Field Carrier Landing Practice FCLP


I popped up my canopy by toggling the switch on the left console. The aluminum clamshell with two small side windows whooshed up and locked. The warm
night air of central Florida rushed into the cockpit displacing the cool forced conditioned air on my forehead while I still breathed the cold oxygen from my
mask. The dull roar of the two idling jet engines hit me through my helmet; the intakes were just two feet away on my left and right, I was in the middle. I
was strapped into the back seat of an RA-5C Vigilante at 2300 hours on a concrete ramp at Sanford Naval Air Station on 14 June 1967. We were
conducting Night Field Carrier Landing Practice (FCLP) on Runway 27 with five other aircraft in the pattern. Wind was calm and temperature about 85
degrees. The sky was clear with only the flashing lights of the other aircraft as they went around and around the pattern to be seen.

My regular training pilot climbed out of his front cockpit and wiggled down the ladder attached to the fuselage and the new pilot climbed up and in. The fifty
thousand pound airplane with its two fifteen thousand pound thrust idling engines sat in its chocks and vibrated as it was being refueled by a yellow truck
off to the side. Flashing lights were everywhere but it was all orderly and the pilot switch and hot refueling was going off without a hitch. I took off my mask
and instantly the smell of exhausted jet fuel came into the cockpit. I relaxed and enjoyed it. It was all very exciting.

The new pilot came up on hot mike and said, "OK, Smitty, how do you read?" He knew that his regularly assigned Reconnaissance Attack Navigator (RAN)
had been replaced by me for this evening FCLP only.

"Loud and clear, sir," I replied, putting my mask back on and talking into the microphone embedded in it. I toggled down my canopy and it closed with a
reassuring thump and clunked locked. The air cooled down and the noise eased for a bit. My regular pilot walked away without a look back. He had just
practiced twelve landings and would do so again tomorrow night. He was an unmarried thirty eight year old Navy Commander who had been flying single
seat jet reconnaissance fighters (F-8) off carriers for years and had had one combat tour in the new war in Vietnam. He was now preparing to carrier
qualify in this type aircraft before he went back to war in Vietnam. It was his first time flying in a two seat carrier jet.

I was a single, twenty three year old Ensign navigator who had had little jet experience, little navigator experience and had never been in combat or even on
a carrier. I was in awe of him. We had been assigned as a crew and we flew all our missions together. We were due to qualify in the RA-5C in one month on
the USS Ranger, one of the large supercarriers of the time, and then on to combat in six months over North Vietnam flying from Yankee Station in the
Gulf of Tonkin. But first we had to practice crew coordination and the techniques and procedures to land the largest and heaviest carrier aircraft on a
flight deck. This was the pilot's time.

For the past several months I had been navigating low level, medium speed photo missions throughout Florida, Georgia, Alabama, and Tennessee, learning
how to take pictures of small bridges, roads, power plants, and prisons, while maneuvering up and down and all around at four hundred and eighty knots.
The hardest part was not throwing up while thinking ahead of the airplane and putting in very small number new target coordinates into the computer. Now
it was FCLP and all pilot technique and skill to get this airplane at a certain spot on the earth, in a certain attitude, at a certain speed, at a certain
weight, and at a certain time. It had to be done right. We were doing OK.

"Any gripes?" my new pilot asked, referring to any problems the airplane might have developed during the previous two FCLP periods.

"No problems," I answered. My new pilot was a Lieutenant Commander, also thirty eight, and had had much experience in combat and RA-5C carrier flying.
He was married and had five children. I addressed him as Mr. Butler. I was more respectful to him than in awe, but also felt much more friendly towards him.
He had recently returned from a Western Pacific (WestPac) cruise and a harrowing combat tour. He was now undergoing refresher training before going
out for another combat cruise with a different squadron than mine. I had volunteered to fly these two hops with him because I knew him to be safe and
instructive.

"Call for taxi," he directed. I made all the radio calls but the incoming instructions were for the pilot who was listening and had his hands full trying to
precisely place this ungainly airplane onto a spot of runway about twenty yards wide by twenty yards long. The A-5, like most supersonic aircraft, was a
clumsy, underpowered buffalo when it was slow and dirty with flaps, droops, and landing gear down, but cleaned up it was a beautiful, graceful, speeding
demon.

"Ground control, 201, taxi," I said into the oxygen mask as I pressed down on a button on right right footrest after first confirming I had the correct
frequency set in the small window at eye level. We were flying one of twelve aircraft assigned to the only Navy tactical reconnaissance training squadron,
RVAH-3. Our call sign was Commanche Trail 201 which I had shortened to 201. I would have shortened it to 01 but there was another 01 in the pattern
and I did not want to be confused with him.

"201, Ground, cleared to taxi runway 27, wind calm, altimeter two niner niner two," the tower replied. "Ground," was short for "ground control" which was
the title of the person in the tower who monitored aircraft movements on the ramp just prior to takeoff. The same person might be called, "Tower," after
we were airborne.

The engines revved up and we started to slowly taxi toward the duty runway. We were only partially loaded with fuel because we would be landing shorty
after takeoff and the landing gear would not support the weight of a fully loaded landing aircraft. The A-5 usually held thirty thousand pounds of jet fuel,
about five thousand gallons, but for our touch and go's we usually took off with about seven thousand pounds of JP-4, or about a thousand gallons.
That amount of fuel was sufficient for about twenty five minutes of six crash and dashes before we would stop and hot refuel again. Each pilot would then
have had two exhausting periods of twelve field carrier landing practices on the night runway which had landing lights which simulated a carrier's angled
flight deck. They usually emerged from the cockpit soaked in sweat.

There was a Landing Signal Officer (LSO) standing by the end of the runway to talk to the pilots as they made their approach. The LSO, "Paddles," as he
was called, was an experienced RA-5C pilot who made recommendations to the squadron commander as to whether a particular pilot was qualified to fly
out to the ship for landing qualifications which would enable that pilot to go on the cruise. A thumbs down by Paddles was a serious thing for a pilot and
his career.

"Take off checklist," my pilot intoned.

"Compass," I quickly promptly as I was expecting the request. I had only flown with Mr. Butler one other time, a day low-level hop through mountains in
southern Tennessee. It was the only time I had ever tried the Terrain Following Radar (TFR) which allowed the plane to be guided below mountain tops by the
navigator interpreting special radar signals. No one trusted the radar enough to use it for real. On that day the radar worked fine and I respected the pilot
for at least showing his trust for me and the system. For that reason I had volunteered to stay and fly the extra two periods instead of getting out and
leaving with my regular pilot who had completed his two periods.

"Set," the pilot answered the expected reply.

"Hook," I said.

"Up," he answered.

"IFF," I said, and then answered my own query, "set to standby." Identification, Friend or Foe (IFF) was not required since we never left the air station
control area, but we always went through every checklist item anyway.

"Canopy," I said.

"Down and locked, lights out," he answered.

"Harness," I said.

"Locked," he replied.

"OK, flaps and take off power to go," I said as we neared the end of the runway." The takeoff ritual was proceeding exactly as usual. We never engaged in
idle chitchat.

There was so much information coming into us from different sources that it required all our concentration to monitor and interpret it so we didn't have
any time for non-life threatening conversation. We were closely watching dials telling us engine temperatures, flap position, radio frequency, fuel flow,
hydraulic status lights and also listening to the tower, the LSO, and five other aircraft in the pattern. Our senses were alive with processing information,
figuring out which calls were for us and which required responses. We had engine noise and radio noise also interferring with hearing clearly. Internal
communication was kept to a minimum.

We waited for a minute as another aircraft came in for his approach. It was no use calling for take off yet and the common frequency was busy enough
with six airplanes all communicating where they were, their intentions, their fuel states, and listening to the LSO give final landing instructions. I checked
the inside of my small cockpit. My left elbow could touch the aluminum skin of the left side and my right elbow could touch the right. My arm partially bent
forward could touch the front console. I had a little one foot by one foot window high up on the left and right side of my canopy. In front of me there was a
fold-down desk and a full instrument panel including radar, viewfinder, altimeters and many other electronic controls. It was cramped but comfortable once
I knew where everything was. The seat was a hard beige plastic which was the bottom of the ejection seat which also went up my back and over the top of
my head. The seat had to be hard to exert the correct forces without hurting the back. No cushions were allowed. I could not see nor touch my pilot in his
equally small cockpit in front of me.

I figured that in an hour and a half I would be having a cold can of beer and a Florida lobster and baked potato dinner at my favorite Sanford restaurant.

I watched out my little right side window as the landing A-5 wobbled lower and lower. The A-5 came down in its flared position, wings rocking back and
forth, and slammed down in front of us and then with a roar took back off again, then slowly turned right to prepare for its next touch and go. It was said
that a carrier landing was nothing more than a controlled crash. One reason Air Force type aircraft were unsuitable for carrier landings is that the landing
gear were never strong enough.

"OK, call for take off," my pilot said. We were on hot mike which allowed everything we said to be heard by each other. His breathing increased.

"Tower, 201 for takeoff," I quickly radioed.

"201, tower, cleared for takeoff, wind calm," the tower crisply responded. All the players were correctly anticipating each other.

"201, roger," I acknowledged.

As we quickly taxied into position at the end of the runway, I called off the last checklist item, "Flaps." A crew had once attempted to take off with flaps
at zero. The plane never got airborne. It was such a small thing with such serious consequences.

"Flaps ten," he said, "OK, power coming up."

The engines now started their whining up to full roar. He released the brakes as soon as the engines were at one hundred percent and then kicked in the
afterburners. We had to takeoff soon and leave room for the next A-5 now on final for landing. We started to roll.

"All temperatures normal," the pilot said as we gathered speed. Our takeoff roll was short because of our light fuel load and we were soon airborne and
turning downwind to prepare to land in just a few minutes. He left the flaps at ten and the landing gear down. The afterburners were shut off and the power
slightly reduced to maintain our speed of one hundred sixty knots downwind at six hundred feet. We would fly the whole six passes never getting higher
than six hundred feet nor further away from the runway than a mile.

"201 abeam," I called as we passed parallel the runway. Each plane called various positions in the pattern to let everyone know where they were. The critical
interval was how soon each pilot turned base which would determine how long his final approach would be. My regular pilot would often make fun of other
pilots who preferred a longer approach than he did. My pilot tonight made no such derogatory statements; he just adjusted into the pattern.

"201 turning final, state 6.7," I called. We had 6700 pounds of fuel left, enough for five more passes after this one for a total of twenty five minutes of
flight time.

"Landing checklist, flaps," I said to the pilot.

"Flaps full down," he replied in between heavy grunts. As usual it sounded as if the pilot was wrestling with a low, slow, clumsy, and very dangerous
monster. The vibration increased at the airflow responded to the added drag of the huge flaps hanging full down into the airstream.

"Gear," I prompted.

"Three down and locked," he answered and then added, "I've got the ball, 6.0."

"Checklist complete," I said to the pilot and then stepped on my mike button and said, "201 ball, state 6.0," I let the LSO know we had the meatball in
sight which was a reflected image in a mirror which let the pilot know his angle of approach toward the simulated end of the carrier. The mirror system and
the lighting pattern were identical to that of the ship giving the pilots accurate simulation of a carrier night landing. Fuel state was critical information
around the ship because most of the jets were always within minutes of flaming out if they did not land successfully. At a certain point the aircraft was
diverted to a land runway if it was felt the plane could not make it aboard.

"Roger ball," the LSO acknowledged that we were on final, had the field and ball in sight and we had six thousand pounds of fuel left.

Our RA-5C wiggled its wings and the engines surged up and down as we got closer and closer to the cement runway.

"Little power," the LSO advised. No reply was expected. The whine grew louder as the pilot added a little power.

"Going high," the LSO's reassuring calm voice told us. I felt the power ease up.

My radar altimeter and pressure altimeter wound down lower and lower. Then came the expected thump of the landing as we hit approximately where we
wanted to on the runway. During the FCLP debriefing the LSO would describe each pass to the pilot and give criticism. The LSO had the authority to wave
off a plane from landing and his recommendation whether to divert a plane or not carried weight.

As soon as the thump of the landing occurred the engines went to full non-afterburning power and we almost immediately were airborne again and turning
downwind quickly to keep the pattern tight. I noted the time of the landing, fuel state and any comments for later debrief on my pad.

This time upwind my pilot raised the landing gear and the flaps to ten degrees. Having to lower the gear for landing made the FCLP more realistic. The first
night FCLP was the hardest for each pilot and now that we had that one over, I relaxed and went into the routine. I settled into the small cockpit, checked
my pad of paper clamped to the desktop with the record of landings and fuel states. I cinched up my harness, checked my clear visor down and gloves on
tight. I was wearing a new silver flight suit that was undergoing testing. It had the parachute harness integrated into the suit, unlike the regular flight suit
that had the harness added on as a separate item. The plane tossed and turned; it was a little like an amusement ride at a carnival. Again downwind I
called, "201 abeam."

"Landing checklist, flaps," I quickly said. We both knew what the other was about to say and also knew the expected response.

"Flaps full," he replied.

"Gear," I prompted.

"Three down and locked, state 5.0," he answered just after the small thumps of the landing gear locking in place were felt.

"Checklist complete," I said to the pilot, and to the LSO I said, "201, on final, state 5.0."

The plane began its usual last minute maneuverings. This particular plane, Bureau Number 149314, was on its second full day of flight operations after
having been returned from a Progressive Aircraft Rework (PAR) program which updated all the systems and repainted the aircraft inside and out. It gave
the feeling of flying in a brand new airplane. We also carried a million dollar camera in the reconnaissance pod. Normally the camera would not be used on
the rough FCLP but this plane was up, flyable, and needed. The Navy policy of aircraft usage was when a plane was ready to fly, a crew was found to fly it.
The constant pounding of the landings was hard going on camera mounts and internal parts.

"I've got the ball, 4.8" my pilot said calmly.

"201, ball 4.8," I reported to the LSO.

"Roger ball," the LSO answered.

We staggered along as usual and made a nice pass with no comments from the LSO. The plane thumped its usual thump and accelerated as the pilot
applied full takeoff power. We started to climb. I started to write down the landing and the fuel state on my pad in the well-lit small cockpit when I heard a
sudden soft rushing sound off to my right.

Just then my pilot said, in a slightly exasperated voice, "Oh, shit, starboard engine."

I immediately asked, as I started to put my pencil into its holder still listening to the whooshing on my right, "What's the matter?"

My pilot quickly answered me. "Standby, eject, " he said in a terse, level tone of voice.

I immediately reached up with both hands and pulled the face curtain all the way down over my face and upper body.

Nothing happened.

The rushing sound continued as I looked down to see what was wrong and started to think that we were low and wouldn't have much time to do any of the
manual procedures such as blowing off my canopy, unhooking myself from the seat, and jumping out. As it turned out, the delay was caused by the
normal functioning of the seat firing sequence which allowed three quarters of a second for the seat to be set in the full down position. Since I was tall, I
always had it in the full down position. I was still looking down when the rocket ejection seat fired. The cockpit was immediately filled with bright flame and I
was ejected upwards. The original ejection seats were fired with explosive charges, but too many pilots suffered back injuries so the seat was improved by
having this seat propelled by a small rocket charge that reduced the initial shock on the back. The ride up was smooth.

After the bright flash of the rocket firing I had just enough time to think that I hoped everything worked normally. I knew the complicated sequence that
had to be followed precisely for me to live through this.

Just then I felt a great tug and felt warm black sky all around so the knee restraints had retracted normally, the seat had bottomed out, my canopy had
blown off, the seat had fired, the knee restraints had been popped off, the bladder behind me had inflated separating me from the six hundred pound
ejection seat, my drogue parachute had deployed immediately since we were below twelve thousand feet, my main parachute had opened, my face curtain
was gone with the seat and I was coming down to earth under a parachute while breathing oxygen from my ten minute bailout bottle. My new silver flight
suit had held and was comfortable. I did not know what had happened to my pilot. His ejection sequence is delayed one and three quarter seconds to
permit my ejection sequence to complete itself before his sequence commences. Without the delay there would be a chance of his canopy blowing away
into me as I was ejected upward.

As soon as I had realized that the chute had opened I saw a brilliant yellow flash down and to my left as my airplane hit the ground. I thought, "Just like in
the movies." It hit and smeared a yellow flash in the night.

After a maximum of three seconds in the calm air after the chute opened I abruptly hit the ground in a standing position and crumpled down into a heap.
During training I was taught to roll upon landing using the fleshy parts of my body to cushion the landing. They never mentioned what to do on a pitch
dark night when the ground was invisible. As soon as I hit, I felt a sharp pain in my back but quickly got up and looked around. The burning plane was about
forty yards away, upside down, and making explosive noises. I was on a hard, flat, grassy field. I kept the oxygen mask on because the gas was cool and I
knew it was clean. I put my blinking flashlight on my harness, as instructed in my training classes, and started to walk away to look for my pilot. I then
took off the oxygen mask and breathed in the warm Florida night air. I laughed and thought, "I did it and this is really something to talk about, I can't wait
to tell the guys." I shouted, "Mr. Butler, Mr. Butler." There was no answer, just the crackling of the burning airplane.

I walked around a bit, still exhilarated but very aware of my situation. It had only been a minute since the sudden rushing noise, but it had seemed like a
lifetime. A Navy fire truck drove up with some fireman hanging onto the sides. It stopped and the fireman asked me if I was all right and I said sure, why
not, and laughed. They didn't laugh. The plane had crashed just next to the runway. I climbed into a yellow Navy pickup truck that soon came up and we
drove to a central grouping spot. I asked about my pilot but got no answer. I got out and walked over to a circle of men standing around a parachute I
knew wasn't mine. I walked over to my pilot's parachute and it looked to me as if the flight suit attached to it had just been thrown into a heap on the
grassy ground. I guessed he had unzipped his flight suit and had squirmed out of the suit, leaving it attached to the parachute which was laying all strewn
out. I again asked where my pilot was, but there was no answer, only silence, as everyone just stood around and looked. There was no activity other than
silent standing around. The plane was going to burn itself out and there was no searching going on.

I realized then that my pilot was still inside his flight suit and he was dead. I wasn't happy anymore and didn't look forward to telling the guys all about it
anymore either. I sighed and went back to the truck and asked to be taken back to the tower. My back was starting to hurt whenever I bent over. I rode
back silently to the tower where my regular pilot and our squadron commander were already waiting. I told them we lost the starboard engine and we
ejected. I told them my pilot was dead but they didn't seem to want to believe it. They said I was in shock and to relax. The safety officer was there and
suggested I tell everything I knew into a tape recorder for the accident investigation. I agreed and sat down with him and told the whole story as close as I
could remember it. I then went back to the locker room, changed my clothes and went home to bed.

The next day I woke up and my back was really hurting from a compression fracture of thoracic vertebrate six from the abrupt parachute landing. I went to
work, was sent to the Dispensary where I was given some muscle relaxants for my back, and took two days off. I resumed flying and completed my training.
The accident report revealed that a loose clamp, probably undone or not correctly tightened during the Progressive Rework, had become loose and was
ingested into the starboard engine causing Foreign Object Damage (FOD) and a fire.

The pilot's ejection sequence was normal but he was too low or the angle was not vertical enough for the parachute to inflate after it was pulled from the
ejection seat by the drogue. It was guessed that he was too low because the aircraft had rolled slightly to the right while waiting for my ejection sequence
to complete and thus changed the trajectory of the seat from the vertical to the horizontal. He died of massive internal injures. It was reported that he
should have used the alternate ejection handles on each armrest instead of the face curtain because that way he could have maintained the aircraft in
level flight instead of taking his hands off the control stick to reach up and pull the face curtain. Up until that crash it was believed that the Vigilante
could maintain altitude and even climb if an engine out situation developed when low, slow, and dirty. NATOPS was changed to have the A-5 reach five
hundred feet before turning downwind. I believe that my pilot did everything right from quickly identifying the source of the noise, to deciding the airplane
was not airworthy, informing his crew with instructions, and following the correct ejection sequence. And he still died and I lived.
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