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Excerpt From Book II |
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Excerpt From Book II |
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My simulated flame-outs were doing better and better. When I first started, I used 20,000 ft. as a high key—and didn’t fare well. The F-100 was 10,000 ft. and presented no problem. But I kept testing and I was now down to 15,000 feet in the ‘104’ but that was a minimum as far as I was concerned. This can be done if the parameters are available—and by that I mean time to set up, minimum turns, proper altitude above the terrain, an airspeed of at least 240 knots, runway length, wind conditions, sufficient rpm, or an effective ‘RAT’.” But I was about to be bitten—hard!!—on the ass! The normal flame-out pattern called for high key at 15,000 ft., RAT extended, take-off flaps, and 240 kts. indicated air speed. Proceed with a 45 deg. bank turn to 180 deg. Making sure the aircraft is no lower than 6000 ft., preferably 8000. The final turn to roll out on final approach should be at least 1000 ft. above and about 3/4 of a mile from the end of the runway. This should present a touchdown at an aiming point at least 900 ft. from the end of the runway. It is best to start the flare 300 to 500 feet above the ground and when the flare is assured, the landing gear handle is then, and only then, put in the down position. It is also wise to pull the manual landing gear release handle. Complete the flare at about 200 kts. (230mph) making sure the landing gear shows ‘green’. If not, the pilot can hold it off until about 165 kts. It is imperative that the landing gear remain retracted until after the flare has been started. If released too early, the rate of descent will go from 7000 ft. to 11,000 feet/minute and speed loss will be so significant—and—that’s all she wrote—’Dear John.’ In other words, you will buy the farm!!
After about my fourth touch and go
landing—I did report to Larry one significant characteristic; when
moving the flaps from ‘landing’ to ‘take-off’ there is a definite
nose up trim change—I climbed to 20,000 ft. (above the terrain,) and
circled to make a simulated flame-out approach to runway 22. I
called the tower at high key, received permission, and started my
left 45 deg. bank. Everything went according to plan as I hit low
key at 7500 ft. at 240 knots, 276 mph. But when I started my final
turn I was wide—to the right—of the runway. I quickly asked the
tower for wind velocity and direction. “180 degrees at 20 knots,
gusting to 28,” came the reply. “Christ,” I said to myself, “I’ve
been blown off my flight path.” I added power to pull it in a little
tighter to have my roll out on final at 1000 ft. at about the 3/4
mile juncture at 240 kts. I then made what could have been a fatal
mistake. I had to turn a little right to line up with the runway
about the time I started my flare and put the gear handle down. I
was dropping faster than a wingless albatross. I saw the end of the
runway hurtling at me like a rabid, deranged, St. Bernard. He seemed
to fill the cockpit. I pulled the sick back to flare. It had no
effect on my rate of closure. It was too late to soften my
inevitable collision with the mad dog. I stop cocked the throttle,
and was in the process of unlocking the canopy when I hit. Ka-pow!!
Ka-pow!! as one gear hit after the other. I bounced—high—still
launching forward with great speed and force. I pulled the drag
chute lever—nothing—and pushed on the canopy to see if it was free
to open. I then flew what was left of my distraught great friend,
the ‘Appleknocker’, letting her down as easy as I could on what
remained of the left gear—feeding full left aileron and pushing hard
on the left rudder fighting like hell to keep her straight. But the
‘Appleknocker’ already had a broken back, her right leg had been
torn off and a whopping quantity of stored energy instantly turned
kinetic accompanied by forces, that will ever remain in my mind,
slammed into the ‘Appleknocker’ and dropped her on her right wing.
She started to swerve to her right and dig into the macadam surface
beside the runway. It seemed as if she was trying to diminish as
much force as possible without causing a catastrophic structural
failure which could only lead to an explosion—and fire—and in all
probability—my death. What remained of the left gear snapped as we
hit the concrete edge of a taxiway with tremendous force. My head,
and shoulders, and arms, and torso was being banged back and forth
like a ping pong ball in a savage contest; the last potential
winning point being achieved by driving my head and torso into the
table only to be bounced again high over the loser’s outstretched
arm with paddle. I was, like the ball, ‘creamed’; forced to suffer
the consequences of coming in contact, again, with a hard surface.
We hit more macadam and dust and dirt; we kicked and slung hunks of
hardened, dry mud and chunks of macadam recklessly into the air. My
head, and shoulders, and arms, were now transformed into a silver
ball in a ‘pin-ball’ machine being purposely banged around, hard, to
score as many points as possible before being gulped by the
cavernous opening at the bottom. We kept sliding bumpily, unevenly,
a jolt, a jerk, an up, a down, for another fifty yards as the pride
of my life skidded in a 270 deg. turn to the right.
She stopped. The dust started to drift away. The hunks of dry mud and jagged macadam lost their fight with gravity and fell in disarray, hitting the ‘Appleknocker’ on the back and tail. It seemed as if the evil forces were trying to stone her to death. They were wasting their time. She was broken, but she would never die. Her legs were torn and bloody. Her beautiful body was warped and split, her wings ripped and shredded, her proud nose bent and her tail section wrinkled as if ravaged with sudden age. But she didn’t spill any body fluids. She didn’t burn; and she didn’t explode. She had taken care of me under the most dire of circumstances. I sat in the cockpit; dust and dirt was everywhere. I calmly put the safety pin in the ejection ring. I looked around and noticed what I did to my friend. I started to ‘well up’ with tears. People were running around like crazed Indians on the warpath. I didn’t move. There were fire engines, ambulances, airport security, Lockheed security, all with flashing yellow and red lights. They approached and gingerly asked, “Are you all right, Suitcase?”
“I’m OK,” I said. “I’m pissed off,
embarrassed, and I feel awful about losing the ‘Appleknocke Someone said, “Let us help you out. Are you OK?” “Yes, thank you,” I said. “I just want to sit here and think.” After a short period of time, someone with a lot of stripes on his sleeve said, “Mr. Simpson, we must get you out of the cockpit. There is the smell of fuel and we must move you—now!” I looked at him. He had more scrambled eggs on the bill of his cap than an 4-star admiral. Maybe he was just a sloppy eater that happened to like scrambled eggs! He was like a guy I know. He can’t eat a thing without dropping food all over his chest and lap. Here’s a guy who went to a plastic surgeon and spent $2500.00 for a new nose and now his mouth didn’t work! Anyhow, I slowly unbuckled my seat belt, slipped off the shoulder harness straps—and stood up. A couple of firemen helped me to the ground. I was starting to feel sore. I absolutely refused the ambulance and hitched a ride with Larry driving a Lockheed car. All I could think of was to ask him where his yellow flashing light was. He said, “All I have in an orange and white flag—on the rear bumper. This new Chevrolet doesn’t have flashing lights.” “I understand,” I said. “Flashy enough as it is!” I guess the shock of the accident hadn’t hit me. The doctor’s report stated: Physical examination revealed the pilot to be fairly calm and coherent, and capable of relating a factual account of his experiences. There was no evidence of any sensory or physiological depression, nor was he overly reactive. However he did exhibit concern at having lost the aircraft, but did not exhibit the marked depression evidenced following his ejection from the number eight aircraft.
This accident is the first crash landing of an F-104 in which the pilot survived. The pilot’s skill in handling the aircraft after two of the gear had been damaged, significantly contributed to his survival. G.I. Barron, M.D. Manager, Medical Dept. |
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