer.  It had a bunch of interesting missions, and a busy primary one (ASW) that challenged the entire crew, especially the three guys not flying the jet.  We also we flew in both the front and the back seat, so you were either large and in charge- managing the mission, or you had a great view while backing up the pilot and back-seaters.
In the back of the jet, we sat in the TACCO or Tactical Coordinator position, next to the SENSO (Sensor Operator)- the Enlisted Aircrewman.  Up front, the COTAC (Co-Tactical Coordinator) handled the radios, weapons management, and navigation.  

I preferred sitting up front, backing up the pilot, which afforded one of the best views Naval Aviation had to offer- a big glass canopy and an high seating position.  It also came with another fringe benefit...the Hoover was dual-controlled.

If you look close, you can see the stick in front of the guy on the right.  That's where I'd get my stick time- great work if you can get it.

As a Viking guy, I can't say I "did the number" - pushing past the speed of sound, nor can I say I fired off missiles and dropped bombs on the enemy.  Few Viking guys and gals could say that, although the jet was capable of it and a lucky few did a couple lethal missions.  But I can say that as an NFO, sometimes semi-derisively called a Non-Flying Officer, I flew a lot.

For those who wanted to, most pilots were usually plenty willing to let the COTAC take over as much of the flying duties as the mission would allow- outside of takeoffs and landings of course.  

Zorching over the tops of the clouds was probably the most exhilarating, but the Hoover was completely aerobatic, so we had that going for us.  Continuous rolls and loops were prohibited maneuvers in the Viking, but Barrel and Aileron Rolls were good to go.  Barrel Rolls were fun, but I never got the hang of them, always losing too much altitude.  I liked doing aileron rolls the most- pulling the nose up to 10 degrees above the horizon and throwing the stick over, feeling the jet snap, that was just a blast; some of the most fun you could have with your clothes on.  

Some people were surprised when I told them that the S-3B was capable of those maneuvers- that the "Fisher-Price Jet" (No sharp edges, safe for kids!) could climb, dive, and roll like that...

And I didn't know you could roll a C-130.

In a minute, I'll get to that story from Approach Magazine.

Approach has always been a great magazine for the folks in Naval Aviation.  It's where one can read about the mistakes, near misses, and mishaps that our aviation brothers and sisters in the Navy, Marine Corps, and US Coast Guard confess their sins.  Usually the stories are fairly benign- nobody publicly fesses up to the more destructive mishaps, especially if their actions were a causal factor, but the ones that are written up and published are great for learning what not to do, and maybe for a bit of humor.

From the Navy website:

Since 1955 Approach magazine has guided Navy and Marine Corps aviation professionals with information, statistics and a bit of humor. Most of all, Approach has given aviators a place to share stories, misdeeds and adventures, to make us better, safer and more effective.

These first-person “There I was” stories have been the basis for Approach since its inception. This sharing of stories also has bonded naval aviators — past and present — to one another and to the profession itself. Picture yourself with a damaged aircraft, operating in blue water with a pitching deck and enough gas for one, maybe two, approaches, and you have everything needed for a “There I was” story.

This story has most of those characteristics and it worth a read.

So here you go:

It was supposed to be a routine logistical flight.   Our six crew members included an active-duty Marine test pilot, four aircrew from Air Test and Evaluation Squadron VX-20, plus an FAA Flight Test Engineer.

The four engine C-130 'Herc's' passengers included four maintenance people and a Navy active-duty maintainer.  We also carried various maintenance 'pack-up' items plus ends and odds of baggage.

Our mission was to reposition a Hercules KC-130T, to the expeditionary airfield at Twenty Nine Palms for electronic-propeller-control system testing in the field.

We had flown this C-130 Hercules through every imaginable test configuration at NAS Pax River.  All that remained was to evaluate system performance at low-level.  For several days, we would fly low altitude missions in the desert before returning the 'Herc' to its parent unit.

About an hour or so after take-off, we were settled into a routine flight at 24M on auto-pilot.  I was in the right seat and just had gotten into a comfortable position for my rear end . . when the aircraft suddenly . . pitched up.

Hard.  And simultaneously.  It rolled left.

The Aircraft Commander and I were mentally triggered to lurch forward with emergency 'hardness' to punch off our autopilot-disconnects.  In error, we both thought that a crippled ... failed autopilot 'system had gifted' us the pitch-up . . along with that severe wing drop.

To our further alarm, the C-130 continued its hard G pitch-up and its 'weird' aileron pressure . .

On its own !

The huge airplane continued to harshly rotating to the left.

Both of our hands and feet were on the controls . . to strongly oppose the control moves.  But unnatural forces overwhelmed our combined strength. 

And when the wings showed rotation beyond the gauges vertical, our Herc's left cockpit windows were slicing down through both guages' artificial horizons.

In a rolling inverted dive, we zoomed lower into the solid IFR 'goop.' 

The left seater yelled : " M-Y  A-I-R-P-L-A-N-E  ! "

After a short argument within my brain, I yielded my dual yoke control.  But my giving up the yoke was a totally disciplined effort.

Up front all of the cockpit crew and FAA guy, watched helplessly as the four-engine C-130 rolled completely over on to its back.  Its hull still rotating, we watched her fling herself almost straight down and picking up speed.

As the Herc lunged into an accelerating spinning dive. my aircraft attitude gyro was now 'fully displaying its never seen before . . brown colored reverse side' before it rotated like a child's toy top.

Our fascinating and specialized world became more violent when the NEGATIVE G's caught the airplane in its 'fist.'

Our flight engineer weirdly waving his arms and legs, was pinned  to the cockpit's ceiling.  At the wrong time, he'd un-buckled his seat belt and had been 'leaning far forward' to tweak an engine's fuel adjustment. 

During our second diving rotation, we 'roller coastered' into NEGATIVE G's. Now we had a dust devil of helmet bags, IFR approach plates, papers, coffee, dirt, dislodged knobs, were joined with a odd flight of a Subway sandwich floating like a towed ad banner past my side vision.

Back behind the cockpit, in the passenger/cargo area, pandemonium reigned.  Almost no one had their seat belt on.

Not even loosely in place!

Along with intense fear of the unknown, all of the passengers were bodily tossed to the ceiling where they trashed each other around within a swirling storm of dirt and stuff the multi-engine's cargo bay had accumulated over its entire service life.

As the many-engine aircraft flew on out of control, I looked over to glimpse at the left seater's attitude indicator ... it WAS NOT matching my own.

In fact, his attitude indicator had tumbled its internal gyro; it was flipping strangely.  Just ratcheting around and distracting us ... worse than worthless.

Both airspeed indicators were displaying 350 knots as the Commander strugged to pull up the Herc's nose.

After glancing at our increasing airspeed, I knew all four [ 4 ] the throttles were still at cruise power.  Without my asking the A/C, I yanked all four throttle levers back to idle power.  As our airspeed began to decay, I checked my turn and bank indicator.

W-O-W !

Its uncoordinated ball was max'd way over into its glass tube's right corner.  Next to ball's tube, its turn needle was maxed the opposite direction.

I yelled : "HEY . . WE ARE IN A SPIN !"

My shout shifted the Aircraft Commander's eye balls to his own turn and bank.  He quickly reacted as the Herc was entering its third rotation.

The A/C had stopped its roll rate with full tail rudder in the opposite direction.

But all that airspeed was building rapidly toward max red line showed we were pointed close to straight down.

As his attitude gyro was uselessly flipping around, the left seater was now focusing on his rate of descent and the whirling altimeter trying to perceive up from down.

As he tried to strong arm the 'Herc's' nose up to the horizon, I became aware of an in-credible whining sound.  It was previously unnoticed because both of us were alarmed and shouting the propellor on # 3 engine was reading 106% overspeed.

Still in dense clouds we finally got the wings level at 5,000 feet.  We declared an emergency to Indianapolis Center and a requested vector to the nearest long fat runway.   And to allow us to descend out of the IFR 'goop.' Still uncertain why the aircraft departed controlled flight, we ordered the crew to check on passenger injuries.  And we began assessing what had caused our odd-ball emergency.

We told our flight engineer to carefully head aft with our injured loadmaster who'd now been untangled from the stack of human bodies tossed here and there.

Fortunately, the loadmaster just had a moderate head wound, broken bones, and moderate cuts.

When we descended out of the 'goop' into seeing outside the airplane, we got our first ground reference since the emergency.  Then we got a visual fix on the emergency airport Indianapolis Control was directing us toward.

Simultaneously, some crew member or passenger came on the Herc's Intercom radio shouting 'FIRE!'We scanned our instruments, nacelles, wings and everything visible to check for a fire. 

But there was nothing we could see or find. 

With no time to look further, we told Indy Center the aircraft might on fire and we now required an immediate landing.

Surveying the Herc's interior scenario, it looked like a bomb had gone off. With assorted human beings and debris strewn all over the cargo area.  Up front, our flight deck was piled with everything your brain can think of.

Including a set of wheel chocks that zero gravity had migrated forward through the open cargo compartment door.

Turning on final approach, we'd no approach plates, or checklists. Our navigator was frantically digging and grabbing through the cockpit jumble to find the detail we needed.

Once we got our hands on West Virginia's Huntington IFR plate detail, we made a normal recovery and a fair landing.  

Because we feared fire somewhere onboard, we got on the brakes and quickly clear of the runway quickly shut down, set brakes, gathered our injured and evacuated.

No fire.

So we returned to the aircraft trying to discover what caused our life-threatening odyssey.

Rammed into the 'Hercs' tail feathers was a twenty [20 ] man rubber life raft.  It had deployed in-flight from its wing-storage arrangement. It was still inflated and was wrapped around our left horizontal stabilizer's leading edge.

In flight, both life rafts had deployed.  One vanished.  But the other had wrapped itself around the horizontal stabilizer then in a nano-second it had levered the 'Herk's' entire elevator control surface. 

Full up. 

We had (1) rolled upside down at least twice, (2)  lost 9,000 feet of altitude, (3) exceeded the three positive and 2 negative G's limits. And (5) the airspeed had approached 485 Knots.

The data pallet [brought along along to record flight-test data] captured invaluable performance data and allowed us to reconstruct our flight profile.

After extensive inspections and repairs, we flew our aircraft home.

Reflecting on this harrowing experience, I'm reminded of our good fortune in having a truly professional air crew, engaged in the important work of testing Navy-aircraft systems.

 We not only survived a catastrophic malfunction, but we maintained our resilient sense of humor [as attested by the four-leaf clover, that still 'nests' in my flight suit.]

Later, a crew member found some money lying on the ground. And we all had a good laugh when one of our group said : "This must be our lucky day."

Dan Sanders is a retired Marine Corps major, employed as a contract pilot with VX-20.

The Analyst gave a further 'heads up' : No pilot's immune to 'Blue Threat' [life-threatening equipment failure.]

In this instance, the cockpit was chock full of flying experience and expertise. This air-crew did an outstanding job

recovering after an un-commanded deployment of two life rafts attached under the C130's right wing.

One lesson worth repeating is: every time you are flying, stay strapped unless you have a need to move about the aircraft.  In this case, it would have prevented multiple injuries among both crew and passengers.
The second 'Blue Threat' is when [our aircrew] did not adequately recognize then attempt to mitigate the existing known hazard of un-commanded deployment of both life rafts from C-130 aircraft's wing.

There had been (6) six documented similar instances in the Hercules C-130. Effective safety processes must be promulgated and 'robust' enough to compel recognition and comprehension of the risks of . . known operational hazards. 

--Cdr. John Morrison, C-130 analyst, Naval Safety Center and Dan Sanders Approach September - October 2006 [abridged]