AVIATION accidents have always been pretty grisly affairs. Tremendously -L- great speeds are usually involved, highly inflammable gasoline is sometimes spewed all over the place, and pilots, being human, do make mistakes. Fortunately, the accident rate is decreasing. Nowadays crashes are the exception rather than the rule.
This has not always been the case. Not so long ago, 13 Navy pilots were either killed or badly injured in the short space of 12 flying days. But in those days accidents were looked upon as one of flying’s necessary evils. Flying was a relatively new endeavor, not without its share of glamor and adventure, and the price for glamor and adventure has always been high.
The men doing the flying were, as a general rule, an adventurous lot. They had to be. No one but a venturesome man would have trusted life and limb in the box-crates that masqueraded under the name of airplanes. Few of the pilots wore parachutes and those that did were looked upon as near traitors to the creed. Most of the pilots looked down their noses at anyone who flew on instruments. To them, such a thing was almost an admission of a lack of flying ability. They came through the overcast flying “by the seat of their pants” or they did not come through.
Indeed, they were a strange lot. Reckless, often thoughtless, foolhardy, but they all possessed the one quality that the aviation of that day needed so much. That was courage. They all had that in abundance.
Things are not altogether different even now. Courage is still a requirement but it is not the predominant one. Airplanes and the people flying them have changed. Gone are the F5Ls and the water-cooled Hawks. Gone are the absurd notions and affectations that many of the old timers used to swear by. Taking off from one side of an ocean and landing safely on the other, dog fighting with camera guns at 18,000 feet, landing on an aircraft carrier on an inky black night, all of these things do require a willingness to take chances, true enough. But so much more is necessary now; months of hard work, in some cases the cold precision of a scientist, ceaseless training, these are the ingredients that count today.
The law of gravity is still going strong, however. Despite the tremendous technical strides the aviation industry has made in the past few years and despite the change that has taken place in the attitude of the average pilot, Mr. Newton’s Law still holds good: apples and airplanes still fall.
The chances are that a falling apple will do no harm; a bruised apple is about the only result. But a falling airplane is a different matter. This latter is generally a case of extremely bad news for somebody. Nine times out of ten people get hurt in aviation accidents. But once in a great while a crash occurs in which no one is seriously injured, and when this happens a tall tale is usually the result.
Late in 1938, at one of the naval air stations, such a crash did take place. No one was critically injured and, true to tradition, the tale resulting was a tall one; one of the tallest, in fact, in an industry noted for its tall stories. Incredible as it sounds, the story is not fiction. The young man who was the pilot of the plane involved is alive today. His story, couched in the official terminology of the naval service, is resting in the files of the Navy Department, Bureau of Aeronautics, at Washington, D. C.
The aviation cadet in question had about completed the year-long course for the Navy’s Student aviators at one of the naval air stations. He had proved his ability to fly. No more hurdles stared him in the face, no more box-crate training planes to kick around, no more cumbersome gosports to wear. Never again would he have to undergo the mental torture of a flight check. Never again would an instructor climb into the front seat and fly off with him to note his every move and reaction, to cut his gun at inopportune times and then watch as he struggled through the simulated emergency landing. Never again would he have to go through that excruciating period at the parking line, waiting for the instructor to clamber slowly out of the plane, leisurely unbuckle his parachute and finally, turning to him, signify with a twist of his thumb whether or not he should continue with flying in the Navy: thumb up, O.K.; thumb down, no good; back home to civilian life.
That was all behind him now. Ahead lay a couple of weeks of gunnery and dive bombing in F4B-4 fighters. Then he would have to check out in the instrument flying course and that would be all. Given good weather and a little luck three more weeks should see him through. He felt that he had every right to be happy and secretly, of course, a little proud.
He pondered these things as he nestled his little fighter into the No. 3 position on the leader of his formation. With his left hand subconsciously working the throttle back and forth in order to maintain a steady 60-foot interval on the leader of the formation, his thoughts turned idly to the future. There would be an ensign’s commission in the Naval Reserve and 30 days’ leave awaiting him in three more weeks, not to mention a pair of shining gold wings to pin on his chest. Then, on to the fleet, to take his place in one of the Navy’s operating squadrons. Indeed life was good. Flying was fun. The sky was blue and the Gulf, flecked with white caps, was surely the most beautiful body of water any place on earth. Even the sun-baked landscape looked attractive to him as he caught occasional glimpses of it drifting slowly beneath the formation.
He was one of a formation of five students, all of them flying F4B-4s. The plane was one of the Navy’s older Boeing single seat fighters, a type used at that time for student pilot training. That it was a somewhat dated model, and slow, made not the slightest difference to him. It was a “fighter,” officially designated as such by the Bureau of Aeronautics, and that was good enough for him. He loved the fighters. For the past 11 months he had trained in every conceivable type of plane: scouts, bombers, land and water training planes, patrol planes. All of them had been fun and he had enjoyed every minute of it, but there was no comparison between those planes and the little machine he was in now, just as there is no comparison between a thoroughbred race horse and one that pulls a plow. Light as a feather it was but strong and tough, too. One could almost think one of the things around a flipper turn, and stunting them, Immelmans, rolls on top and the like, were easier than straight, level flight had been, back in Squadron Two.
The students were on a bombing hop. The five of them maintained a close, compact formation as they proceeded toward their objective. Above and astern of the formation an instructor, in still another F4B, rode herd on the little group. Officially he was along to act as a target and safety observer; unofficially, to act in the capacity of a chaperon. Students about to graduate from naval air training have been known to cut a few unscheduled capers and nip-ups, and the presence of the instructor was a sure deterrent to such ideas.
The leader of the formation raised his right hand in signal as the five planes neared the target. This was followed by a slight rocking of his wings, whereupon the two planes to his left and rear pulled out of the Vee cruising formation and fell into a right echelon astern. Still another signal followed from the leader and the four planes trailing him gradually began to drop back, each one losing distance on the plane immediately ahead.
Ahead of, somewhat to the left, and 5,000 feet below the formation lay the target. It was a large whitewashed circle etched in a clearing in the scrub pines. Even from that altitude the students could see it clearly.
The cadet’s thoughts turned back to the conference the students had attended just before the take-off. The instructor had called them together and, thoroughly and patiently, gone over with them every phase of dive bombing. He had explained to them the proved methods of getting hits, the entry into the dive, the pull out. He had warned them, again and again, of the dangers involved in this, the most hazardous of military maneuvers. Above all things, he had cautioned them, they were to avoid making simultaneous dives at the target. Over and over he had repeated it: two planes must not dive at the target at the same time; if they did, a mid-air collision was almost inevitable.
The cadet was no fool. He knew he had to be careful. He knew that mistakes in this game are often fatal. Prudently he dropped his right wing and took a bit more distance on the plane ahead of him.
He watched the No. 1 plane as it lazily rolled over on its back and fell away earthward. Then he commenced checking over his own plane, its instruments, and controls. Everything seemed to be in order, oil pressure and temperature satisfactory, fuel pressure 4 pounds, stabilizer slightly forward— “ah ha, the first plane, the leader, had scored a hit.” A puff of white smoke blossomed inside of the whitewashed circle below. He would roll the stabilizer completely forward just as he commenced his dive. The telescope sight was open. Everything was ready.
The second plane’s belly gleamed silver in the bright sunlight as it rolled over and started down. Down, down, and then the easy pull-out and away. He watched for the tell-tale puff of smoke. There it was. Another ball of cotton in the charmed circle; another hit.
The third plane, following in the wake of the first two, went down. “Too bad, a miss.” Then the fourth, but he was not watching the efforts of the others now; he had too much else to think about. Another quick glance at his instrument panel assured him that his engine was all right. He ran his fingers over his safety belt buckle; as he dived his full weight would be suspended on that belt and he did not want it to be fastened insecurely. He rocked the plane from one side to the other in order to gain a surer view of the target. A glance below assured him that the No. 4 plane was well clear of the target; a few quick turns and the stabilizer was rolled all the way forward. It was his turn.
Gently he eased the throttle back, rolled his plane into an upside down position and held it there. Subconsciously he felt the safety belt nestle snuggly against his thighs as his weight shifted. Dirt and sand from the floor of the cockpit fell past his face, and that queer feeling of unreality flooded over him just as it did every time he flew upside down. The nose of the plane dropped past the horizon as he eased the stick back toward his belly. He could feel the plane gather speed and his ears began to ache as he rushed downward at a speed of well over 250 knots. With his eye glued to the telescope he watched the earth rush up to meet him. There was the target. Easily, so as not to put an undue strain on the hurtling airplane he corkscrewed slightly to the right to bring his crosswire on. There—he was on—wait a second or two; now, release that bomb.
He eased the airplane out of its screaming dive and, as he began the long ascent back to 5,000 feet, glanced back over his shoulder to observe the fall of his bomb. He mentally slapped himself on the back as he saw a puff of smoke from the center of the target slowly dissipating itself over the landscape.
“Why this was fun,” he thought to himself. Indeed this might almost be likened to a game and so far, at least, he was doing as well as the rest. His ears were a little uncomfortable, caused by his rapid descent, but a few big swallows with his mouth held wide open would soon cure that. Other than that he felt no particular discomfort.
Two more dives followed in rapid order. The students were doing surprisingly well on this, their first attempt, and this cadet was bombing better than any other member of the group. Perhaps this fact led to his trouble. Perhaps because he was young and so bound to be somewhat heedless of danger he got into difficulty, or perhaps it was nothing less than pure carelessness. Whatever the causes, though, the results were nearly tragic.
The fourth and final dive was next and he was determined to finish in a burst of glory. This time he intended to dive from 6,000 feet instead of the usual 5,000, figuring that the extra thousand feet would allow him just that much more room in which to get properly lined up on the target.
When he reached the 5,000-foot level he dropped his nose slightly in order to decrease his rate of ascent and, glancing over the side, took stock of the situation below. Two planes, having dropped the last of their bomb loads, were circling well clear of the target waiting for the others to join up. A third, diving, cut a silvery streak across the blue sky backdrop. The fourth plane he could not locate.
The altimeter read 5,500 feet when he commenced on his check-off list. Once again he went through the by now familiar routine, checked his engine and its instruments, opened his telescope sight, and rolled his stabilizer forward a touch. The task was completed at 6,000 feet and, dropping his nose to the horizon, he leveled off at that altitude. The target lay well forward of his left lower wing about midway between the fuselage and the wing tip.
“Now to find that missing plane,” he thought to himself as he began a leisurely left turn in the direction of the target. Once again he counted the planes below; the No. 3 plane had completed its dive and he watched it hastening to join the first two. But that accounted for only three airplanes. He looked above. There was no one up there but the instructor maintaining his vigil in solitude. Nervous now, he kicked his nose back and forth across the horizon in order to see ahead, but there was nothing there to see. In desperation he squirmed about in his narrow seat and looked over his shoulder astern, knowing full well that nobody was following him. He was right. There was nobody behind him.
He was in a quandary. He took another quick look at the target and noted that it was about to drift out of sight beneath his left wing, just about the point where he should be preparing to enter his dive. Of course, there was still that one plane unaccounted for and safety precautions, regulations, and common sense all fairly shouted at him to give up on this attempt, to gun his plane and get out of there. Yet such a move would involve another circle and a long, time-killing approach to the target. And, of course, there was always the chance that the No. 4 plane was well clear and that he had merely overlooked it.
An older or more experienced pilot would not have hesitated an instant over the choice. With one plane not accounted for the young cadet’s position was a dangerous one. He should have given up, swung clear, and started around on another circling approach.
Youth and inexperience finally won out over good judgment. After taking one more look around him and still seeing no sign of the No. 4 plane, he arrived at his decision. “After all, there could not be much danger involved,” he reasoned. Even if he could not locate that No. 4 plane he felt sure that it was no place close to him.
“Yes,” he decided, “why waste time on another circle round the target? He would dive this time.” It was the worst decision he ever made.
So thinking, he rolled his stabilizer forward, took a deep breath, and rolled over on his back. He was on his way. There could be no stopping now.
Meanwhile the pilot of the No. 4 plane was preparing for his last dive. He, too, had been doing fairly well and he wanted to finish the work at hand with credit to himself. After going over his check-off list for the last time he glanced below to assure himself that all was clear. It was—No. 5 was below him and uncomfortably close astern but, after all, that was not his concern. It was No. 5’s responsibility to stay clear until the plane ahead had finished its dive.
Not once did the thought enter his mind that he was in No. 5’s blind spot; that the upper wing of No. 5’s airplane completely hid him from No. 5’s view.
So, at almost the identical instant that the pilot of No. 5 rolled over to commence his dive, the pilot of No. 4 also kicked his plane over on its back and started down.
Two airplanes diving at the same object and at the same time must approach each other in their descent, no matter from what angle the dives are commenced. The attention of both pilots is concentrated on the target, their eyes are glued to the telescope sights, there is little or no opportunity for the occupant of one plane to detect the presence of the other. The result in this case was a foregone conclusion.
The instructor, from his vantage point at 7,000 feet, was the only person in a position to observe the grim drama taking place beneath him. There was nothing he could do to avert the catastrophe, no way in which he could warn the two luckless students of their awful peril. A radio might have been of some use, but in those days students’ planes were not equipped with such devices. He had nothing to do but watch, fascinated, as the two planes slowly drew toward each other. He was unable to suppress an involuntary shudder when, at about 3,000 feet, they collided.
Amazing things happen in the air and they usually happen quickly. The watching instructor had expected to see the planes become locked in a literal death’s embrace and fall to the earth together. Instead, they were in actual contact but a fraction of a second, after which the instructor was dumfounded to see the No. 4 plane haul clear, hesitate a moment or two in a near spin, right itself, and then go limping off toward home, apparently none the worse for its horrible experience. (Author’s note: he made it all right. The only damage to the plane was one propeller slightly bent at the tips; damage to the pilot: one set of nerves, badly strained.) But the other plane, he saw, had been fatally damaged. Most of the left upper wing and a part of the left lower wing was gone, shorn off by No. 4’s propeller. The instructor was not close enough to determine if the pilot had been struck by the flashing propeller as it ground into his airplane.
The propeller did miss the pilot’s head, but only by inches. As chance would have it he did not even see how close he came to being hacked to pieces. The whole thing was over before he had a chance to get more than a fleeting glance of the other plane as it pulled away. He felt the collision, though, with every fiber of his being.
His first reaction to the awful situation in which he found himself was an extraordinary one. Fear, so he says, was secondary to the rage and disgust with which he contemplated the monstrous thing he had done. The authorities, he well knew, do not look kindly upon the needless destruction of valuable airplanes. His own rash carelessness and its consequences appalled him.
These thoughts, however, could not have occupied him for long, for he was observed to act in a hurry. Four or five seconds at the most remained before the stricken plane would plunge into the earth at a speed of 250 miles an hour, to disintegrate into a fire-blackened mess of torn fabric, twisted and tortured metal, and broken wires. And blood, his blood if he failed to act quickly.
But first, somehow, he must get out of that stricken airplane if he was to avoid the horrible death that was so certainly staring him in the face. That was his first thought, his first consideration; get out, and then let events take care of themselves.
Without conscious thought on the matter he knew he was not to be granted sufficient time to clamber, hand over hand, out of the plane to drop clear. Some other way must be found, some method that would accomplish his release in a much shorter space of time.
He chose the right way. Once again, without conscious thought about it, he did the one thing he could do to get free of the falling airplane and save his life. He clawed at his safety belt buckle and snapped it open. Then he hunched himself up into a crouching position in his seat and rested his forearms and elbows on the top of the cockpit cowling. Next, he reached down, located his right foot with his hand and placed the foot securely against the back side of the stick. And finally, with a silent prayer on his lips, he shoved against the stick with all his might.
The rest was easy. The plane, still subject to the control of its flippers, bucked over on its back, and centrifugal force did the rest. He was catapulted from his seat in the airplane as precipitously as if he had been shot from a gun. Whatever else happened he was at least clear of that falling coffin.
The instructor, watching the gripping drama from above, guessed that the pilot left the airplane in the neighborhood of 2,500 feet.
Now the boy felt reasonably safe. He was clear of that falling coffin and he was wearing a parachute. He had, so he felt, merely to pull his rip-cord and float slowly earthward. But he overlooked one rudimentary fact. He forgot that, until air friction slowed him down, he would fall at the same speed as the airplane he had just abandoned. He forgot that at that instant he was falling at a speed of 250 miles an hour, forgot that he was still in deadly peril, forgot everything. All he could think of was that he was free of that dreadful airplane. Instantly, without conscious thought in the matter, he did the wrong thing; he reached up to his left shoulder, grasped the rip-cord in his right hand and gave a mighty heave.
No parachute ever made has been strong enough to withstand the strain this young pilot put on his at that moment. He was a near 200-pounder and he was hurtling through the air at an excessive speed when he yanked his chute open. First the pilot chute billowed out as he pulled the ripcord. Then the parachute canopy itself snapped open with a report like a rifle shot. Strangely enough the silk canopy was not ripped to shreds; it held, but the force of its sudden opening was transmitted through the canopy halyards to the webb harness in which the pilot’s body was enclosed and there the strain was too great. Two of the three webb straps which held him broke open at once. The one across his chest and the one around his left thigh parted. The boy was pitched, head foremost, down and out of the harness. There was nothing between him and eternity but 2,000 feet of clean air.
Then a series of miracles set in. As he was thrown down and out of his parachute harness his right foot became entangled in the webb loop which had formerly encircled his right thigh. Miraculously that lone bit of canvas webbing had withstood the shock of the parachute’s sudden opening. Even more miraculously, his foot caught in the tangled loop and stuck there. And, most miraculous of all, that blessed bit of tangled webbing around his foot held him in a vise-like grip all the way to the ground.
Thus he descended through 2,000 feet of soft southern air, head first, swaying like a pendulum in the breeze. He landed in a tree and dropped from it, feet first this time, to the ground.
It would be pleasant to report that he landed without a scratch—however, such was not the case. A thorough examination on his arrival back at the Air Station Dispensary revealed he had suffered a fractured left wrist. He had been so engrossed with danger and excitement that he had not even noticed his injury. It is believed that he sustained the fracture when the two planes collided.
This young pilot did not finish his training course, for once out of the hospital and restored to duty he was given a routine flying check by his instructor and announced that from then on his interest in airplanes and flying was to be purely academic.
He is the only one of us, though, who ever fell out of both an airplane and a parachute and lived to tell the tale.
Look around! The student who flies with gaze fixed on the engine is a potential crash. At all times, whether taxying, taking of, flying or landing, keep looking ahead, to both sides and behind. The unnoticed proximity of another plane is inexcusable. —STUDLEY, Practical Flight Training.