Surprised at Being Alive: An Accidental Helicopter Pilot in Vietnam and Beyond (21 page)

The first crews would launch into “pinky time.” It is that time right after official sunset, a twilight that lets you still see enough to maintain some small level of comfort. Strapped into a sea of cockpit sound—the howling, shaking helicopters—the pilots lift off before it is completely dark. The time between official sunset and true darkness allows the first pilots to get their six landings that are required to keep current for Night Operations. The second and third copilots trade places with the preceding pilots, “hot seating,” and go from the semi-red lit ready room into the dim red cockpit, surrounded by complete blackness.

The first launch was usually reserved for two of the three classes of pilots, brand new guys on their first cruise, and field grade officers: the new guys, to make their training as tension-free as possible until they were ready for the hard stuff, and the field grade, because, well, because they were senior. The second and particularly the third—the dark-dark launches—went to the senior lieutenants and captains, the ones theoretically at the peak of their proficiency. The easy early launch in pinky time is called “field grade night,” in honor of the more senior officers flying then. The much more difficult dark launches or launches into shitty weather are “company grade night.”

I was a captain and left the ready room 15 minutes before my dark-dark launch. this was my third Mediterranean cruise and the 16th year I had been flying helicopters, all of which put me firmly in the second and third launch, “company grade,” category. And that is why I left early enough to try and gain some feeling of what the night held before it was my turn to fly.

The interior passageway, leading to the flight deck and on upward to the bridge and control tower, was marked by a shinny stainless steel door, a disguised hatch really. Normally the commodore (in the Navy, the commodore is almost, but not quite, an admiral), who commands the entire LF6F five-ship flotilla, uses this passageway, but because LPH’s like the
Guam
are relatively small, there might not be a passage exclusively for his use. Working the wheel that sealed the hatch closed, I opened it and stepped into the red darkness of the ladderwell. Up one level, I came to a black hole that was the way to the flight deck. Feeling my way between the flat black painted aluminum “blackout panels” that kept inside light from projecting into the outside blackness, I found the hatch onto the deck and opened it. Very effective, blackout panels—almost make you think you’ve gone blind.

As required by all the regulations and rules of the flight deck, not to mention basic common sense, I had on full flight gear, helmet, gloves, survival vest with built-in Mae West floatation vest, steel-toed flight boots, and zippered-up flight suit. The clear, plastic visor on my helmet was down against the wind that blew across the flight deck, and ear cups muffled the sound. I always felt somehow insulated from all the elements in full gear, disassociated from the reality of the deck, almost like watching a movie. The deck itself was awash in the normal vague red glow, marked here and there by the yellow flashlight wands held by the LSEs and the rotating beacons on the wall that show the status of the deck: green for ready, red for foul.

The blast of rotor wash from a landing CH-46e hit me as I opened the hatch and I had to hold on hard to keep from being blown off my feet. When the Frog settled unevenly on the deck, the wind died somewhat, and I stepped out onto the black non-skidded deck and secured the hatch behind me. Carefully staying inside the foul line, the painted white line marking the safe area of the flight deck from the operational area, and avoiding the chains lying on the deck, I walked forward past the Flight Deck Officers’ shack to the front bone. I found a spot near a tow tractor to lean on the steel wall of the island and watch Flight Operations.

Only one aircraft was on deck at that time. The steady dim of its position lights, a red glow from the cockpit, and two circles of greenish light from the Phrogs blade tip lights were the only light on the deck besides the dimness of the deck lights. A few red, anti-smash lights, off the port side in the sea of black beyond the red-lit flight deck were visible. No stars, no moon, no horizon, and only a hint of dim ship lights astern—a real “company grade” night, meaning that only the young and experienced need apply. The majors and higher, the “field grade” officers, got the moon-lit, cloudless nights.

Another CH-46 followed the LSE’s wands into Spot Five, wobbled over the deck, and finally settled onto the spot, more or less on the three-by-two-foot square white boxes painted on the deck that marked where the wheels were supposed to, but often did not, rest. If the wheels were exactly on the spot, there was more than adequate clearance between the rotor blades of the helicopters occupying the spots up and down the flight deck. Because it was so easy to miss the painted spots, the pilots often joked that they marked “weak spots in the deck and should be avoided at all times.”

To see the importance of this small clearance, you only have to walk to the area of the
Guam
’s deck between spots five and seven and look at the creases in the flight deck steel that still remain from the time, a few years before, when a CH-MKD drifted backwards into the turning blades of another Hog. When the first Shitter’s tail rotor hit the main rotor blades of the second, it crashed and rolled on its side before spilling out its fuel. Both aircraft burned, their flames lighting off the spilled fuel that ran down the side of the ship into the hanger deck. Men died in the crash and fire but prompt action by the ship’s crew kept it from being much worse.

Hearing the sound of the crash above them, and seeing burning fuel running down into the hanger deck from the flight deck, the crew responded exactly as trained and attacked the fire before it spread, successfully containing and stopping it. Both aircraft were destroyed and their crews killed, along with several of the deck crew, but the ship and crew were saved. Nearly all traces of the crash were removed years ago, but the faint creases in the deck where the rotor blades first hit remain.

Going for maximum aviator cool, I usually could maintain some semblance of calm when faced with night flight, but tonight was somehow different. The semi-vertigo was still there, and the early trip to the deck was not helping. The second Frog, the one on Spot Five (05), had its position lights on, flashing dim, the signal for chocks and chains to hold the aircraft still on the moving deck so that it could be refueled. Over the moderate roar of the flight deck, I heard the Boss call over the flight deck loud speaker for the next pilot for 05 to man the aircraft. That was me. With the wind pushing from behind, I walked down the slightly listing deck to spot four and the helicopter, feeling the flight suit flap against my legs as I walked.

The second launch pilot was just climbing out the crew door as I arrived at the aircraft. He took the long last step to the flight deck and grabbed my arm before he moved under 05’s rotor disk.

“Got a small beat (rotor vibration) but works OK,” he yelled over the noise of the aircraft. No mention of how dark it was. No reason to state the obvious.

I lifted my helmet bag up and set it inside the crew door. Grabbing the wire cable that kept the door from bending the hinges, I climbed up the crew steps on the right side of the aircraft, just behind the cockpit and into the red-lit interior of the helicopter. I banged the top of my helmet into the cabin roof. Without my helmet I am 6’ 4” and the cabin of a Frog is 6’2” so this was normal, as evidenced by the scrapes and dings on my helmet.

Climbing up into the small passageway from the cabin to the cockpit, I slipped a little on spilled oil or hydraulic fluid on the floor. Putting my left foot on the seat itself, I squeezed into the left seat, trying as hard as possible not to hit the flight controls or the engine controls or the fuel jettison switches. The climb into the seat was always difficult for someone six foot four; even without the flight gear it was a difficult entry, but all pilots try to look graceful getting in because the passengers tended to get nervous if they see the pilot fall down while climbing into the seat. Stiff from the cool flight deck air, I had to struggle a little more than usual, but the HAC in the right seat held his hand over the controls for the auxiliary power plant and fuel jettisons just in case I banged into them.

In at last, I felt for the seat belt and shoulder harness. Finding the ends, I moved my hands to the adjustments and let them out all the way. The last pilot was supposed to do that but had forgotten in his haste to leave the cockpit. No matter, I was too tense to let it bother me much. Strapped in now, I reached back to the space on the right side of the console and got my helmet bag. I put it on the left side of the center console where I could get to it easily in the dark. Pulling the red-lensed flashlight out of my survival vest, I hooked it on the snaps provided so that the red light would shine on the instruments if the helicopter’s electrical power failed or for some reason the lights went off.

The other pilot was calm and collected. He had been out from daylight through to darkness and had completely adapted. He knew I wasn’t and hadn’t, so he said, “I’ll do this one, Bob. Just follow along and call every-thing as briefed.” He then reached down and moved the heading bug (small pilot-adjustable indicator on the electronic heading indicator that high-lights a particular heading on the compass) on the Attitude Heading Reference System (AHRS—the electronic compass) so that it pointed directly down the deck in on the ship’s heading, 170 degrees right now. The ship would hold this heading during Air Operations since it was directly into the wind, making it easier for the pilots to land aboard.

The helicopter aircraft commander (HAC) gave the light signal to pull the chocks and chains. The yellow shirt LSE sent the blue shirt deck crew in to pull them off and then, as they held them up, he ran the wands down each one so that we could physically see that they were all off. If you lift up with a chain still attached, it may cause the helicopter to roll over and beat itself to death on the steel deck. The pilot signaled the count was good and the LSE raised the wands straight up to indicate the aircraft was clear to lift into a hover.

On the LSE’s signal to lift with the yellow wands, the HAC called, “Ready in the back?” and when the crew chief replied, “All set,” the HAC called, “three on.” I turned the Stability Augmentation System, the SAS, to “both,” the Automatic Stability equipment, the ASE, to “On,” and con-firmed the speed trims in “Auto” and replied, “three on.” As the LSE lifted the wands, the HAC lifted the aircraft into a smooth hover. I followed along on the controls, but it did not seem real, again it was like I was watching a movie of someone sitting in an aircraft cockpit and doing these things. As he held the Frog over the red-lit deck, I scanned the instruments one last time before the LSE gave us the launch signal with his wands.

Sometimes, if you were heavily loaded, and the wind over the deck was not very strong as you cross the deck edge, you start to settle toward the water. You can feel your aircraft sinking toward the sea but you have nothing left, no more power to pull, and the sea is only 50 feet away. You hold the controls as still as you can to conserve lift and think light thoughts until your aircraft shudders through translational lift and starts to climb and the water is left below. We were empty tonight so that wouldn’t hap-pen, we wouldn’t settle toward the sea—couldn’t happen.

“Gauges check good; holding 60% torque; cleared to go,” I called. When the LSE moved his wands in the cleared-for-takeoff signal, the HAC smoothly added power while sliding the aircraft to left, toward the blackness on the other side of the deck. As we cleared the port side of the ship, he pulled in more power and nosed the helicopter forward, committing us to the darkness. He was now flying only on the flight instruments. There was only blackness, deep, deep blackness through the windshield.

“Positive power, positive climb; airspeed off the peg; passing through 30 knots,” I called over the intercom.

“Airspeed 40; passing through 100 feet.”

“Airspeed 60; passing 200.”

“Airspeed approaching 80, 250 feet,” I called, continuing the constant drone of crew coordination night flight, particularly night flight over water. The compass showed we were still on the same course as the ship, the heading bug indicator at the 12 o’clock position on the AHRS.

The upwind turn we were about to make was the most critical part of night CQ’s. When pilots turn away from the ship, further into the blackness, they tend to unconsciously push the stick slightly forward putting the aircraft in a shallow dive. Starting from only KHH feet, a dive, no matter how slight, will put the aircraft into the water in seconds. Fifteen Marines died off Onslow Beach in North Carolina when a Frog pilot did just that. Reaching to change a radio frequency with his left hand instead of having the HJP do it, he pushed the stick slightly forward. In a second, the aircraft hit the water. The Marines in the back got tangled up in the seat tie-down straps and drowned as the wreck sank into Onslow Bay.

“Standby for Alt hold,” the HAC called back. I already had my hand on the switch.

“300, Alt hold on,” I said as I pulled the switch on the center console forward. On the Phrog, there are two kinds of altitude hold, radar and barometric. The barometric hold (baralt) is used over land because the constantly changing altitude of the land below would have the aircraft hunting for the altitude you have set. Over water, the level of the sea is more or less constant, so radar altimeter hold (radalt) can hold you exactly where you want to be.

After I turned the radalt hold on, we both relaxed, just a little, as the automatic control, coupled to our radar altimeter, took control of our power and held us at 300 feet, the traffic pattern altitude. It would hold us wherever we set it by increasing or decreasing power as dictated by where we moved the helicopter’s nose to adjust speed. As long as the radalt hold was on, we would have to really screw up to crash into the dark sea below. In fact, it would be nearly impossible.