A feat of superb airmanship
Join Date: Aug 2003
Location: Sale, Australia
Age: 80
Posts: 3,832
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
http://www.history.navy.mil/nan/back...4/so/blind.pdf
"Blind and Alone Over North Korea" By Kenneth A. Schechter
I was blind, in pain, bleeding profusely and very much alone. At the controls of my A-1 Skyraider attack plane over Wongsang-ni, North Korea, I was climbing toward a solid overcast at 10,000 feet—from which there might be no return.
It was 22 March 1952 and I was just 22 years old. Earlier that day, dawn found me on the flight deck of Valley Forge (CV 45) in the Sea of Japan, warming up my Skyraider. As a pilot in Fighter Squadron 194, the Yellow Devils, I was the standby in case one of the eight planes scheduled for the morning’s flight became inoperative. When Charlie Brown’s plane lost its hydraulic system, I was launched in his place. It was my 27th bombing mission in North Korea. The targets were enemy marshaling yards, railroad tracks and other transportation infrastructure.
On the ninth of my planned 15 bomb runs, at 1,200 feet, an enemy antiaircraft shell exploded in the cockpit. Instinctively, I pulled back on the stick to gain altitude. Then I passed out. When I came to a short time later, I couldn’t see a thing. There was stinging agony in my face and throbbing in my head. I felt for my upper lip. It was almost severed from the rest of my face.
I called out over the radio through my lip mike (which miraculously still worked), “I’m blind! For God’s sake, help me!
Lieutenant (jg) Howard Thayer, in his own Skyraider nearby, heard the distress call. He saw my plane heading straight toward the heavy overcast. He knew that if I entered those clouds no one would be able to help me.
He called out, “Plane in trouble, rock your wings. Plane in trouble, rock your wings.” I did so. Then came the order, “Put your nose down! Put your nose down! Push over. I’m coming up.”
Again, I did as he said and pushed the stick forward. He climbed and flew alongside my plane and radioed, “This is Thayer. This is Thayer. Put your nose over further.”
I complied. Howie Thayer was my roommate on Valley Forge. Hearing his name and his voice gave me just the psychological boost I needed. He continued, “You’re doing all right. Pull back a little. We can level off now.”
Thayer could see that the canopy of my plane was blown away and that my face was a bleeding mess. The crimson stain on the fuselage behind the cockpit turned dark and blended with the Navy blue of the Skyraider as the blood dried. He was amazed I was still alive.
Without the canopy, the 200 mile per hour slipstream and unmuffled engine noise made sending and receiving radio transmissions exceptionally difficult. Despite these obstacles, I began to think clearly in my moments of consciousness and began to try to help myself. Imanaged to pour water from my canteen over my face. For a fleeting instant there was a sight of the instrument panel, which disappeared immediately. I was blind again.
Howard kept up a stream of conversation, “We’re headed south, Ken. We’re heading for Wonsan [a port and prime target on the Sea of Japan]. Not too long.”
The throbbing in my head was getting worse and the blood running down my throat nauseated me. I hurt, but was unable to get the morphine from my first aid kit. I radioed, “Get me down, Howie!”
“Roger. We’re approaching Wonsan. Get ready to bail out.” To which I replied, “Negative! Negative! Not going to bail out.” All too often our pilots had drowned or died of exposure after their planes had been crippled by enemy antiaircraft fire and they ditched the aircraft or bailed out into the frigid waters of the Sea of Japan. My wingman, Lieutenant Commander Tom Pugh, had been killed in just this way on our second mission. In my case, I would have had to successfully evacuate the Skyraider and enter the water blind, with the probability of a tangled parachute harness and with my rubber immersion suit pierced by shell fragments and unable to offer protection from the freezing ocean. To my mind, bailing out meant certain death.
I would not bail out. Howie understood my decision. He would get me back behind the front lines into friendly territory—or I would die in the attempt. We turned and headed south.
Thirty miles behind the front lines, on the coast, was a Marine airfield designated K-18. This was our destination. I wasn’t sure whether I could make it that far as I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Then Howard spotted a cruiser shelling enemy positions and knew that this was the bomb line. South of the bomb line was friendly territory. The instructions continued, “We’re at the bomb line, Ken. We’ll head for K-18. Hold on, Ken. Can you hear me, Ken? Will head for K-18. Over.”
“Roger. Let’s try.” It was an effort to speak.
“Can you make it, Ken?”
“Get me down, you miserable s.o.b., or you’ll have to inventory my gear!” (In case of an aviator’s death, a shipmate must inventory his personal belongings before they are shipped home—not a welcome chore. Howard and I had designated each other for this function.)
I continued to follow Thayer’s directions, but he could see that my head kept flopping down from time to time and he doubted I could make it to K-18, so he decided to get me down right away.
Immediately behind the front lines was a 2,000-foot deserted dirt airstrip named “Jersey Bounce” that the Army used for its light planes performing artillery spotting. Thayer decided to have me land there. “Ken, we’re going down. Push your nose over, drop your right wing. We’re approaching ‘Jersey Bounce.’We’ll make a 270- degree turn and set you down.”
“Roger, Howie, let’s go,” I replied. He said, “left wing down slowly, nose over easy. A little more. Put your landing gear down.”
“To hell with that!” was my instantaneous reply. I had seen this field on earlier missions and could picture it in my mind’s eye. It was rough and short and with wheels down, too many things could go wrong. It was much safer to land on my belly. “Roger, gear up,” Thayer concurred. This was one time when we wouldn’t follow the checklist.
Ahead lay the most critical part of the flight—landing, a complex maneuver requiring precision and skill. As challenging as flying wounded and blind had been up to now, a sightless landing on a tiny dirt strip would be infinitely more difficult. One slip would result in disaster.
From his plane, flying 25 feet away from mine and duplicating my maneuvers, Howard’s voice was cool and confident, but the underlying tension was palpable, “We’re heading straight. Flaps down. Hundred yards to the runway. You’re 50 feet off the ground. Pull back a little. Easy. Easy. That’s good. You’re level. You’re O.K. You’re O.K. Thirty feet off the ground. You’re O.K. You’re over the runway. Twenty feet. Kill it a little. You’re setting down. O.K. O.K. O.K. Cut!”
The shock wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. Some 45 minutes after the shell blew up in my cockpit, my plane hit the ground, lurched momentarily and skidded to a stop in one piece. A perfect landing. No fire. No pain, no strain. The best landing I ever made.
Thayer said elatedly, “You’re on the ground, Ken.” After cutting the switches, I clumsily climbed out of the cockpit. Almost immediately an Army Jeep with two men came, picked me up and took me to a shack on the edge of the field. From there, a helicopter flew me to the K-18 airfield where doctors at the field hospital started to patch me up and give me painkillers.
Thayer flew back to the carrier. I found out later that when he landed, a crowd was there to greet and congratulate him. He wondered how they knew what had happened and was told that most of our transmissions had been picked up on Valley Forge. They had recorded them and played them back for the crew that night.
Meanwhile back at the Marine airfield, the doctors felt I needed more expert medical care than they could offer, so I was transported to the Navy hospital ship Consolation (AH 15) where I underwent immediate surgery. Both of my eyes were bandaged for two weeks, during which time I wasn’t sure if I would ever see again.
But the possibility of a lifetime of blindness was a minor issue compared to just being alive. Eventually, however, I regained sight in my left eye. My career as a Navy carrier pilot was over. My life was not—because although I was blind that day over North Korea, I was not really alone. Howard Thayer had been my eyes. Together, we’d created a miracle. Today, still living on “borrowed time,” I am thankful for every moment of every day.
Epilogue
Howard Thayer made the Navy his career. In January 1961, while flying a night mission in an A-4 Skyhawk from a carrier in the Mediterranean Sea, both he and his squadron commander flew into the water while on landing approach. Their remains were never recovered. Thayer was survived by his wife and three small children.
The plane that Ken Schechter landed at “Jersey Bounce” was jacked up, given a new propeller, flown back to Valley Forge for repairs and returned to service. Ken and Howard’s story became the basis for the 1953 MGM movie, Men of the Fighting Lady. Ken was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross on the flight deck of Constellation (CV 64) at NAS North Island, Calif., on 28 June 1995. “Blind and Alone Over North Korea” was originally published in Chicken Soup for the Veteran’s Soul in May 2001.
"Blind and Alone Over North Korea" By Kenneth A. Schechter
I was blind, in pain, bleeding profusely and very much alone. At the controls of my A-1 Skyraider attack plane over Wongsang-ni, North Korea, I was climbing toward a solid overcast at 10,000 feet—from which there might be no return.
It was 22 March 1952 and I was just 22 years old. Earlier that day, dawn found me on the flight deck of Valley Forge (CV 45) in the Sea of Japan, warming up my Skyraider. As a pilot in Fighter Squadron 194, the Yellow Devils, I was the standby in case one of the eight planes scheduled for the morning’s flight became inoperative. When Charlie Brown’s plane lost its hydraulic system, I was launched in his place. It was my 27th bombing mission in North Korea. The targets were enemy marshaling yards, railroad tracks and other transportation infrastructure.
On the ninth of my planned 15 bomb runs, at 1,200 feet, an enemy antiaircraft shell exploded in the cockpit. Instinctively, I pulled back on the stick to gain altitude. Then I passed out. When I came to a short time later, I couldn’t see a thing. There was stinging agony in my face and throbbing in my head. I felt for my upper lip. It was almost severed from the rest of my face.
I called out over the radio through my lip mike (which miraculously still worked), “I’m blind! For God’s sake, help me!
Lieutenant (jg) Howard Thayer, in his own Skyraider nearby, heard the distress call. He saw my plane heading straight toward the heavy overcast. He knew that if I entered those clouds no one would be able to help me.
He called out, “Plane in trouble, rock your wings. Plane in trouble, rock your wings.” I did so. Then came the order, “Put your nose down! Put your nose down! Push over. I’m coming up.”
Again, I did as he said and pushed the stick forward. He climbed and flew alongside my plane and radioed, “This is Thayer. This is Thayer. Put your nose over further.”
I complied. Howie Thayer was my roommate on Valley Forge. Hearing his name and his voice gave me just the psychological boost I needed. He continued, “You’re doing all right. Pull back a little. We can level off now.”
Thayer could see that the canopy of my plane was blown away and that my face was a bleeding mess. The crimson stain on the fuselage behind the cockpit turned dark and blended with the Navy blue of the Skyraider as the blood dried. He was amazed I was still alive.
Without the canopy, the 200 mile per hour slipstream and unmuffled engine noise made sending and receiving radio transmissions exceptionally difficult. Despite these obstacles, I began to think clearly in my moments of consciousness and began to try to help myself. Imanaged to pour water from my canteen over my face. For a fleeting instant there was a sight of the instrument panel, which disappeared immediately. I was blind again.
Howard kept up a stream of conversation, “We’re headed south, Ken. We’re heading for Wonsan [a port and prime target on the Sea of Japan]. Not too long.”
The throbbing in my head was getting worse and the blood running down my throat nauseated me. I hurt, but was unable to get the morphine from my first aid kit. I radioed, “Get me down, Howie!”
“Roger. We’re approaching Wonsan. Get ready to bail out.” To which I replied, “Negative! Negative! Not going to bail out.” All too often our pilots had drowned or died of exposure after their planes had been crippled by enemy antiaircraft fire and they ditched the aircraft or bailed out into the frigid waters of the Sea of Japan. My wingman, Lieutenant Commander Tom Pugh, had been killed in just this way on our second mission. In my case, I would have had to successfully evacuate the Skyraider and enter the water blind, with the probability of a tangled parachute harness and with my rubber immersion suit pierced by shell fragments and unable to offer protection from the freezing ocean. To my mind, bailing out meant certain death.
I would not bail out. Howie understood my decision. He would get me back behind the front lines into friendly territory—or I would die in the attempt. We turned and headed south.
Thirty miles behind the front lines, on the coast, was a Marine airfield designated K-18. This was our destination. I wasn’t sure whether I could make it that far as I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Then Howard spotted a cruiser shelling enemy positions and knew that this was the bomb line. South of the bomb line was friendly territory. The instructions continued, “We’re at the bomb line, Ken. We’ll head for K-18. Hold on, Ken. Can you hear me, Ken? Will head for K-18. Over.”
“Roger. Let’s try.” It was an effort to speak.
“Can you make it, Ken?”
“Get me down, you miserable s.o.b., or you’ll have to inventory my gear!” (In case of an aviator’s death, a shipmate must inventory his personal belongings before they are shipped home—not a welcome chore. Howard and I had designated each other for this function.)
I continued to follow Thayer’s directions, but he could see that my head kept flopping down from time to time and he doubted I could make it to K-18, so he decided to get me down right away.
Immediately behind the front lines was a 2,000-foot deserted dirt airstrip named “Jersey Bounce” that the Army used for its light planes performing artillery spotting. Thayer decided to have me land there. “Ken, we’re going down. Push your nose over, drop your right wing. We’re approaching ‘Jersey Bounce.’We’ll make a 270- degree turn and set you down.”
“Roger, Howie, let’s go,” I replied. He said, “left wing down slowly, nose over easy. A little more. Put your landing gear down.”
“To hell with that!” was my instantaneous reply. I had seen this field on earlier missions and could picture it in my mind’s eye. It was rough and short and with wheels down, too many things could go wrong. It was much safer to land on my belly. “Roger, gear up,” Thayer concurred. This was one time when we wouldn’t follow the checklist.
Ahead lay the most critical part of the flight—landing, a complex maneuver requiring precision and skill. As challenging as flying wounded and blind had been up to now, a sightless landing on a tiny dirt strip would be infinitely more difficult. One slip would result in disaster.
From his plane, flying 25 feet away from mine and duplicating my maneuvers, Howard’s voice was cool and confident, but the underlying tension was palpable, “We’re heading straight. Flaps down. Hundred yards to the runway. You’re 50 feet off the ground. Pull back a little. Easy. Easy. That’s good. You’re level. You’re O.K. You’re O.K. Thirty feet off the ground. You’re O.K. You’re over the runway. Twenty feet. Kill it a little. You’re setting down. O.K. O.K. O.K. Cut!”
The shock wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. Some 45 minutes after the shell blew up in my cockpit, my plane hit the ground, lurched momentarily and skidded to a stop in one piece. A perfect landing. No fire. No pain, no strain. The best landing I ever made.
Thayer said elatedly, “You’re on the ground, Ken.” After cutting the switches, I clumsily climbed out of the cockpit. Almost immediately an Army Jeep with two men came, picked me up and took me to a shack on the edge of the field. From there, a helicopter flew me to the K-18 airfield where doctors at the field hospital started to patch me up and give me painkillers.
Thayer flew back to the carrier. I found out later that when he landed, a crowd was there to greet and congratulate him. He wondered how they knew what had happened and was told that most of our transmissions had been picked up on Valley Forge. They had recorded them and played them back for the crew that night.
Meanwhile back at the Marine airfield, the doctors felt I needed more expert medical care than they could offer, so I was transported to the Navy hospital ship Consolation (AH 15) where I underwent immediate surgery. Both of my eyes were bandaged for two weeks, during which time I wasn’t sure if I would ever see again.
But the possibility of a lifetime of blindness was a minor issue compared to just being alive. Eventually, however, I regained sight in my left eye. My career as a Navy carrier pilot was over. My life was not—because although I was blind that day over North Korea, I was not really alone. Howard Thayer had been my eyes. Together, we’d created a miracle. Today, still living on “borrowed time,” I am thankful for every moment of every day.
Epilogue
Howard Thayer made the Navy his career. In January 1961, while flying a night mission in an A-4 Skyhawk from a carrier in the Mediterranean Sea, both he and his squadron commander flew into the water while on landing approach. Their remains were never recovered. Thayer was survived by his wife and three small children.
The plane that Ken Schechter landed at “Jersey Bounce” was jacked up, given a new propeller, flown back to Valley Forge for repairs and returned to service. Ken and Howard’s story became the basis for the 1953 MGM movie, Men of the Fighting Lady. Ken was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross on the flight deck of Constellation (CV 64) at NAS North Island, Calif., on 28 June 1995. “Blind and Alone Over North Korea” was originally published in Chicken Soup for the Veteran’s Soul in May 2001.
Join Date: Mar 2007
Location: USofA
Posts: 1,235
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
I had the pleasure of working with Jack Thayer, Howard Thayer's father. He was a pilot for Western Airlines and ran the small training ceter in Los Angeles. Never new the whole story about his son. Thanks for posting it. 
The British test pilot Harold Penrose wrote a book called Adventure with Fate which was first published in 1984. One of the aircraft he test flew was the Westland Wyvern, in 1947. The Wyvern was a large ten ton single engine fighter with contra-rotating propellers. This extract from his book chilled me to the bone.
"I was completing the customary final circuit at Westland with the Wyvern when in a flash of time above Pete Garner's house, where I could see him and his wife in the garden, the world flicked sideways upside-down and the aircraft plunged inverted towards the sea of wedge-shaped roofs.
In that split-second the ambivalent dispassionate part of my mind even recognized the house into which the machine would crash in the next two seconds. - yet animal instinct had already pushed the control column diagonally forward and applied full rudder in the long practiced movements of opposing the roll and lifting the nose.
Shuddering on the verge of stall, the machine screwed laterally around and up, still massively rolling its ten tons past the horizontal, checked, then slowly returned to level a mere hundred feet above the roofs. Opening the throttle to gain vital speed, I glanced outside and saw that both ailerons were up at full lock, one controlled by me with the stick held hard to port, the other independently in repetition of the earlier Whirlwind and Welkin (incidents) but even more dangerously.
Tensely, I climbed to 5000 ft, willing the machine not to turn over, then successfully tried a wide turn by fractionally decreasing my sole controllable aileron, relying on lateral stability for recovery, knowing that with both ailerons up the wings had an effective wash-out that improved their ability to keep level.
Luck was with me. All went well. I radioed my predicament to Ground Control; saw the crash tender and ambulance move into position. In a five-mile curve across open country I headed back towards the west edge of the aerodrome, gambling there would be no bumps to upset that lateral balancing when low down.
Rocking slightly, the Wyvern made it, though there was an apprehensive moment as flaps and undercarriage went down and disturbed the trim, but we touched with a normal three-pointer and great relief, well aware that had the machine dived when it whirled uncontrollably inverted, the verdict would have been "error of judgement while performing aerobatics at a dangerously low altitude" instead of mechanical failure.
Inspection revealed the starboard aileron push-rod had broken at a forked socket.
"I was completing the customary final circuit at Westland with the Wyvern when in a flash of time above Pete Garner's house, where I could see him and his wife in the garden, the world flicked sideways upside-down and the aircraft plunged inverted towards the sea of wedge-shaped roofs.
In that split-second the ambivalent dispassionate part of my mind even recognized the house into which the machine would crash in the next two seconds. - yet animal instinct had already pushed the control column diagonally forward and applied full rudder in the long practiced movements of opposing the roll and lifting the nose.
Shuddering on the verge of stall, the machine screwed laterally around and up, still massively rolling its ten tons past the horizontal, checked, then slowly returned to level a mere hundred feet above the roofs. Opening the throttle to gain vital speed, I glanced outside and saw that both ailerons were up at full lock, one controlled by me with the stick held hard to port, the other independently in repetition of the earlier Whirlwind and Welkin (incidents) but even more dangerously.
Tensely, I climbed to 5000 ft, willing the machine not to turn over, then successfully tried a wide turn by fractionally decreasing my sole controllable aileron, relying on lateral stability for recovery, knowing that with both ailerons up the wings had an effective wash-out that improved their ability to keep level.
Luck was with me. All went well. I radioed my predicament to Ground Control; saw the crash tender and ambulance move into position. In a five-mile curve across open country I headed back towards the west edge of the aerodrome, gambling there would be no bumps to upset that lateral balancing when low down.
Rocking slightly, the Wyvern made it, though there was an apprehensive moment as flaps and undercarriage went down and disturbed the trim, but we touched with a normal three-pointer and great relief, well aware that had the machine dived when it whirled uncontrollably inverted, the verdict would have been "error of judgement while performing aerobatics at a dangerously low altitude" instead of mechanical failure.
Inspection revealed the starboard aileron push-rod had broken at a forked socket.
Last edited by Centaurus; 1st Aug 2010 at 08:53.
Join Date: Sep 2001
Location: Eagan, MN
Posts: 339
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Col. Dye, subject pilot at start of this thread, has a fascinating history...
Purple Heart Austin War Stories - Rufus Dye, Jr.
Purple Heart Austin War Stories - Rufus Dye, Jr.
Join Date: Jan 2008
Location: FL 600. West of Mongolia
Posts: 463
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
The late great Neil Williams
Does anyone recall the incident which occurred to the late Neil Williams, in which the wing bolts on one side of his Zlin failed, causing the wing to start folding upwards? IIRC, he had the presence of mind to fly inverted, to minimise any further folding, then roll upright just prior to landing, saving both himself and the aircraft. A remarkable feat of airmanship and flying by any standards.
I can still remember the shy grin on Mr Williams' face. What an incredible aviator.
Join Date: Jun 2006
Location: Canada
Posts: 1,306
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Derbyshire, Niether the 767 out of fuel into Gimli or the Airbus into the Azores are "feats of airmanship", rather examples of use of wrong checklist/ Piss poor comand decision making/total lack of CRM/ the list goes on. Those in the know over here would rather folks read the official reports on these two foul ups rather than the media version or the PR spin of events ,may I sugest you read the other threads on this website to get a better view of the circumstances { Take no heed of our Canadian French/English spats when you do, it is ever thus}
Last edited by clunckdriver; 2nd Aug 2010 at 12:38.
Cool Mod
Join Date: Apr 1998
Location: 18nm N of LGW
Posts: 6,185
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
I knew Neil very well, and his wife Lynne. They were both members of the Tiger Club at Redhill and he would be happy to fly with anyone who wanted aerobatic tuition - we flew together many times and his aeros were second to none and we did have some very good pilots at the Tiger Club, Carl Schofield, Pete Jarvis, James Black to name but a few.
He flew Zlins again in aerobatic comps for some time after the incident at Hullavington.
I remember one day when I was duty check pilot that Neil was about to fly Des St Cyrian's Sopwith Pup he had built. Neil let me know he was going north just over the ridge to put the Pup through some checks. It was about an hour later I received a call from Neil to say that he had forced landed the Pup in a rather nice field that was the sports ground of Lloyds Bank at Kingswood. I drove up there to see what help he needed - it turned out that all he needed was castor oil! As I had decided to take an engineer with me he had some with him - he must have known! Just as we were going to get Neil on his way again, a policeman in a panda car turned up and wanted to take a statement from Neil but I'm afraid we nearly went into hysterics when he asked Neil for his driving licence!! One red faced police officer quickly left the scene.
It was a VERY sad day that Neil together with Lynne and an engineer from Doug Arnold's fleet at Blackbushe were killed when they hit a mountain in a He111 just north of Valencia.
His book 'Aerobatics' is one of the best reads for any aspiring aerobatic pilot. The drawing of each maneuver by his brother gives it an edge that others have not.
He flew Zlins again in aerobatic comps for some time after the incident at Hullavington.
I remember one day when I was duty check pilot that Neil was about to fly Des St Cyrian's Sopwith Pup he had built. Neil let me know he was going north just over the ridge to put the Pup through some checks. It was about an hour later I received a call from Neil to say that he had forced landed the Pup in a rather nice field that was the sports ground of Lloyds Bank at Kingswood. I drove up there to see what help he needed - it turned out that all he needed was castor oil! As I had decided to take an engineer with me he had some with him - he must have known! Just as we were going to get Neil on his way again, a policeman in a panda car turned up and wanted to take a statement from Neil but I'm afraid we nearly went into hysterics when he asked Neil for his driving licence!! One red faced police officer quickly left the scene.
It was a VERY sad day that Neil together with Lynne and an engineer from Doug Arnold's fleet at Blackbushe were killed when they hit a mountain in a He111 just north of Valencia.
His book 'Aerobatics' is one of the best reads for any aspiring aerobatic pilot. The drawing of each maneuver by his brother gives it an edge that others have not.
DOVE
Join Date: Oct 2003
Location: Myself
Age: 77
Posts: 1,179
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
A feat of superb airmanship
Excerpts from the book: "E’ il Comandante che vi parla (This is your Captain Speaking)" By Corrado Schreiber
In one of my trips to New York with the DC-7C the only very difficult and dramatic (but that could have been tragic) episode of my career happened to me. I was captain of Alitalia Flight 602 of April 21 of 1959 from Rome to Milan and to New York and I had left Milan since a few hours, to New York, skipping the stopover in Shannon because unfavourable winds were not expected to require an additional supply of fuel.
The night was calm, we were expected to arrive on time, the flight had become a quiet Atlantic navigation. I left the cockpit after the usual recommendations to the first officer and I went to lie down in bed. I was relaxing for ten minutes when I heard on the left side of the plane, two strong and deaf blows, accompanied by a dry and decisive shake . Immediately returned to the cockpit. The engine number two, namely the inner left was crazy, the speed regulator was not working anymore. The propeller was spinning much more than the engine could tolerate, and was screaming; the tone of the engine, in fact, exceeded the other three’s.
In the meantime the parameters, oil pressure and temperature, were outside the norm.
Together with an engineer (there were two on board) I decided immediately to “Feather” the engine. In doing so the propeller would become neutral to the direction of flight, the engine would stop and we returned to base, which was much closer than the destination. But when the engineer operated the electric actuator for "Feathering" the propeller, it refused to take up to neutral and continued in its mad rush. There was no applicable procedure in the "emergency check ist".
The fact that the propeller didn’t stop involved a huge risk because it created a large aerodynamic resistance and also continuing to turn, would drag all the moving gears and motor (shaft, connecting rods, pistons and accessories) to a failure. The damage would have been severe and might even ignite an inextinguishable fire on board until the cause had ceased.
The fire could also have spread to the area of fuel tanks with easy to understand consequences. Due to the uselessness of the normal emergency procedures, a sudden bright idea was needed.
The engineer cut off the oil from the engine: I hoped that without lubrication it "seized". As a matter of fact, a few minutes after, a new shake convinced us that the motor shaft had broken. A danger was averted. However, the propeller continued to turn on its own and aerodynamic imbalances were disrupting the flying order. The propeller spinner had become a burning block sparkling in the night. The radio operator, had already launched the MAY-DAY message, followed by the sentence: Unable to Maintain attitude.
I realized that the burning shaft of the propeller, sooner or later would cut off, heading, perhaps, toward the fuselage. It is not unlikely that this incident has occurred in more than a plane crash.
I was already down to fourteen thousand feet and had ordered the cab for 'decompression', so if the propeller had struck the fuselage, there was not the risk of an explosive decompression. Knowing the direction of rotation of the engine I impressed to the aircraft a left upward spiral trajectory.
Doing so I gave the propeller, in addition to the centrifugal force, another one caused by gyroscopic precession with a resultant direction that would have detach it from the engine on a course perpendicular to the wing, thus avoiding either the fuselage and the outboard engine.
The propeller, or rather the hot block, pulled away in the right way just as I had expected, and disappeared into the ocean.
The second and dangerous part of the emergency was over. In the propeller spinner place was left a small glowing crater. I decided not to discharge the fire suppressant, which I preferred to keep in case of need. I made up my mind to increase speed: the rushing wind had its effect and the crater was slowly reduced until it disappeared altogether.
I must now face the third phase: the immediate landing at the closest available airport. I decided to land in Shannon. The co-pilot and navigator did prepare the route, distance and flight time. I asked the engineer to calculate the total weight of the planned landing: about Fifty eight thousand Kilos, too many compared to the maximum allowed landing weight of fifty thousand. I had to reduce the weight by damping fuel, but I thought it was not prudent. I did not know exactly what the real damage to the airframe was and how many incandescent particles could still be around. I decided to make an overweight landing. I tried to glide gently, and then if any damage had occurred to the structure, not a big deal: this was not a bigger risk compared to the possibility of a fire.
Like, I think, it happens to all pilots in difficult situations, I made an exceptionally smooth landing. Usually, a bad landing occurs when everything appears simple and easy. Arriving to the parking there was a small crowd of people and an Air France crew. The commander wanted to board to congratulate me. The recognition that came from an unknown fellow, pleased me.
In all this hubbub, thankfully, the passengers had not realized that something was wrong; I had informed them that there was a failure on board and were heading to an alternate airport for landing. But they learned the truth only upon landing, when everything was happily resolved.
The newspapers reported the event all over Europe and I cannot deny that I liked the big appreciative titles. I was struck especially by the title of a German newspaper: "Gut gemacht, riders!" (Well done, pilot!)
It was a rare experience which confirmed, once again, the high degree of safety attained by scheduled flights. Even in a totally unexpected event, everything had gone for the best.
'The commander Corrado Schreiber was awarded with a Silver Medal for Aeronautic Valour for the conduct in this difficult emergency'
In one of my trips to New York with the DC-7C the only very difficult and dramatic (but that could have been tragic) episode of my career happened to me. I was captain of Alitalia Flight 602 of April 21 of 1959 from Rome to Milan and to New York and I had left Milan since a few hours, to New York, skipping the stopover in Shannon because unfavourable winds were not expected to require an additional supply of fuel.
The night was calm, we were expected to arrive on time, the flight had become a quiet Atlantic navigation. I left the cockpit after the usual recommendations to the first officer and I went to lie down in bed. I was relaxing for ten minutes when I heard on the left side of the plane, two strong and deaf blows, accompanied by a dry and decisive shake . Immediately returned to the cockpit. The engine number two, namely the inner left was crazy, the speed regulator was not working anymore. The propeller was spinning much more than the engine could tolerate, and was screaming; the tone of the engine, in fact, exceeded the other three’s.
In the meantime the parameters, oil pressure and temperature, were outside the norm.
Together with an engineer (there were two on board) I decided immediately to “Feather” the engine. In doing so the propeller would become neutral to the direction of flight, the engine would stop and we returned to base, which was much closer than the destination. But when the engineer operated the electric actuator for "Feathering" the propeller, it refused to take up to neutral and continued in its mad rush. There was no applicable procedure in the "emergency check ist".
The fact that the propeller didn’t stop involved a huge risk because it created a large aerodynamic resistance and also continuing to turn, would drag all the moving gears and motor (shaft, connecting rods, pistons and accessories) to a failure. The damage would have been severe and might even ignite an inextinguishable fire on board until the cause had ceased.
The fire could also have spread to the area of fuel tanks with easy to understand consequences. Due to the uselessness of the normal emergency procedures, a sudden bright idea was needed.
The engineer cut off the oil from the engine: I hoped that without lubrication it "seized". As a matter of fact, a few minutes after, a new shake convinced us that the motor shaft had broken. A danger was averted. However, the propeller continued to turn on its own and aerodynamic imbalances were disrupting the flying order. The propeller spinner had become a burning block sparkling in the night. The radio operator, had already launched the MAY-DAY message, followed by the sentence: Unable to Maintain attitude.
I realized that the burning shaft of the propeller, sooner or later would cut off, heading, perhaps, toward the fuselage. It is not unlikely that this incident has occurred in more than a plane crash.
I was already down to fourteen thousand feet and had ordered the cab for 'decompression', so if the propeller had struck the fuselage, there was not the risk of an explosive decompression. Knowing the direction of rotation of the engine I impressed to the aircraft a left upward spiral trajectory.
Doing so I gave the propeller, in addition to the centrifugal force, another one caused by gyroscopic precession with a resultant direction that would have detach it from the engine on a course perpendicular to the wing, thus avoiding either the fuselage and the outboard engine.
The propeller, or rather the hot block, pulled away in the right way just as I had expected, and disappeared into the ocean.
The second and dangerous part of the emergency was over. In the propeller spinner place was left a small glowing crater. I decided not to discharge the fire suppressant, which I preferred to keep in case of need. I made up my mind to increase speed: the rushing wind had its effect and the crater was slowly reduced until it disappeared altogether.
I must now face the third phase: the immediate landing at the closest available airport. I decided to land in Shannon. The co-pilot and navigator did prepare the route, distance and flight time. I asked the engineer to calculate the total weight of the planned landing: about Fifty eight thousand Kilos, too many compared to the maximum allowed landing weight of fifty thousand. I had to reduce the weight by damping fuel, but I thought it was not prudent. I did not know exactly what the real damage to the airframe was and how many incandescent particles could still be around. I decided to make an overweight landing. I tried to glide gently, and then if any damage had occurred to the structure, not a big deal: this was not a bigger risk compared to the possibility of a fire.
Like, I think, it happens to all pilots in difficult situations, I made an exceptionally smooth landing. Usually, a bad landing occurs when everything appears simple and easy. Arriving to the parking there was a small crowd of people and an Air France crew. The commander wanted to board to congratulate me. The recognition that came from an unknown fellow, pleased me.
In all this hubbub, thankfully, the passengers had not realized that something was wrong; I had informed them that there was a failure on board and were heading to an alternate airport for landing. But they learned the truth only upon landing, when everything was happily resolved.
The newspapers reported the event all over Europe and I cannot deny that I liked the big appreciative titles. I was struck especially by the title of a German newspaper: "Gut gemacht, riders!" (Well done, pilot!)
It was a rare experience which confirmed, once again, the high degree of safety attained by scheduled flights. Even in a totally unexpected event, everything had gone for the best.
'The commander Corrado Schreiber was awarded with a Silver Medal for Aeronautic Valour for the conduct in this difficult emergency'
Join Date: Jan 2008
Location: SEAsia
Posts: 145
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
And this one?
Israeli Pilot Land Saftly With One Wing - Video
Give it enough power and you can make a brick fly!!!
Fantastic!!
Israeli Pilot Land Saftly With One Wing - Video
Give it enough power and you can make a brick fly!!!
Fantastic!!
Doing so I gave the propeller, in addition to the centrifugal force, another one caused by gyroscopic precession with a resultant direction that would have detach it from the engine on a course perpendicular to the wing, thus avoiding either the fuselage and the outboard engine.
The propeller, or rather the hot block, pulled away in the right way just as I had expected, and disappeared into the ocean.
The propeller, or rather the hot block, pulled away in the right way just as I had expected, and disappeared into the ocean.
Join Date: Jun 2011
Location: Grants Pass, Oregon
Age: 88
Posts: 1
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
#14 Permalink
Tee Emm,
I am Maj. Ron Clisby USAF/Ret, and noticed your posting of a couple of experiences I had a long time ago, in N. Vietnam. The second of which was two days ago '67. About the same time frame, we lost our C.O. to a SAM Missile, when he and another FAC went north , in 2 O-1's to take out the SAM site, but the fighters ground aborted. The NVA commander, obviously knew that they couldn't break down the site and move it right away, so decided to fire two SAM's at the O-l's. The first took out Col. Holmes aircraft, and the second malfunctioned and detonated over the DMZ. The other pilot made it back and told us what happened. The NVA made the right decision, we didn't go back up there for about 5 days, and by then the site was gone.
I spent another tour in "71-'72 in the AC-130A gunships, and was an IP in them until my retirement in 1974.
It was all a long time ago, but memories, some good, some bad, never die.
I've also enjoyed Australia, flying, driving, sailing, but also too long ago. I bought a trimaran in the early '90s and our family sailed her around the world from '93 to '98. Thanks again for your post. Sincerely, Ron Clisby
I am Maj. Ron Clisby USAF/Ret, and noticed your posting of a couple of experiences I had a long time ago, in N. Vietnam. The second of which was two days ago '67. About the same time frame, we lost our C.O. to a SAM Missile, when he and another FAC went north , in 2 O-1's to take out the SAM site, but the fighters ground aborted. The NVA commander, obviously knew that they couldn't break down the site and move it right away, so decided to fire two SAM's at the O-l's. The first took out Col. Holmes aircraft, and the second malfunctioned and detonated over the DMZ. The other pilot made it back and told us what happened. The NVA made the right decision, we didn't go back up there for about 5 days, and by then the site was gone.
I spent another tour in "71-'72 in the AC-130A gunships, and was an IP in them until my retirement in 1974.
It was all a long time ago, but memories, some good, some bad, never die.
I've also enjoyed Australia, flying, driving, sailing, but also too long ago. I bought a trimaran in the early '90s and our family sailed her around the world from '93 to '98. Thanks again for your post. Sincerely, Ron Clisby
Join Date: Dec 2010
Location: New York & California
Posts: 414
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Cardinal
Agreed
The heroics of tanker crews during the conflict in Southeast Asia is exactly why a tanker should not have draconian flight envelope protections. Lives and aircraft were saved, sometimes far above Mmo.
Thread Starter
Join Date: Jun 2006
Location: Australia
Posts: 1,186
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Tee Emm,
I am Maj. Ron Clisby USAF/Ret, and noticed your posting of a couple of experiences I had a long time ago, in N. Vietnam
I am Maj. Ron Clisby USAF/Ret, and noticed your posting of a couple of experiences I had a long time ago, in N. Vietnam
What an amazing coincidence that you read Pprune and just happened to be the subject of the story I picked from the USAF flight safety magazine. It is a privilege to see you on Pprune and thank you for your input and confirmation of your experience.
Are you aware of the two books "Cleared Hot" which is a collection of histories by US Air Force and Allied Forward Air Controllers from the Southeast Asia War 1961-1975. They list the names of all those pilots that contributed to the two part volumes. I have read both books and I am sure there are pilots you may already know mentioned in the stories. I understand the books are available through the FAC Association at Index or via "CLEARED HOT" by FAC ASSOCIATION, Inc. in History
PM me if you would like further information
Join Date: May 2000
Location: Florida
Posts: 93
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
OldFac - is there any chance you were the Capt Ronald Clisby flying the C-130A that landed in Da Nang on 07/07/1966 with the right main hanging by just the hydraulic lines?
My Dad, Alfred Ernest Agnew, "Ernie", flew west yesterday and I just found the National Archive information on a film that must exist of the fated landing he used to tell us about.
My Dad, Alfred Ernest Agnew, "Ernie", flew west yesterday and I just found the National Archive information on a film that must exist of the fated landing he used to tell us about.
Last edited by AKAAB; 24th Jul 2013 at 16:35.
This thread is good stuff.
Puts in perspective using 'no ILS GS available' as an excuse for not being able to land an aircraft on a clear day as possibly being somewhat lame.
To add to the OP, as the F-105s were being decimated, Republic came up with what they called the 'pilot recovery system'.
A cover guarded activation switch enabled what was a relatively tiny little silver toggle switch on the right console that would electrically move the TE flaps differentially for roll control if the normal flight control system had damage. The idea being that the pilot could use the roll control and thrust to point the aircraft in a direction that would ultimately provide for an ejection in 'friendly' territory.
Republic eventually 'upgraded' this to the 'aircraft recovery system' which provided a slightly larger little silver toggle switch on the right console that not only provided roll control, but also pitch control....when you pulled the little switch aft, the nose went up as a result of both TE flaps now moving toward down and vice-versa....all electric with the TE flaps. The idea being you could actually land the aircraft with this system.
In transition training (near the end of the F-105 service life) I got the 'opportunity' to use this system at altitude....
....first time I ever flew with a side-stick and electric 'flight controls'.
I think Republic may have been somewhat optimistic.
Puts in perspective using 'no ILS GS available' as an excuse for not being able to land an aircraft on a clear day as possibly being somewhat lame.
To add to the OP, as the F-105s were being decimated, Republic came up with what they called the 'pilot recovery system'.
A cover guarded activation switch enabled what was a relatively tiny little silver toggle switch on the right console that would electrically move the TE flaps differentially for roll control if the normal flight control system had damage. The idea being that the pilot could use the roll control and thrust to point the aircraft in a direction that would ultimately provide for an ejection in 'friendly' territory.
Republic eventually 'upgraded' this to the 'aircraft recovery system' which provided a slightly larger little silver toggle switch on the right console that not only provided roll control, but also pitch control....when you pulled the little switch aft, the nose went up as a result of both TE flaps now moving toward down and vice-versa....all electric with the TE flaps. The idea being you could actually land the aircraft with this system.
In transition training (near the end of the F-105 service life) I got the 'opportunity' to use this system at altitude....
....first time I ever flew with a side-stick and electric 'flight controls'.
I think Republic may have been somewhat optimistic.
Join Date: May 2000
Location: Florida
Posts: 93
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
I did a lengthy internet search and was able to confirm Ron Clisby flew C-130s in the same squadron as my father. Then, I found his phone number. I was hesitant to call, but as soon as he heard my last name he immediately started talking about my Dad. He confirmed he was the aircraft commander on the C-130A emergency landing in Da Nang on 07/07/1966 (there is a film in the National Archives we're trying to get a copy of.) Hearing the entire story from Ron filled in a lot of gaps about the event and he said he still had the accident report and would send me a copy. He is the only person I've ever spoken with that flew with Dad back in the day.
With my father having passed away the day before, it was very uplifting to spend a few minutes on the phone with someone that that remembers that time in his life. We were little kids living back in Okinawa and had no idea what he was really doing when he'd leave for weeks at a time.
As far as I know, Dad never flew again except one time with me in an Agusta 109 I needed to do a maintenance flight on. While cruising along over the Everglades, I handed him the controls and it was like he was still in the T-34 in Bainbridge...steady and smooth, eyes on the horizon like he had never stopped flying.
With my father having passed away the day before, it was very uplifting to spend a few minutes on the phone with someone that that remembers that time in his life. We were little kids living back in Okinawa and had no idea what he was really doing when he'd leave for weeks at a time.
As far as I know, Dad never flew again except one time with me in an Agusta 109 I needed to do a maintenance flight on. While cruising along over the Everglades, I handed him the controls and it was like he was still in the T-34 in Bainbridge...steady and smooth, eyes on the horizon like he had never stopped flying.
Last edited by AKAAB; 28th Jul 2013 at 13:57.
I have a text copy of part of a book written by Captain P G Taylor, on his trip across the Tasman Sea with Sir Charles Kingsford-Smith.
It's where they lose a prop and hence an engine, and sinking down towards the ocean. They throw everything that isn't bolted down out of the plane to stop that and find that with full power on the remaining two engines on the Fokker it'll just stay airborne. But the other outboard engine runs low on oil so he has to go outside the plane to collect oil from the dead engine then transfer it to the other outboard running engine.
It's a stunning read of huge bravery but too long to post here - so I zipped it up and it's on my site for you to download. http://www.billzilla.org/temp/southerncross.rar
It's where they lose a prop and hence an engine, and sinking down towards the ocean. They throw everything that isn't bolted down out of the plane to stop that and find that with full power on the remaining two engines on the Fokker it'll just stay airborne. But the other outboard engine runs low on oil so he has to go outside the plane to collect oil from the dead engine then transfer it to the other outboard running engine.
It's a stunning read of huge bravery but too long to post here - so I zipped it up and it's on my site for you to download. http://www.billzilla.org/temp/southerncross.rar