Is an Ejection at M2.0 Survivable?
Is an Ejection at M2.0 Survivable?
https://www.techeblog.com/russian-pi...t-at-mach-2-0/
I don't know why it's come up all of a sudden, I've had a dozen people email me this link this morning asking if this is true.
My guess is at M2.0, ejecting would be unsurvibeable.
Am I right?
I don't know why it's come up all of a sudden, I've had a dozen people email me this link this morning asking if this is true.
My guess is at M2.0, ejecting would be unsurvibeable.
Am I right?
Join Date: Jul 2008
Location: Only occasionally above FL50
Age: 71
Posts: 212
Likes: 0
Received 9 Likes
on
7 Posts
https://www.techeblog.com/russian-pi...t-at-mach-2-0/
I don't know why it's come up all of a sudden, I've had a dozen people email me this link this morning asking if this is true.
My guess is at M2.0, ejecting would be unsurvibeable.
Am I right?
I don't know why it's come up all of a sudden, I've had a dozen people email me this link this morning asking if this is true.
My guess is at M2.0, ejecting would be unsurvibeable.
Am I right?
Is it possible that a Su-35 could be flown up to M2.0 without a canopy in the first place?
Ecce Homo! Loquitur...
Is an ejection at M2+ survivable? Yes, Bill Weaver survived the break-up of an SR-71 at M3.2 back in 1966, though his back seater died from a broken neck.
Do I believe this story? No, not a word of it.
Do I believe this story? No, not a word of it.
NMC
My guess is that it was a routine ejector seat trial. Not part of a movie. And there is no way you’d risk doing it at Mach 2 or at the kind of altitude you’d need to be at to achieve Mach 2.
BV
BV
The date of the linked article is apparently 28th July 2009, so why the interest now, nearly 15 years later? The article lacks convincing detail and is very brief for something describing an apparently out of the ordinary occurrence. The photos are, perhaps, reminiscent of an ejection seat test, and the occupant of the rear seat could be a test dummy.
It has all the hallmarks of something that was put up on the web to gather traffic stats, views, likes, friends, points, gummy bears or some similar sort of juvenile social media scoring. Believeable? Nope, this can easily be considered a load of bovine poop.
It has all the hallmarks of something that was put up on the web to gather traffic stats, views, likes, friends, points, gummy bears or some similar sort of juvenile social media scoring. Believeable? Nope, this can easily be considered a load of bovine poop.
In the mid-60s, an RAF test pilot on loan to the RAAF was flying a Mirage near Avalon in Victoria.
I don't recall the exact situation, perhaps it was a spin, but he decided to eject, somewhat above M1.0. Arms and legs flailed backwards and broken, helmet and suit torn off, damage to eyes and ears, unable to control the parachute descent and landing, but survived the impact.
I don't recall the exact situation, perhaps it was a spin, but he decided to eject, somewhat above M1.0. Arms and legs flailed backwards and broken, helmet and suit torn off, damage to eyes and ears, unable to control the parachute descent and landing, but survived the impact.
Join Date: Jul 2008
Location: Australia OZ
Age: 75
Posts: 2,624
Likes: 0
Received 65 Likes
on
52 Posts
In the mid-60s, an RAF test pilot on loan to the RAAF was flying a Mirage near Avalon in Victoria.
I don't recall the exact situation, perhaps it was a spin, but he decided to eject, somewhat above M1.0. Arms and legs flailed backwards and broken, helmet and suit torn off, damage to eyes and ears, unable to control the parachute descent and landing, but survived the impact.
I don't recall the exact situation, perhaps it was a spin, but he decided to eject, somewhat above M1.0. Arms and legs flailed backwards and broken, helmet and suit torn off, damage to eyes and ears, unable to control the parachute descent and landing, but survived the impact.
_____________
“...6/12/1964?... crashed 2 km from Avalon Victoria. During tests at 36,000ft with ARDU, a spin developed, pilot was unable to recover and ejected just before impact at 750 knots (supersonic) and at a height of 7000ft. Pilot Sqn Leader Tony Svensson RAF injured seriously during ejection, parachute deployment and landing. RAAF Ejection number 26.” https://aviation-safety.net/wikibase/58421
Last edited by SpazSinbad; 23rd May 2024 at 08:11. Reason: Svensson
Depends if you need the use of your arms and legs on landing!
It worked out ok for Yogi but sadly they dissected him afterwards :-(
https://www.thisdayinaviation.com/21-march-1962/
It worked out ok for Yogi but sadly they dissected him afterwards :-(
https://www.thisdayinaviation.com/21-march-1962/
The following users liked this post:
Attracted to this thread as I lost an engine at 68,700 in a foxbat and in excess of 2.0. My pilot told me immediately told me to prepare for ejection. Not required. This was in 2003 at Zukofsky airbase. Be very interested if anyone actually has ejected and is on this forum. Must be rather harrowing episode.
Join Date: Jul 2008
Location: Australia OZ
Age: 75
Posts: 2,624
Likes: 0
Received 65 Likes
on
52 Posts
Perhaps the circumstances were a tad more complicated. I'll have to find that info again....
GIF from: Opus issue 3 by The Portsmouth Grammar School - Issuu
The A-4 Skyhawk suffered from inertia coupling so was forbidden to roll more than 360 degrees level but had a roll rate at best roll speed of 250 knots of 720 degrees per second. YIKES! Anyhoo back to the MIRACLE....
"... On December 7 1964,... A3-1 was engaged in investigating the effects of angle of attack (alpha) on the surge behaviour of the Atar 9K, specifically the combination of alpha plus rate of change of alpha (alpha dot). SqnLdr Tony Svensson, an RAF test pilot on loan, was at the controls. At times the aircraft was operating at 35-45,000ft in very hazy conditions with a poorly defined horizon and little visual reference to ground features.
Six of the planned eight test points had been achieved and the aircraft commenced a wind up turn for the seventh. The aircraft apparently departed shortly after the entry to the turn and the pilot reported to the test control room “I’m spinning”. At this stage, little was known of either the spin characteristics or the recovery procedures of the Mirage III-O. Equally, the concept of inertia coupling was largely limited to academics. It was much later that we were able to document the extremely oscillatory roll/yaw characteristics together with the major pitch angle excursions, swinging from +20 degrees to -70 degrees....
...Tony Svensson was advised to maintain positive spin recovery control, control column held neutral in pitch and with full in-spin roll control. He acknowledged this instruction and his next comment was to the effect that the oscillatory behaviour was becoming more violent and if he did not have recovery by 10,000ft, he intended to eject. There was one final unintelligible transmission followed a second or so later by a strong sonic boom, followed in turn a second later by the explosive sound of a high-speed impact. The aircraft had, in-fact, crashed close to the airfield.
Tony was recovered, badly injured, with both legs broken and numerous dislocations. It was said he ejected in an 80° dive, at about 9000ft and at transonic speed or higher. He later died on the 29 June 2009, aged 78 yrs.
The subsequent inquiry concluded the aircraft bad probably recovered from the spin condition during a down swing of pitch angle and commenced to accelerate with full roll control being maintained, with the pilot lacking visual clues initially because of poor visibility and then subsequently being subject to the extreme effects of severe inertia coupling (note that application of full roll control at 15,000ft produced a roll rate of 330°/second)...." https://www.radschool.org.au/magazin...pdf/Page16.pdf
_______________________________
THE RAAF MIRAGE STORY by Wing Commander M.R. Susans
https://fsb.raafansw.org.au/docPDF/t...tory_opt_1.pdf (page 56)
"...The trials proceeded satisfactorily until 7th December 1964 when A3-1 crashed and was totally destroyed. On the final flight of A3-1, the pilot, Squadron Leader Tony Svensson (an RAF exchange pilot) had successfully carried out two engine surge manoeuvres when during the third at 36,000 feet he entered a spin which rapidly translated into a fast, rolling vertical dive. He was unable to recover and ejected just before impact. The whole sequence of events occurred in less than one minute and he suffered multiple serious injuries from wind blast during the 750 knot supersonic ejection.
The ARDU system in general became the subject of much criticism by the RAAF fighter pilot fraternity because of Squadron Leader Svensson's low experience on Mirage aircraft at the time of his accident (eleven hours), which was perceived by them to be a predominant contributory cause. This was not the case. The pilot was physically unable to recover from the gyrations because of the violence of the manouevres - the aircraft motion exceeded human recovery capabilities. Many unqualified observations were pronounced by the critics, none of whom were in current spinning practice and few of whom had performed a sustained spin since their pilot training days (the Wirraway was the last aircraft cleared for continuous stable spinning practice by the RAAF, subsequent training aircraft were limited to shorter duration manouevres). By contrast Squadron Leader Svensson had been lead pilot on the RAF Lightning spinning trials, had previously conducted Hunter and Provost spinning trials, and immediately before the accident, had conducted RAAF Sabre spinning trials. He was also co-author of the first known publication on inertia coupling in supersonic aircraft - a new phenomenon at the time, which resulted from the Lightning trials, and was assessed to be a factor in his own accident. There was probably no one better qualified than he to conduct the trials at that time...."
_______________________
"...Squadron Leader Tony Svenson, RAF, who was on loan to the RAAF and was on 7 December 1964 flying from RAAF Avalon, near Melbourne, testing a Mirage II supersonic fighter over the desert. He reported:
“I was at 35,000 feet in the Mirage and I was carrying out a maneouvre I had been ordered to do at near the speed of sound. The actual maneouvre is still secret but I immediately lost control of the Mirage and although I shut off the engine it went straight down, nose first, increasing in speed and rolling at the same time. For the next 90 seconds I was very busy. I kept a running commentary going to the Ground Station saying what I had done, what was happening to me and what I was trying to do to get the plane out of the downward plunge. But whatever I did made no difference. The Mirage still went on down increasing in speed every second despite the fact I had cut the engine. At 7,000 feet I decided it was time to get out and I pulled the blind which fires the ejector seat.”
Three seconds later the Mirage, still accelerating, hit the ground.
His ejection at 922 miles an hour was at the time a world record for such a feat. On ejecting at such speed he broke both his arms and one leg in two places and lost consciousness. On landing he then broke his other leg in two places.
After which he had a bit of luck !
Six doctors were passing by in a minibus on a desert road only 100 yards away. They were immediately at his side giving the first aid he desperately needed. He was taken to the RAAF Hospital at Laverton where, for two days he was unconscious and then for 10 days was in a coma. After the bones of his legs were reset, it was found that he was two inches shorter, at 5 feet 8 inches, than he was before the accident."
https://forum.rafcommands.com/forum/...-december-1964
_____________________
We heard from John Butler (right) who lives in the UK. He wrote to Frank Alley via us and says:
Dear Frank, I read with interest your article in the RAM no 24, page 9, about Tony Svensson. Tony was a family friend and when he was young my mother was his nanny. I have not been able to communicate with him for some time as he has Alzheimer’s and is in a care home. I have Tony's 19-page account of his accident (written in 1993) and there is no mention of a stabiliser that failed. I also have the relevant press cuttings and photos. He said he was in a rolling dive (I assume this is a spin). To quote from his report the instructions he had for spin recovery were: -
"After spin entry centralise all flying controls; pause; if conditions do not stabilise using the aircraft's inherent stability apply full in spin aileron (similar to the Javelin). To quote the translation 'if this does not work DO NOT DESPAIR!” (sic) but maintain the spin recovery action." He says "I memorised these instructions and remember them to this day."
There is also no mention of the boyangs breaking. He says, “The cords were arranged to allow free movement of the legs whilst seated in the cockpit but, on ejection were tightened up………………etc.
Tests with A-31 in Australia found that if the cords were crossed over there was a chance that, at certain positions, the control stick could be restricted by the cords. Due to this possibility it was decided not to cross the cords over. A bad decision as I found out to my cost.”
Another ex test pilot friend is Peter Twiss who I am sure you have heard of. He flew the fabulous looking Fairey Delta FD11 and he said to me that you never put a delta wing aircraft in a spin."
http://www.austradesecure.com/radsch...l27/Page19.htm
GIF from: Opus issue 3 by The Portsmouth Grammar School - Issuu
The A-4 Skyhawk suffered from inertia coupling so was forbidden to roll more than 360 degrees level but had a roll rate at best roll speed of 250 knots of 720 degrees per second. YIKES! Anyhoo back to the MIRACLE....
"... On December 7 1964,... A3-1 was engaged in investigating the effects of angle of attack (alpha) on the surge behaviour of the Atar 9K, specifically the combination of alpha plus rate of change of alpha (alpha dot). SqnLdr Tony Svensson, an RAF test pilot on loan, was at the controls. At times the aircraft was operating at 35-45,000ft in very hazy conditions with a poorly defined horizon and little visual reference to ground features.
Six of the planned eight test points had been achieved and the aircraft commenced a wind up turn for the seventh. The aircraft apparently departed shortly after the entry to the turn and the pilot reported to the test control room “I’m spinning”. At this stage, little was known of either the spin characteristics or the recovery procedures of the Mirage III-O. Equally, the concept of inertia coupling was largely limited to academics. It was much later that we were able to document the extremely oscillatory roll/yaw characteristics together with the major pitch angle excursions, swinging from +20 degrees to -70 degrees....
...Tony Svensson was advised to maintain positive spin recovery control, control column held neutral in pitch and with full in-spin roll control. He acknowledged this instruction and his next comment was to the effect that the oscillatory behaviour was becoming more violent and if he did not have recovery by 10,000ft, he intended to eject. There was one final unintelligible transmission followed a second or so later by a strong sonic boom, followed in turn a second later by the explosive sound of a high-speed impact. The aircraft had, in-fact, crashed close to the airfield.
Tony was recovered, badly injured, with both legs broken and numerous dislocations. It was said he ejected in an 80° dive, at about 9000ft and at transonic speed or higher. He later died on the 29 June 2009, aged 78 yrs.
The subsequent inquiry concluded the aircraft bad probably recovered from the spin condition during a down swing of pitch angle and commenced to accelerate with full roll control being maintained, with the pilot lacking visual clues initially because of poor visibility and then subsequently being subject to the extreme effects of severe inertia coupling (note that application of full roll control at 15,000ft produced a roll rate of 330°/second)...." https://www.radschool.org.au/magazin...pdf/Page16.pdf
_______________________________
THE RAAF MIRAGE STORY by Wing Commander M.R. Susans
https://fsb.raafansw.org.au/docPDF/t...tory_opt_1.pdf (page 56)
"...The trials proceeded satisfactorily until 7th December 1964 when A3-1 crashed and was totally destroyed. On the final flight of A3-1, the pilot, Squadron Leader Tony Svensson (an RAF exchange pilot) had successfully carried out two engine surge manoeuvres when during the third at 36,000 feet he entered a spin which rapidly translated into a fast, rolling vertical dive. He was unable to recover and ejected just before impact. The whole sequence of events occurred in less than one minute and he suffered multiple serious injuries from wind blast during the 750 knot supersonic ejection.
The ARDU system in general became the subject of much criticism by the RAAF fighter pilot fraternity because of Squadron Leader Svensson's low experience on Mirage aircraft at the time of his accident (eleven hours), which was perceived by them to be a predominant contributory cause. This was not the case. The pilot was physically unable to recover from the gyrations because of the violence of the manouevres - the aircraft motion exceeded human recovery capabilities. Many unqualified observations were pronounced by the critics, none of whom were in current spinning practice and few of whom had performed a sustained spin since their pilot training days (the Wirraway was the last aircraft cleared for continuous stable spinning practice by the RAAF, subsequent training aircraft were limited to shorter duration manouevres). By contrast Squadron Leader Svensson had been lead pilot on the RAF Lightning spinning trials, had previously conducted Hunter and Provost spinning trials, and immediately before the accident, had conducted RAAF Sabre spinning trials. He was also co-author of the first known publication on inertia coupling in supersonic aircraft - a new phenomenon at the time, which resulted from the Lightning trials, and was assessed to be a factor in his own accident. There was probably no one better qualified than he to conduct the trials at that time...."
_______________________
"...Squadron Leader Tony Svenson, RAF, who was on loan to the RAAF and was on 7 December 1964 flying from RAAF Avalon, near Melbourne, testing a Mirage II supersonic fighter over the desert. He reported:
“I was at 35,000 feet in the Mirage and I was carrying out a maneouvre I had been ordered to do at near the speed of sound. The actual maneouvre is still secret but I immediately lost control of the Mirage and although I shut off the engine it went straight down, nose first, increasing in speed and rolling at the same time. For the next 90 seconds I was very busy. I kept a running commentary going to the Ground Station saying what I had done, what was happening to me and what I was trying to do to get the plane out of the downward plunge. But whatever I did made no difference. The Mirage still went on down increasing in speed every second despite the fact I had cut the engine. At 7,000 feet I decided it was time to get out and I pulled the blind which fires the ejector seat.”
Three seconds later the Mirage, still accelerating, hit the ground.
His ejection at 922 miles an hour was at the time a world record for such a feat. On ejecting at such speed he broke both his arms and one leg in two places and lost consciousness. On landing he then broke his other leg in two places.
After which he had a bit of luck !
Six doctors were passing by in a minibus on a desert road only 100 yards away. They were immediately at his side giving the first aid he desperately needed. He was taken to the RAAF Hospital at Laverton where, for two days he was unconscious and then for 10 days was in a coma. After the bones of his legs were reset, it was found that he was two inches shorter, at 5 feet 8 inches, than he was before the accident."
https://forum.rafcommands.com/forum/...-december-1964
_____________________
We heard from John Butler (right) who lives in the UK. He wrote to Frank Alley via us and says:
Dear Frank, I read with interest your article in the RAM no 24, page 9, about Tony Svensson. Tony was a family friend and when he was young my mother was his nanny. I have not been able to communicate with him for some time as he has Alzheimer’s and is in a care home. I have Tony's 19-page account of his accident (written in 1993) and there is no mention of a stabiliser that failed. I also have the relevant press cuttings and photos. He said he was in a rolling dive (I assume this is a spin). To quote from his report the instructions he had for spin recovery were: -
"After spin entry centralise all flying controls; pause; if conditions do not stabilise using the aircraft's inherent stability apply full in spin aileron (similar to the Javelin). To quote the translation 'if this does not work DO NOT DESPAIR!” (sic) but maintain the spin recovery action." He says "I memorised these instructions and remember them to this day."
There is also no mention of the boyangs breaking. He says, “The cords were arranged to allow free movement of the legs whilst seated in the cockpit but, on ejection were tightened up………………etc.
Tests with A-31 in Australia found that if the cords were crossed over there was a chance that, at certain positions, the control stick could be restricted by the cords. Due to this possibility it was decided not to cross the cords over. A bad decision as I found out to my cost.”
Another ex test pilot friend is Peter Twiss who I am sure you have heard of. He flew the fabulous looking Fairey Delta FD11 and he said to me that you never put a delta wing aircraft in a spin."
http://www.austradesecure.com/radsch...l27/Page19.htm
Last edited by SpazSinbad; 23rd May 2024 at 10:20. Reason: adds
The following 2 users liked this post by SpazSinbad:
Avoid imitations
Join Date: Nov 2000
Location: Wandering the FIR and cyberspace often at highly unsociable times
Posts: 14,619
Received 488 Likes
on
260 Posts
During my time at RAF Linton on Ouse (late 1970s), one of our QFIs (Stu Tulloch?) had ejected from a Lightning at what I believe was well above Mach 1. His oxygen mask shaped facial scar was a constant reminder for him.
I have a vague memory reading about a USAF pilot who was allegedly the first pilot to punch out supersonic and survive. Probably mid 1960s, there was some sort of a mechanical failure that caused the aircraft to go into an outside loop, as the aircraft dove it picked up sufficient airspeed to be going above Mach 1.0, and the negative g's had the pilot on the verge of blackout so he ejected as it was likely his only hope.
He survived but had a lot of injures - and that was barely supersonic.
He survived but had a lot of injures - and that was barely supersonic.
I have a vague memory reading about a USAF pilot who was allegedly the first pilot to punch out supersonic and survive. Probably mid 1960s, there was some sort of a mechanical failure that caused the aircraft to go into an outside loop, as the aircraft dove it picked up sufficient airspeed to be going above Mach 1.0, and the negative g's had the pilot on the verge of blackout so he ejected as it was likely his only hope.
He survived but had a lot of injures - and that was barely supersonic.
He survived but had a lot of injures - and that was barely supersonic.
Ecce Homo! Loquitur...
He survived but had a lot of injures - and that was barely supersonic.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Escape_crew_capsule
* http://www.ejectionsite.com/xb70caps.htm
** https://www.nationalmuseum.af.mil/Vi...escape-module/
In 1959 Johnny Squier was approaching m1.7 in a P.11 (EE Lightning T.4 prototype) when the fin failed and caused him to eject, he famously paddled ashore 28 hours later having survived his supersonic ejection ASR having failed to locate him (his beacon had a failed battery). In 1965 when approaching m1.85 at 35,000' in a prototype T.5 (built from a T.4) Jimmy Dell and his test observer Graham Elkington also had a fin failure they passed out briefly, but Elkington left the aircraft at an unknown supersonic speed still about 35,000' but the aircraft was subsonic when Dell ejected separately some time later when he was below 10,000' both were recovered in reasonable condition from their dinghies.
The (test) pilot of the F-100, who tdracer recalled ejected at an IMN of 1.05 (in 1955), George Smith, was unconscious for six days, and when he regained conciousness he was blind in both eyes. He endured four operations and seven months in hospital, eventually returning to flight status.
The (test) pilot of the F-100, who tdracer recalled ejected at an IMN of 1.05 (in 1955), George Smith, was unconscious for six days, and when he regained conciousness he was blind in both eyes. He endured four operations and seven months in hospital, eventually returning to flight status.
Bill Weaver and Jim Zwayer M3.18 departure from the airframe was not an ejection in the accepted sense of the term. In Bill's own words,
Video of SR-71 ejection at M3+ narrated by -71 designer Kelly Johnson. Pilot Bill Park survived, back seater Ray Torrick drowned.
Among professional aviators, there's a well-worn saying: Flying is simply hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror. And yet, I don't recall too many periods of boredom during my 30-year career with Lockheed, most of which was spent as a test pilot.
By far, the most memorable flight occurred on Jan. 25, 1966. Jim Zwayer, a Lockheed flight test reconnaissance and navigation systems specialist, and I were evaluating those systems on an SR-71 Blackbird test from Edwards AFB, Calif. We also were investigating procedures designed to reduce trim drag and improve high-Mach cruise performance. The latter involved flying with the center-of-gravity (CG) located further aft than normal, which reduced the Blackbird's longitudinal stability.
We took off from Edwards at 11:20 a.m. and completed the mission's first leg without incident. After refueling from a KC-135 tanker, we turned eastbound, accelerated to a Mach 3.2-cruise speed and climbed to 78,000 ft., our initial cruise-climb altitude.
Several minutes into cruise, the right engine inlet's automatic control system malfunctioned, requiring a switch to manual control. The SR-71's inlet configuration was automatically adjusted during supersonic flight to decelerate air flow in the duct, slowing it to subsonic speed before reaching the engine's face. This was accomplished by the inlet's center-body spike translating aft, and by modulating the inlet's forward bypass doors. Normally, these actions were scheduled automatically as a function of Mach number, positioning the normal shock wave (where air flow becomes subsonic) inside the inlet to ensure optimum engine performance.
Without proper scheduling, disturbances inside the inlet could result in the shock wave being expelled forward--a phenomenon known as an "inlet unstart." That causes an instantaneous loss of engine thrust, explosive banging noises and violent yawing of the aircraft--like being in a train wreck. Unstarts were not uncommon at that time in the SR-71's development, but a properly functioning system would recapture the shock wave and restore normal operation.
On the planned test profile, we entered a programmed 35-deg. bank turn to the right. An immediate unstart occurred on the right engine, forcing the aircraft to roll further right and start to pitch up. I jammed the control stick as far left and forward as it would go. No response. I instantly knew we were in for a wild ride.
I attempted to tell Jim what was happening and to stay with the airplane until we reached a lower speed and altitude. I didn't think the chances of surviving an ejection at Mach 3.18 and 78,800 ft. were very good. However, g-forces built up so rapidly that my words came out garbled and unintelligible, as confirmed later by the cockpit voice recorder.
The cumulative effects of system malfunctions, reduced longitudinal stability, increased angle-of-attack in the turn, supersonic speed, high altitude and other factors imposed forces on the airframe that exceeded flight control authority and the Stability Augmentation System's ability to restore control.
Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. I learned later the time from event onset to catastrophic departure from controlled flight was only 2-3 sec. Still trying to communicate with Jim, I blacked out, succumbing to extremely high g-forces. The SR-71 then literally disintegrated around us. From that point, I was just along for the ride.
My next recollection was a hazy thought that I was having a bad dream. Maybe I'll wake up and get out of this mess, I mused. Gradually regaining consciousness, I realized this was no dream; it had really happened. That also was disturbing, because I could not have survived what had just happened. Therefore, I must be dead. Since I didn't feel bad--just a detached sense of euphoria--I decided being dead wasn't so bad after all. AS FULL AWARENESS took hold, I realized I was not dead, but had somehow separated from the airplane. I had no idea how this could have happened; I hadn't initiated an ejection. The sound of rushing air and what sounded like straps flapping in the wind confirmed I was falling, but I couldn't see anything. My pressure suit's face plate had frozen over and I was staring at a layer of ice.
The pressure suit was inflated, so I knew an emergency oxygen cylinder in the seat kit attached to my parachute harness was functioning. It not only supplied breathing oxygen, but also pressurized the suit, preventing my blood from boiling at extremely high altitudes. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but the suit's pressurization had also provided physical protection from intense buffeting and g-forces. That inflated suit had become my own escape capsule.
My next concern was about stability and tumbling. Air density at high altitude is insufficient to resist a body's tumbling motions, and centrifugal forces high enough to cause physical injury could develop quickly. For that reason, the SR-71's parachute system was designed to automatically deploy a small-diameter stabilizing chute shortly after ejection and seat separation. Since I had not intentionally activated the ejection system--and assuming all automatic functions depended on a proper ejection sequence--it occurred to me the stabilizing chute may not have deployed.
However, I quickly determined I was falling vertically and not tumbling. The little chute must have deployed and was doing its job. Next concern: the main parachute, which was designed to open automatically at 15,000 ft. Again I had no assurance the automatic-opening function would work. I couldn't ascertain my altitude because I still couldn't see through the iced-up face plate. There was no way to know how long I had been blacked-out or how far I had fallen. I felt for the manual-activation D-ring on my chute harness, but with the suit inflated and my hands numbed by cold, I couldn't locate it. I decided I'd better open the face plate, try to estimate my height above the ground, then locate that "D" ring. Just as I reached for the face plate, I felt the reassuring sudden deceleration of main-chute deployment. I raised the frozen face plate and discovered its uplatch was broken. Using one hand to hold that plate up, I saw I was descending through a clear, winter sky with unlimited visibility. I was greatly relieved to see Jim's parachute coming down about a quarter of a mile away. I didn't think either of us could have survived the aircraft's breakup, so seeing Jim had also escaped lifted my spirits incredibly.
I could also see burning wreckage on the ground a few miles from where we would land. The terrain didn't look at all inviting--a desolate, high plateau dotted with patches of snow and no signs of habitation. I tried to rotate the parachute and look in other directions. But with one hand devoted to keeping the face plate up and both hands numb from high-altitude, subfreezing temperatures, I couldn't manipulate the risers enough to turn. Before the breakup, we'd started a turn in the New Mexico-Colorado-Oklahoma-Texas border region. The SR-71 had a turning radius of about 100 mi. at that speed and altitude, so I wasn't even sure what state we were going to land in. But, because it was about 3:00 p.m., I was certain we would be spending the night out here.
At about 300 ft. above the ground, I yanked the seat kit's release handle and made sure it was still tied to me by a long lanyard. Releasing the heavy kit ensured I wouldn't land with it attached to my derriere, which could break a leg or cause other injuries. I then tried to recall what survival items were in that kit, as well as techniques I had been taught in survival training.
Looking down, I was startled to see a fairly large animal--perhaps an antelope--directly under me. Evidently, it was just as startled as I was because it literally took off in a cloud of dust.
My first-ever parachute landing was pretty smooth. I landed on fairly soft ground, managing to avoid rocks, cacti and antelopes. My chute was still billowing in the wind, though. I struggled to collapse it with one hand, holding the still-frozen face plate up with the other.
"Can I help you?" a voice said. Was I hearing things? I must be hallucinating. Then I looked up and saw a guy walking toward me, wearing a cowboy hat. A helicopter was idling a short distance behind him. If I had been at Edwards and told the search-and-rescue unit that I was going to bail out over the Rogers Dry Lake at a particular time of day, a crew couldn't have gotten to me as fast as that cowboy-pilot had.
The gentleman was Albert Mitchell, Jr., owner of a huge cattle ranch in northeastern New Mexico. I had landed about 1.5 mi. from his ranch house--and from a hangar for his two-place Hughes helicopter. Amazed to see him, I replied I was having a little trouble with my chute. He walked over and collapsed the canopy, anchoring it with several rocks. He had seen Jim and me floating down and had radioed the New Mexico Highway Patrol, the Air Force and the nearest hospital.
Extracting myself from the parachute harness, I discovered the source of those flapping-strap noises heard on the way down. My seat belt and shoulder harness were still draped around me, attached and latched. The lap belt had been shredded on each side of my hips, where the straps had fed through knurled adjustment rollers. The shoulder harness had shredded in a similar manner across my back. The ejection seat had never left the airplane; I had been ripped out of it by the extreme forces, seat belt and shoulder harness still fastened.
I also noted that one of the two lines that supplied oxygen to my pressure suit had come loose, and the other was barely hanging on. If that second line had become detached at high altitude, the deflated pressure suit wouldn't have provided any protection. I knew an oxygen supply was critical for breathing and suit-pressurization, but didn't appreciate how much physical protection an inflated pressure suit could provide. That the suit could withstand forces sufficient to disintegrate an airplane and shred heavy nylon seat belts, yet leave me with only a few bruises and minor whiplash was impressive. I truly appreciated having my own little escape capsule. After helping me with the chute, Mitchell said he'd check on Jim. He climbed into his helicopter, flew a short distance away and returned about 10 min. later with devastating news: Jim was dead. Apparently, he had suffered a broken neck during the aircraft's disintegration and was killed instantly. Mitchell said his ranch foreman would soon arrive to watch over Jim's body until the authorities arrived.
I asked to see Jim and, after verifying there was nothing more that could be done, agreed to let Mitchell fly me to the Tucumcari hospital, about 60 mi. to the south.
I have vivid memories of that helicopter flight, as well. I didn't know much about rotorcraft, but I knew a lot about "red lines," and Mitchell kept the airspeed at or above red line all the way. The little helicopter vibrated and shook a lot more than I thought it should have. I tried to reassure the cowboy-pilot I was feeling OK; there was no need to rush. But since he'd notified the hospital staff that we were inbound, he insisted we get there as soon as possible. I couldn't help but think how ironic it would be to have survived one disaster only to be done in by the helicopter that had come to my rescue.
However, we made it to the hospital safely--and quickly. Soon, I was able to contact Lockheed's flight test office at Edwards. The test team there had been notified initially about the loss of radio and radar contact, then told the aircraft had been lost. They also knew what our flight conditions had been at the time, and assumed no one could have survived. I briefly explained what had happened, describing in fairly accurate detail the flight conditions prior to breakup.
The next day, our flight profile was duplicated on the SR-71 flight simulator at Beale AFB, Calif. The outcome was identical. Steps were immediately taken to prevent a recurrence of our accident. Testing at a CG aft of normal limits was discontinued, and trim-drag issues were subsequently resolved via aerodynamic means. The inlet control system was continuously improved and, with subsequent development of the Digital Automatic Flight and Inlet Control System, inlet unstarts became rare. Investigation of our accident revealed that the nose section of the aircraft had broken off aft of the rear cockpit and crashed about 10 mi. from the main wreckage. Parts were scattered over an area approximately 15 mi. long and 10 mi. wide. Extremely high air loads and g-forces, both positive and negative, had literally ripped Jim and me from the airplane. Unbelievably good luck is the only explanation for my escaping relatively unscathed from that disintegrating aircraft.
Two weeks after the accident, I was back in an SR-71, flying the first sortie on a brand-new bird at Lockheed's Palmdale, Calif., assembly and test facility. It was my first flight since the accident, so a flight test engineer in the back seat was probably a little apprehensive about my state of mind and confidence. As we roared down the runway and lifted off, I heard an anxious voice over the intercom. "Bill! Bill! Are you there?"
"Yeah, George. What's the matter?"
"Thank God! I thought you might have left." The rear cockpit of the SR-71 has no forward visibility--only a small window on each side--and George couldn't see me. A big red light on the master-warning panel in the rear cockpit had illuminated just as we rotated, stating, "Pilot Ejected." Fortunately, the cause was a misadjusted microswitch, not my departure.
By far, the most memorable flight occurred on Jan. 25, 1966. Jim Zwayer, a Lockheed flight test reconnaissance and navigation systems specialist, and I were evaluating those systems on an SR-71 Blackbird test from Edwards AFB, Calif. We also were investigating procedures designed to reduce trim drag and improve high-Mach cruise performance. The latter involved flying with the center-of-gravity (CG) located further aft than normal, which reduced the Blackbird's longitudinal stability.
We took off from Edwards at 11:20 a.m. and completed the mission's first leg without incident. After refueling from a KC-135 tanker, we turned eastbound, accelerated to a Mach 3.2-cruise speed and climbed to 78,000 ft., our initial cruise-climb altitude.
Several minutes into cruise, the right engine inlet's automatic control system malfunctioned, requiring a switch to manual control. The SR-71's inlet configuration was automatically adjusted during supersonic flight to decelerate air flow in the duct, slowing it to subsonic speed before reaching the engine's face. This was accomplished by the inlet's center-body spike translating aft, and by modulating the inlet's forward bypass doors. Normally, these actions were scheduled automatically as a function of Mach number, positioning the normal shock wave (where air flow becomes subsonic) inside the inlet to ensure optimum engine performance.
Without proper scheduling, disturbances inside the inlet could result in the shock wave being expelled forward--a phenomenon known as an "inlet unstart." That causes an instantaneous loss of engine thrust, explosive banging noises and violent yawing of the aircraft--like being in a train wreck. Unstarts were not uncommon at that time in the SR-71's development, but a properly functioning system would recapture the shock wave and restore normal operation.
On the planned test profile, we entered a programmed 35-deg. bank turn to the right. An immediate unstart occurred on the right engine, forcing the aircraft to roll further right and start to pitch up. I jammed the control stick as far left and forward as it would go. No response. I instantly knew we were in for a wild ride.
I attempted to tell Jim what was happening and to stay with the airplane until we reached a lower speed and altitude. I didn't think the chances of surviving an ejection at Mach 3.18 and 78,800 ft. were very good. However, g-forces built up so rapidly that my words came out garbled and unintelligible, as confirmed later by the cockpit voice recorder.
The cumulative effects of system malfunctions, reduced longitudinal stability, increased angle-of-attack in the turn, supersonic speed, high altitude and other factors imposed forces on the airframe that exceeded flight control authority and the Stability Augmentation System's ability to restore control.
Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. I learned later the time from event onset to catastrophic departure from controlled flight was only 2-3 sec. Still trying to communicate with Jim, I blacked out, succumbing to extremely high g-forces. The SR-71 then literally disintegrated around us. From that point, I was just along for the ride.
My next recollection was a hazy thought that I was having a bad dream. Maybe I'll wake up and get out of this mess, I mused. Gradually regaining consciousness, I realized this was no dream; it had really happened. That also was disturbing, because I could not have survived what had just happened. Therefore, I must be dead. Since I didn't feel bad--just a detached sense of euphoria--I decided being dead wasn't so bad after all. AS FULL AWARENESS took hold, I realized I was not dead, but had somehow separated from the airplane. I had no idea how this could have happened; I hadn't initiated an ejection. The sound of rushing air and what sounded like straps flapping in the wind confirmed I was falling, but I couldn't see anything. My pressure suit's face plate had frozen over and I was staring at a layer of ice.
The pressure suit was inflated, so I knew an emergency oxygen cylinder in the seat kit attached to my parachute harness was functioning. It not only supplied breathing oxygen, but also pressurized the suit, preventing my blood from boiling at extremely high altitudes. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but the suit's pressurization had also provided physical protection from intense buffeting and g-forces. That inflated suit had become my own escape capsule.
My next concern was about stability and tumbling. Air density at high altitude is insufficient to resist a body's tumbling motions, and centrifugal forces high enough to cause physical injury could develop quickly. For that reason, the SR-71's parachute system was designed to automatically deploy a small-diameter stabilizing chute shortly after ejection and seat separation. Since I had not intentionally activated the ejection system--and assuming all automatic functions depended on a proper ejection sequence--it occurred to me the stabilizing chute may not have deployed.
However, I quickly determined I was falling vertically and not tumbling. The little chute must have deployed and was doing its job. Next concern: the main parachute, which was designed to open automatically at 15,000 ft. Again I had no assurance the automatic-opening function would work. I couldn't ascertain my altitude because I still couldn't see through the iced-up face plate. There was no way to know how long I had been blacked-out or how far I had fallen. I felt for the manual-activation D-ring on my chute harness, but with the suit inflated and my hands numbed by cold, I couldn't locate it. I decided I'd better open the face plate, try to estimate my height above the ground, then locate that "D" ring. Just as I reached for the face plate, I felt the reassuring sudden deceleration of main-chute deployment. I raised the frozen face plate and discovered its uplatch was broken. Using one hand to hold that plate up, I saw I was descending through a clear, winter sky with unlimited visibility. I was greatly relieved to see Jim's parachute coming down about a quarter of a mile away. I didn't think either of us could have survived the aircraft's breakup, so seeing Jim had also escaped lifted my spirits incredibly.
I could also see burning wreckage on the ground a few miles from where we would land. The terrain didn't look at all inviting--a desolate, high plateau dotted with patches of snow and no signs of habitation. I tried to rotate the parachute and look in other directions. But with one hand devoted to keeping the face plate up and both hands numb from high-altitude, subfreezing temperatures, I couldn't manipulate the risers enough to turn. Before the breakup, we'd started a turn in the New Mexico-Colorado-Oklahoma-Texas border region. The SR-71 had a turning radius of about 100 mi. at that speed and altitude, so I wasn't even sure what state we were going to land in. But, because it was about 3:00 p.m., I was certain we would be spending the night out here.
At about 300 ft. above the ground, I yanked the seat kit's release handle and made sure it was still tied to me by a long lanyard. Releasing the heavy kit ensured I wouldn't land with it attached to my derriere, which could break a leg or cause other injuries. I then tried to recall what survival items were in that kit, as well as techniques I had been taught in survival training.
Looking down, I was startled to see a fairly large animal--perhaps an antelope--directly under me. Evidently, it was just as startled as I was because it literally took off in a cloud of dust.
My first-ever parachute landing was pretty smooth. I landed on fairly soft ground, managing to avoid rocks, cacti and antelopes. My chute was still billowing in the wind, though. I struggled to collapse it with one hand, holding the still-frozen face plate up with the other.
"Can I help you?" a voice said. Was I hearing things? I must be hallucinating. Then I looked up and saw a guy walking toward me, wearing a cowboy hat. A helicopter was idling a short distance behind him. If I had been at Edwards and told the search-and-rescue unit that I was going to bail out over the Rogers Dry Lake at a particular time of day, a crew couldn't have gotten to me as fast as that cowboy-pilot had.
The gentleman was Albert Mitchell, Jr., owner of a huge cattle ranch in northeastern New Mexico. I had landed about 1.5 mi. from his ranch house--and from a hangar for his two-place Hughes helicopter. Amazed to see him, I replied I was having a little trouble with my chute. He walked over and collapsed the canopy, anchoring it with several rocks. He had seen Jim and me floating down and had radioed the New Mexico Highway Patrol, the Air Force and the nearest hospital.
Extracting myself from the parachute harness, I discovered the source of those flapping-strap noises heard on the way down. My seat belt and shoulder harness were still draped around me, attached and latched. The lap belt had been shredded on each side of my hips, where the straps had fed through knurled adjustment rollers. The shoulder harness had shredded in a similar manner across my back. The ejection seat had never left the airplane; I had been ripped out of it by the extreme forces, seat belt and shoulder harness still fastened.
I also noted that one of the two lines that supplied oxygen to my pressure suit had come loose, and the other was barely hanging on. If that second line had become detached at high altitude, the deflated pressure suit wouldn't have provided any protection. I knew an oxygen supply was critical for breathing and suit-pressurization, but didn't appreciate how much physical protection an inflated pressure suit could provide. That the suit could withstand forces sufficient to disintegrate an airplane and shred heavy nylon seat belts, yet leave me with only a few bruises and minor whiplash was impressive. I truly appreciated having my own little escape capsule. After helping me with the chute, Mitchell said he'd check on Jim. He climbed into his helicopter, flew a short distance away and returned about 10 min. later with devastating news: Jim was dead. Apparently, he had suffered a broken neck during the aircraft's disintegration and was killed instantly. Mitchell said his ranch foreman would soon arrive to watch over Jim's body until the authorities arrived.
I asked to see Jim and, after verifying there was nothing more that could be done, agreed to let Mitchell fly me to the Tucumcari hospital, about 60 mi. to the south.
I have vivid memories of that helicopter flight, as well. I didn't know much about rotorcraft, but I knew a lot about "red lines," and Mitchell kept the airspeed at or above red line all the way. The little helicopter vibrated and shook a lot more than I thought it should have. I tried to reassure the cowboy-pilot I was feeling OK; there was no need to rush. But since he'd notified the hospital staff that we were inbound, he insisted we get there as soon as possible. I couldn't help but think how ironic it would be to have survived one disaster only to be done in by the helicopter that had come to my rescue.
However, we made it to the hospital safely--and quickly. Soon, I was able to contact Lockheed's flight test office at Edwards. The test team there had been notified initially about the loss of radio and radar contact, then told the aircraft had been lost. They also knew what our flight conditions had been at the time, and assumed no one could have survived. I briefly explained what had happened, describing in fairly accurate detail the flight conditions prior to breakup.
The next day, our flight profile was duplicated on the SR-71 flight simulator at Beale AFB, Calif. The outcome was identical. Steps were immediately taken to prevent a recurrence of our accident. Testing at a CG aft of normal limits was discontinued, and trim-drag issues were subsequently resolved via aerodynamic means. The inlet control system was continuously improved and, with subsequent development of the Digital Automatic Flight and Inlet Control System, inlet unstarts became rare. Investigation of our accident revealed that the nose section of the aircraft had broken off aft of the rear cockpit and crashed about 10 mi. from the main wreckage. Parts were scattered over an area approximately 15 mi. long and 10 mi. wide. Extremely high air loads and g-forces, both positive and negative, had literally ripped Jim and me from the airplane. Unbelievably good luck is the only explanation for my escaping relatively unscathed from that disintegrating aircraft.
Two weeks after the accident, I was back in an SR-71, flying the first sortie on a brand-new bird at Lockheed's Palmdale, Calif., assembly and test facility. It was my first flight since the accident, so a flight test engineer in the back seat was probably a little apprehensive about my state of mind and confidence. As we roared down the runway and lifted off, I heard an anxious voice over the intercom. "Bill! Bill! Are you there?"
"Yeah, George. What's the matter?"
"Thank God! I thought you might have left." The rear cockpit of the SR-71 has no forward visibility--only a small window on each side--and George couldn't see me. A big red light on the master-warning panel in the rear cockpit had illuminated just as we rotated, stating, "Pilot Ejected." Fortunately, the cause was a misadjusted microswitch, not my departure.
The following 6 users liked this post by megan:
The following 3 users liked this post by megan: