The Naval-Aviator Network
Highlights of 20+ Years in the U.S. Navy
Part 4: Aircraft Carrier Operations
CDR Davis
In his earlier days, Norm Davis was an aircraft carrier pilot in the US Navy. In the last issue he told us of some of his flying experiences in the Douglas AD Skyraider. Here are some more related to aircraft carrier operations.
By Norm Davis, CDR USN
Life aboard a navy ship is pretty cramped. We had less living space than do prison inmates. Flying was what kept us sane. It was grand to be able to launch and expand our horizons. There were ready-room watches, division officer duties, and target planning responsibilities. When in port (about four days out of every 30) we had shore patrol duties and still had plenty of squadron duties to perform. There's a saying: "Join the Navy and see the world." It's true, but the saying also goes: "I joined the Navy to see the world, and what did I see, I saw the sea."(!)
One Skyraider mission was that of providing fuel for in-flight refueling of jet aircraft, during times of recovery aboard the carrier. We had two Skyraiders configured as tankers. Each had its own avgas supply, but also carried two under-wing tanks full of kerosene and a center-tank also carrying kerosene but which had a wind generated hydraulic pump and hose (drogue) with a basket at the end for dispensing the kerosene.
If a jet required a top-up of fuel for any reason, we would fly at 180 knots using normal rated power. The jet would join up and the AD would "stream the drogue", i.e. run the hose and basket out. The basket had a set of lights on it to indicate a successful plug-in and fuel transfer. The jet would initially formate on the AD and then drop back and, while still flying close formation on the tail of the tanker, would move forward and place the refueling nozzle of the jet into the basket and push it forward (re-wind it) a little. A light on the drogue would change from red to amber; meaning a successful plug in had been accomplished. Similar lights were in the tanker pilot's cockpit control panel, on the left-hand console in the AD. The jet would report plugged in and request fuel, say 1000 pounds. The tanker pilot would then flip a transfer switch and kerosene would flow to the jet, the amber light changing to green.
When the correct amount of fuel had been transferred, the tanker would then turn off the transfer and the green light would change back to amber. It was then safe for the jet to reduce power slightly and pull back. If the jet pulled out while still transferring fuel, a stream of fuel might enter the intake and cause a compressor stall and flameout.
The most critical time for fuel shortage was when a jet was preparing to recover aboard. It normally took 800 pounds of fuel for a jet to go from start of the approach to "trap" (arrested landing on the carrier). They usually had about 2000 pounds of fuel at commencement of approach.
In the event of a "hook skip" (missed arrest) or any unforeseen delay in getting aboard, there could be several jets in the air around the ship each running short of fuel. A tanker was manned and ready on the flight deck during all flight operations. At night there was one tanker airborne (for 4.5 hours) overhead the ship, plus one tanker ready on the flight deck.
The airborne tanker would fly at about 10,000 feet during normal operations and then come down to a 5,000-foot racetrack pattern over the ship during recoveries.
Prior to recovery, any jets requiring fuel before commencement would join on the high tanker and tank so as to have 2000 lbs. During the recovery, the tanker pilot would "hawk the deck" and listen out on the recovery frequency. If a jet reported less than 1000 lbs on "the ball", the tanker would dive down to be in front of the jet if it "boltered", i.e. had to go around again. The tanker would stream the drogue and be in position ahead of the ship for the jet to plug in at about 1000 feet and in a left turn onto downwind. Once plugged in, 1000-2000 lbs would be transferred to the jet while it was proceeding to make another approach. The tanker would leave the jet at the 180-degree point and climb back up to watch for another customer.
Carrier landings were very interesting. They were witnessed by all pilots in their ready rooms and were critiqued by the Landing Signals Officer (LSO). A video camera, placed just below the flight deck center with cross hairs zeroed to the approach glide slope, recorded each individual approach. The video cross hairs would intersect with the pilot's helmet provided the aircraft was on glideslope and lined up correctly. Any deviation was immediately evident during the approach. The tape was replayed for the benefit of the pilot shortly after recovery. A recording person standing near the LSO would jot down cryptic notes about approach techniques. The LSO would then meet individual pilots in their ready room and give each a blow-by-blow critique. Pilots deemed to have become lax in their techniques were assigned to LSO recorder duty to observe approaches, first hand.
Night recoveries were always interesting from a pilot's perspective. For these recoveries, a "plane guard" destroyer would position itself on station 1.5 nm astern and starboard of the approach course to the carrier. Its "running lights" and a "truck" light about 80 to 100 feet high at the top of the mast were all that could be seen of the ship. One black night during an approach a dark shape appeared off to my right with a bright light. I realized what it was - the truck light - as it went by above my starboard wing. I quickly added power to climb back up to glide slope! Had that ship not been on station, I would have flown into the water that night.
Night flying in the Mediterranean was interesting, especially with a high overcast and no moon. The sea, dotted with ships, looked like a star-filled sky below, while the sky above was totally black (!) This visual reversal of reality could result in spatial disorientation or vertigo.
One particularly black night, I was section leader and I noticed my wingman having trouble maintaining his position. He was supposed to be in formation 45 degrees aft of abeam, with wingtip and tail clearance, but he would drift out and up, then down and underneath me. I asked him what the problem was. He said that he thought we were either inverted or in a very steep turn. In fact we were flying straight and level. He then said that he had vertigo and could not fly on my wing. The procedure when a wingman reports vertigo is to pass him the lead, have him turn his instrument lights up and fly straight and level until he gets over the disorientation. I passed the lead and was preparing to drop back while he concentrated on his instruments. As I turned slightly to clear him, I noted that he was going under me again. He was obviously in no shape to take the lead and told me he was feeling sick and needed to get aboard ship. Declaring an emergency, I requested priority for a carrier-controlled approach. I was very apprehensive about the outcome and advised the controller that we would need plenty of time for line up with a minimum number of turns. The controller then directed a 270-degree left turn onto finals - not a good idea with a wingman suffering vertigo. I advised that we were going to turn right 90 degrees and once we were established inbound there were only minor heading corrections.
Landing gear, hook and flaps were lowered and, when we were in landing configuration, he settled down. The approach was continued down to 300 feet on the "ball", a gyro-stabilized landing approach indicator. I told him where he was and added power to climb ahead. He continued and landed safely while I was sent back out to the initial approach holding point to wait my turn to approach and land after the jets were recovered. My landing was routine.
One daytime flight I remember well: The Skyraider had an automatic manifold pressure control system such that the pressure initially set by the throttle would be maintained through any altitude changes. During a carrier approach I found I was unable to reduce the throttle below about 22-inches of manifold pressure. The automatic manifold pressure control had partially failed. I could get full throttle, but it just wouldn't come back to idle when I closed the throttle. I advised the LSD and planned to fly the approach as normal, but instead of closing the throttle to idle, as I was about to take a wire, I was going to perform a mixture cut, and land.
One big problem - when you take a mixture cut, the engine runs several seconds longer than when the throttle is closed. The aircraft will therefore float further. That is exactly what happened. When I took the cut with the mixture, the aircraft floated over all four wires and touched down beyond them! I experienced a BOLTER! ! - but without power! There I was - fat dumb and not so happy - with an engine that had been shut down. I was off to the left of the ship's bow in a descent below the flight deck. The prop' was still windmilling. You can believe I was like a one-armed paperhanger - replacing the mixture to RICH, adjusting the throttle, all the while flying the Skyraider! As luck would have it, the engine roared back into life. There was no torque roll; why I'll never know.
For my second act, the next approach mimicked a jet approach as I maintained 22 inches of manifold pressure and flew it into the deck to catch a 3-wire. Hmmm ... should have done it that way in the first place.
Night carrier landings were always exhilarating. We would get a shot of "medicinal whiskey" from the ship's doctor following particularly "hairy" recoveries. I didn't truly realize how scary they appeared to be until I was assigned to take some journalists up to watch the proceedings from "Vultures Row" and explain what was happening during night recoveries. Seeing it from that perspective was eye opening, to say the least.