A member of VFP-779, a reserve fighter photo-reconnaissance squadron, recalls the day in 1951 when he and 16 other pilots took turns flying the squadron's only FJ-1 Fury jet airplane—and wearing its only helmet, to boot.
Established in the groove in a near-level attitude 100 feet above the Pacific Ocean off San Diego, California, the Navy pilot from Fighter Squadron 5A (later redesignated VF-51 ) closed on the aircraft carrier USS Boxer (CV-21) and executed his landing in a textbook manner. The date was 10 March 1948, some 37 years after the first landing of a plane on a ship by Eugene Ely, a barnstorming pilot who literally conned the U.S. Navy into permitting the stunt. A ramp was built on the armored cruiser USS Pennsylvania (ACR-4), and ropes, stretched across the ramp and held in place by 50-pound sandbags, became the arresting gear.
The 1948 landing marked the first jet aircraft to go to sea under operational conditions. The aircraft was a North American Aviation FJ-I Fury. In early 1945, North American received a contract from the U.S. Navy for 100 FJ-I jet fighters. The prototype first flew on 27 November 1946. It was viewed as a short, fat, dumpy, and outright ugly airplane, looking more like an oversized bomb. The unattractiveness was the result of the Navy's insistence that the engine, all fuel, and armament be housed in the fuselage, as well as the air intake located in the nose. This gave the fighter super-thin, high-speed laminar flow wings with no sweep back. Three prototypes were built, and the jet passed its carrier suitability tests.
Some inevitable changes were made, and the first production Fury was delivered in the spring of 1948, powered by an Allison J35-A-2 turbojet producing 4,000 pounds of thrust. The wing span 38 feet, 1 inch; overall length 33 feet, 7 inches; and overall height 14 feet, 6 inches. She weighed approximately 12,700 pounds and had a top speed of more than 550 miles per hour. Three .50-caliber machine guns were on each side of the nose by the air intake. In fact, this was the last new airplane the Navy bought equipped with machine guns before switching to cannons, rockets, and missiles.
Weapons procurement tapering off after the end of World War II motivated the Navy to cut back production to 30 aircraft. The only squadron equipped with the FJ-1 was VF-51, led by Commander Evan Peter (Pete) Aurand, later to become naval aide to President Dwight D. Eisenhower. Aurand, who retired as a vice admiral in 1972, kept the Furies through 1949, when the Navy assigned them to reserve fighter squadrons across the United States. The Korean War was on the horizon, and the Navy, facing the need to recall reserve squadrons to active duty, wanted all fighter unit pilots checked out in jets.
VFP-779, a reserve fighter photo-reconnaissance squadron flying F6F-5P Hellcats out of Naval Air Station Los Alamitos in Long Beach, California, received one of Aurand's Furies (BuNo 120357) in March 1951. The remaining FJ-1s were assigned to other reserve squadrons.
Nine hours of FJ-1 ground school over three evenings was the order of the day. Classes were held Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday nights, 21-23 March, and the pilots flew their first Fury on Saturday and Sunday during regular weekend training. The instructor, who had flown the Fury to Los Alamitos, was an absolute bear. He bored right in, often intimidating and raising your adrenaline with his dos and don'ts. It went something like this:
You are dealing with a turbojet. There is no torque correction needed. Lay off the rudders until you make a directional change, and then only ever so lightly nudge the rudder. The same with the ailerons. Gently. A heavy hand and heavy foot will roll the lady before you can pronounce her name.
The fuel control system on the Fury is especially sensitive. None of these rapid throttle increases and decreases the way you guys jerk around those Pratt & Whitney R-2800.S in your Hellcats. The Hellcat maxes out at approximately 390 mph, downhill. You can routinely do 500 mph in the Fury before you know what planet you are on. So, treat the Allison J35 with respect.
Now hear this, and remember it: Extra light rudder, light aileron, and slow, respectful throttle movements.
At takeoff, gently ease the stick back when you reach 110 knots. Once airborne she'll advance rapidly to 150 knots, so adjust the throttle to climb at 170 knots. Level off at 5,000 feet, and cruise at 250 knots. This cruise speed is a comfortable one for the short flights you will be making. By now you should be flying over Catalina Island so start your turn to the left doing a shallow 180°, to get a good feel of the plane.
Fly inland for about four minutes and do another 180 to the left. When you roll out, start your descent to 2,000 feet and make another 180 to the left and enter the pattern. Maintain 125 knots in the pattern and on final. Adjust the throttle to touchdown at 110 knots. Remember: Easy on the throttle. If a wave-off becomes necessary, just advance the throttle to 100%, and the lady will do the rest. Otherwise, come to a full stop, taxi back to takeoff position and repeat the sequence two more times before returning to the flight line.
Sunday morning, 25 March 1951, my flight schedule called for a two-hour photo flight in the Hellcat before transitioning to the FJ-I. I was listed as number four pilot that day to fly the Fury. It seemed the Hellcat was getting more respect after listening to the instructor talk about the jet. While conducting the routine mapping flight, thoughts of the Fury pattern speed of 125 knots produced a chuckle. Hellcat pattern speed was 90 knots, with stalling speed with gear and flaps down accepted as 68 knots, with additional insurance of 5 knots for your wife and 2 knots for each kid. Time to fly the Fury.
There were 17 pilots in the squadron scheduled to fly one jet. And there was one jet helmet. When the number three pilot shut down the Allison, he crawled out of the single-seater and handed the helmet to me. "Fantastic flight. Absolutely fantastic," he said.
The helmet was lined around the inside edges with a protective sponge-like substance. It was dripping wet with perspiration.
"Did you sweat this much?" I asked.
"Oh, no. There were two other guys ahead of me. That's three flights of sweat," he responded.
Putting on the helmet, I confidently strolled to the Fury, climbed aboard, strapped in, and started reading the check-off list. It really was rather simple compared to the Hellcat's list. When the engine spooled up to idle, I closed the canopy like a 5,000-hours turbine pilot, although I had only three minutes jet time-and that was sitting in the cockpit of the Fury. Chocks pulled, away we taxied, the fat lady and me.
I completed a final rundown of the checklist and proceeded to runway 25, pausing long enough only for 100% power and proper turbine inlet temperature to register. Brakes released, Fury rolling. At 110 knots, I applied slight backpressure, and the lady lifted into the air. Sure enough, the instructor was right: The needle was passing 150 knots in a matter of seconds. As I followed the rest of his instructions, the early part of the flight produced an eerie feeling. The only noise was a slight whistle no louder than wind from an automobile rear window down a half-inch.
Catalina Island looked fabulous. Easing into the specified left turn at 5,000 feet and 250 knots seemed a simple maneuver until rolling out and looking down. Tijuana, Mexico, some 124-highway miles from Long Beach, was off the right wing, and Imperial Beach, California, ten miles north of Tijuana, was under the left wing. Maybe the instructor would be proud of the respect given to rudder and aileron controls. The four-minute inland leg was dismissed with a direct heading to the air station, since my first left turn had chewed up valuable time.
Flight two was a bit more confident, and flight three bordered on being just plain cocky. Once over the water, I executed a rather positive left turn of 180°, and in a matter of seconds, the fat lady and I were heading east, flying over Long Beach suburbs. Tijuana was nowhere in sight. The remainder of the flight was routine.
After ramp shutdown, I handed the jet helmet to pilot number five.
"Did you sweat that much?" he asked.
"Oh, no. There were three other guys ahead of me. That's four flights of sweat," I replied. And away he went, headed toward the Fury like a 5,000-hours turbine pilot.
The FJ-I was short, fat, and dumpy, but not ugly. She was beautiful.
Commander Honeycutt is a retired Naval Reserve pilot and a veteran of World War Il and the Korean War. He is a former journalist and retired emeritus professor at Frostburg State University, Maryland. He is 82 years old and is an active pilot with commercial rating. He lives and writes in Cumberland, Maryland.