FIRST CARRIER LANDING

By Tom Bennett

Right up there, high on the list of the most memorable days of my life, was Monday, 9 August 1953. It was a clear, warm beauty of a day on the waters off Pensacola, Florida — the “home of Naval Aviation,” the place where the Navy trains its pilots. The date was the day I made my first carrier landings.

We had been working all summer on “field carrier” landings at Barin Field, one of the outlying fields of the Pensacola complex. The runways at Barin had been painted to resemble the deck of a medium sized aircraft carrier. We were judged on our ability to plop the aircraft down at the proper spot to catch the carrier’s arresting wires.

The Navy taught “full stall” landings, as opposed to other methods where the plane was guided to a gentle, smooth landing. The goal for the early carrier pilot was to have the aircraft run out of lift just above the flight deck at the right spot, cut power and crunch solidly onto the deck — a kind of controlled crash.

One of the standing jokes in aviation quotes the fearful mother who cautioned her aviator son to “always fly low and slow, so you won’t be hurt if you crash.” The Navy taught us to manage our air speed and altitude – and thereby not crash. Now we were learning to fly very low and very slow indeed. The SNJ training aircraft, which normally cruised at 120 knots, was to be flown at 57 or 58 knots at the level of the corn stalks.

During the hot months the Florida sun, beating down on fields, roads, buildings and runways, caused a confusion of thermals, which jostled the planes alarmingly — a bumpy, scary ride. When we finished with the field carrier landing training, and were going to do the real thing.

We were nervous, of course. Our nervousness was intensified by the fact that on the Friday before we were scheduled to make our landings, one of the training planes went over the side of the USS Monterey (AVT-2), the carrier on which we were to make our qualifying landings. There had not been an accident on the carrier for some weeks; the demonstration that something fearful really could happen made for a very jumpy weekend. My own jitters were intensified — early in the flight-training program, during basic training, my roommate had been killed in a mid-air collision. My wife's fears were multiplied because just a few days before, a transport plane full of Aviation Cadets had crashed, with all hands killed.

Our flight of student pilots was to board the Monterey at the pier in Pensacola. The planes were to be flown by another group from Barin field. They would rendezvous with the carrier and make their qualifying landings. Then they would turn the aircraft over to us.

We showed up at the pier dressed in our blues, with flight suits and helmets in our carry-all bags. My wife of three months drove me to the pier, and bravely wished me luck (At that time I was so immersed in my own anxieties that I didn't appreciate how frightening the experience must have been to a new bride. She had been suddenly thrust into this world where men went to work in the morning, but sometimes did not return at night.)

Once aboard we were assigned to a ready room where we could change into our flight suits, and smoke and sweat. I was luckier than the others: a college classmate was among the crew of the Monterey, and he met me at the gangway and offered the hospitality of the officers’ mess.

When we arrived there, films about Naval Aviation were being shown to a group of visiting VIP's. One of the films, now famous for having been aired  often on television, showed a series of crashes on carrier decks: one plane ran into the ship’s bridge and caught fire. Another broke in two upon landing. A third slid off the side of the deck and hung precariously over the water.

“My God what are you trying to do to me,” I hissed urgently at my buddy. “I'm nervous enough without seeing these disasters.”

“Watch carefully,” he answered, “watch the last second or two of each of the segments.” I did, and found comfort: those last few inches of film showed the pilot jumping out of the wrecked plane and sprinting across the deck.

“If they all survived their crashes, what harm can you come to?” he asked.

In time — about two and a half centuries it seemed — our aircraft appeared overhead and began their landings. Each pilot did his required six landings without mishap. We, watching from various perches, were comforted.

Then it is our turn, and the tempo changed. As each of the earlier group makes his sixth landing, one of us was hustled by plane captains onto the deck and into the aircraft. The routine snapped into my mind: Strap on the parachute, buckle up, plug into the radio. Hurry, hurry — the engines were not even being stopped.

I watch the flight officer with the baton — he signaled me to run up the engine to full power, with the brakes on hard. The plane shuddered and shook. Then the signal — off with the brakes and start the roll down the all-too-short deck. The end of the deck approaches — my God, I'm not going fast enough. I'm going to crash into the sea right in front of the fast-moving ship. A moment of sheer terror, then the plane lifted gracefully into the air. I had not remembered that the carrier itself was moving through the air at thirty knots, adding that extra speed to my own.

Now for the big test — landing. But no. We were ordered to orbit a mile off to the starboard side of the ship. A group of advanced students flying operational aircraft arrived from NAS Corpus Christi. They, with a tighter fuel situation, were to land before us.

A moment of comedy — after orbiting patiently for thirty minutes or so, our flight leader was called on the radio: “Blue Leader—What is your state?” That is carrier code for “How much fuel do you have left?” The answer should be given in minutes of flight time left. Our leader, a southern boy, hesitates, then answered: “Uh—Georgia?”

Now for the landings. We tightened up our formation — the eyes of the fleet were upon us. We flew up the centerline of the ship at a thousand feet, then executed a sharp “carrier break.” Each plane, in turn, snapped to the left, and came all the way around so that we flew in single file down the port side of the ship on a course opposite to that of the ship.

I completed the last few items of the landing check-off list: mixture full rich, prop at full low pitch, hook down. I started another left turn to come around behind the ship to line up with the deck. I found the landing signal officer (LSO) standing on a platform at the stem of the ship, watched the paddles with which he told me how my approach was going. Paddles droop — I’m low, add power. Too much — power back a mite. I'm in the groove ... all of a sudden I was almost to the stern of the ship — a half second to do it right.

The LSO gave me “cut,” a slashing movement of the right paddle across his throat. I jerked the throttle all the way back. The plane drops the last few feet — Bang! I crunch onto the deck! I did it!

Men run out to disengage and re-stow the hook, I quickly taxied forward — another plane is right behind me. Here was the flight officer, he signaled with his baton for me to run up the engine — the whole routine repeated, and again and again—six times. What a feeling — relief, triumph, exhaustion. I did it.

A not-so-funny footnote: After completing our six landings, we were ordered to make a seventh take-off and form up our flight again. We were to fly the planes back to Barin field. That had been the plan all along, but no one had told us. So back to Alabama we go-leaving our uniforms on the ship.

We were not allowed to leave the base wearing flight suits, and our dress uniforms, along with wallets and keys, were back on the ship. The fortunate ones, including me, were able to borrow clothes from bachelor friends who lived on the base, and to hitch rides back to Pensacola. The others pooled their funds, bought new shirts, trousers and ties, and hired a taxi.

In the meanwhile, my young wife had returned to the pier where she had dropped me off in the morning. She arrived in time to see the Monterey come in, tie up, and begin disembarking the VIP's and the student pilots who had flown out from Barin Field, and who came down the gangway in proper uniform. They had been forewarned to take their uniforms with them.

When the last few started down the gangway, she began asking,“ Have you seen my husband, Tom Bennett?” None of them had anything to say. Soon, the last had gone their separate ways — and no Thomas. She waited, a lonely figure. A half hour, an hour ...

After that bitter, tear-stained hour she headed home, expecting to find the Chaplain awaiting her with the bad news. Instead, she found me sitting on the front steps, my uniform, wallet, and keys still on the ship. I had to go and get them myself — she was too exhausted, poor girl, after her day of worry and fear. “You were scared,” I asked incredulously? “There was no need — it was a Snap!"

Comments

[andrew]

hi, im an anesthesia provider giving a talk about fiberoptic intubation, i want to make a comparison about how fiberoptic intubation is a skill that must be maintained or you will lose it, like with carrier landings, can anyone tell me how many carrier landings or night landings are required for a pilot to maintain his certification to do carrier landings, thanks piermontniceguy@aol.com