Tailhook Daily Briefing

Flightdeck Friday: Midway Remembered - 66 Years Later

In every battle there is a moment when the combatants, and the world, seem to catch their breath. It is a fleeting moment, lost in the blink of an eye. But in that same blink, everything changes. Such moments are borne of desperation, of courage, of plain dumb luck. But they are pivotal - for what was before is forever changed afterwards.

Until 1019 on the morning of 4/5 June 1942, things had gone badly for the US and its allies. With few exceptions, the Allies were fighting a losing battle in the Pacific. Indeed, as events unfolded that morning, it appeared as of the rout was on. The attacks by land-based air forces from Midway had utterly failed culminating in the loss of many aircraft. The strikes by the torpedo aircraft were decimated - an entire squadron of TBDs shot down with only a sole survivor to claim witness. An entire airgroup missed the Japanese carriers and the battle altogether and of the remaining forces, they were scattered and disorganized. The future was looking grim. At 1019, Hiryu’s senior lookout shouted he had spotted dive bombers attacking Kaga from overhead. Despite being thrown into a hard turn, Kaga was struck by a 500 lb bomb and then successive strikes utterly crushed her…

At 1024 Soryu was struck a mighty series of blows…

At 1026, LT Dick Best led a flight of two other SBDs away from Kaga in an attack on Akagi. Attacking in a "V" formation from a right-hand turn, history held its breath as the first and third bombs dropped narrowly missed the carrier. But the second bomb, a 1,000 pounder from LT Best’s aircraft bore through the aft edge of the elevator and exploded in the upper reaches of the Akagi’s hangar bay, in the midst of the refueled/rearming aircraft parked there. In the blink of an eye, fate turned and three carriers lay burning.

To be sure the battle was not over and a dreadful price remained to be extracted from the American carriers. Likewise, Kido Butai had not seen the last of the Americans either and would pay the final price later that day.

Across a seaborne canvass that stretched over 176,000 sq nm, larger than the country of Sweden, the battle see-sawed back and forth. No other naval engagment has seen such breath-taking distances involved and few, short of a Trafalgar, have seen such a decisive turn of events. We honor, this coming week, our forebears who fought and gave their all in this signatory battle.

- SJS

Flightdeck Friday: T-2 Buckeye Memorial Day Edition

Sometime this summer an orange and white jet that bears a passing resemblance to a guppy or bullfrog, will drop out of a white-hot Arizona sky to the scorching pavement at Davis-Monthan AFB - aka the Boneyard. It will be the final flight, at least in Navy colors, of an aircraft that almost all of us who currently or have worn the Wings of Gold, be they with single- or double anchors, have more than a passing acquaintance with. (Link)

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!"

Flightdeck Friday: TFX - A Time for Turkeys (Part III)

Here was a case where McNamara, I think, expected me to keep the admirals in line. The more I looked into it, the more I became convinced that the matter had reached such an emotional state that even if the F-111B, the Navy version, turned out to be an excellent airplane, and it wasn’t all that good, but even if it did, the Navy still wouldn’t want it.

  So I went to McNamara and said, "You may not like it, but it seems to me we have got to face reality here. Congress is turning against this. The Navy doesn’t want it." When I say "the Navy" I am talking about the aviators in the Navy. -- Paul Ignatius, SECNAV, 1967-69

Senator, there isn’t enough power in all of Christendom to make that airplane what we want.  -- VADM Tom Connolly testifying before the Senate Armed Services Committee (1968)

So now TFX was well and truly dead - the Navy had what it wanted, sort of.  It still, however, was faced with the need for a future fighter to replace the F-4, meeting the Fleet Air Superiority needs as originally specified for the F-111B, but also a maneuverable fighter whose requirements were emerging from the lessons-learned by a variety of Navy, Marine and Air Force fighters and crews in the skies over Vietnam.  The first of these requirements was the OFR or "Other Fighter Requirements", generated when it first appeared that the F-111B would not be killed and it would have to be accepted for up to one squadron per air wing for a FAD-only mission, leaving a gapped requirement for fighter-escort, close-air support, etc. to be filled by a new aircraft.  This was the genisis of the first competition or VFAX for a replacement for the F-111B and successor to the F-4.  VFAX by definition would be about the size of the F-4 (in that same weight class) and employ a variable sweep wing, while matching the capability of the F-4 as a fighter and the A-7 as an attack plane.  Assuming that the procurement of the F-111B would continue, a CVW would be composed of either 2 + 2 or 1 + 3 (F-111B and VFAX).  Not much came of the VFAX although as George Spangenberg noted:

"...the later VFAX was marginal at best, being somewhat less than the A-7 in its attack capability and really no better than an F-4 as a fighter. In the cost effectiveness studies that were done it was rated below an F-4 because the later VFAX was a single-place airplane, while the original was a two-place airplane."

VAQ-136 CO Tells the Tale of He and His Crew's Ejection Off the Coast of Guam on February 12th!

Today, The Tailhook Daily Briefing is fortunate enough to be able to present a "First Person" accounting of exactly what happened a couple of weeks ago when the crew of a VAQ-136 EA-6B was unexpectedly required to "Log Some Rocket Time!" off the cost of Guam.

We are privileged to receive this information from none other than the Gauntlets' CO, and pilot of this particular Prowler, CDR Joel "Henny" Jungemann.

I wanted to say thanks to everyone for their emails, prayers and support over the last few days, and especially for getting in touch with Susie to see how she was doing. It's been a pretty wild 72-hours and I am now back in Atsugi.  The mishap board has convened and will be the final word on what happened, but since I've already given them my statement, I thought I'd give you a quick idea of what happened on February 12th.  If you are part of or familiar with the Prowler community, this will sound all too familiar.

We were the second jet of a flight of two EA-6Bs scheduled to take off from Andersen AFB, Guam, shortly before 1600 to participate in a Large Force Exercise with the rest of our Air Wing.  The weather was beautiful and the takeoff and initial climb-out was normal.  Climbing through about 13,000 ft about 25 miles from the field, we heard a loud bang from the left side of the aircraft. I looked out the left side of the jet and could see positive indications of an engine fire.  I went through the emergency procedures and also let our lead aircraft know we were on fire.  The right engine was still running and I was just about to begin a turn back towards the field when we experienced a second, much more violent explosion from the right side of the jet.  The flight controls immediately stopped responding to my inputs and within a second or two the nose yawed to the right and then pitched up and departed controlled flight back to the left.  It was pretty obvious that the jet was beyond hope at this point and I made the eject call 3 times to the other 3 crew members.  My recollection is that the jet was inverted with about 150-degree angle of bank and 40-50 degree nose down when we pulled the handles.

We ejected through the canopies beginning with the left back seat, followed at .4 second intervals by the right back seat, front right seat and then my seat.  My guess is that from the first indication of fire until we pulled the handles was no more than 10-15 seconds.

All 4 of us got good parachutes and we had about a 10-minute ride down to the water.  We landed a couple hundred yards apart and spent about an hour in the water with our lead circling above us before two Navy helicopters from Guam picked us up and flew us to the Naval Hospital.

We spent the next 8 or 9 hours there getting X-rayed, CAT-scanned, poked, prodded, etc. I was pretty beat by the time we returned to the hotel lobby at about 0100, but in true Naval Aviation fashion, all the aircrew in our squadron were waiting for us with a couple cases of beer and, I have to admit, it tasted pretty darn good.

We were all pretty sore and the front right-seater had some back pains initially, but none of us suffered any serious injuries.  I had my mask hanging from one side of my helmet and wasn't able to get it put back on before we ejected so I got some cuts on my face and a nice black eye.

The docs had me on crutches because of a chipped bone in my foot, but they figured out a few days later that it was from an injury 10 or 15 years ago.  I hope to be flying again within 3 or 4 weeks depending on how long all the paperwork and board processes take.

The true heroes in this story are our parachute riggers and life-support technicians who maintain our ejection seats and survival gear in impeccable condition.  Everything worked as advertised when we needed it. The helicopter folks also got the helos into the air extremely quickly and the swimmers who came in the water and pulled us out were complete professionals.

I was amazed at how quickly the news traveled and humbled by the amount of emails and calls that Susie and I both received.

Thanks again for your thoughts and prayers.

Sincerely,
Joel

CDR Joel "Henny" Jungemann
Commanding Officer
VAQ-136

Flightdeck Friday: TFX & Turkeys - Pt II

“Senator, there isn’t enough power in all of Christendom to make that airplane what we want” VADM Tom Connolly testifying before the Senate Armed Services Committee (1968)

In Part I we explored some of the politics (and politicking) behind the TFX – the program to provide the Air Force and Navy with a common next generation fighter. For the Air Force it was to be a long-range fighter-bomber with tree-top level supersonic dash capabilities. For Navy, it was the Fleet Air Defense mission, armed with long-range missiles. After several proposals were forwarded by Boeing and General Dynamics that fell short of Service requirements, a final selection was made in November 1962 in favor of GD despite the two Services preference for the Boeing proposal. For the next six years, the design, especially the Navy design, would be dogged by political bickering and infighting between Navy and OSD. But what was the aircraft itself like? Was it really that bad?

It was.

Tailhooker Tells His Tale... 42 years later...

NAS Whiting Field, Pensacola, Florida 16 June 1966, 1611 hours CDT

Ensign David D. DeMeyer, USNR, survived this mid-air collision over NAS Whiting Field at Training Squadron Two (VT-2), on June 16, 1966, at 1611 hours.

Two T28C Trojan trainers collided approximately at 200’ altitude, at 140 - 150 mph, in the landing pattern over North Field.  Ensign DeMeyer, of VT-2 was returning from a solo training flight and, having turned from the 180º position, was leveling his wings for his final approach set-up in Fairdale 229 for touchdown, when his aircraft was suddenly hit from below.

Fairdale 236, also from VT-2, should have been landing 100 yards to the left on the port parallel runway.  Instead, the student pilot and instructor were attempting to land on the starboard runway where DeMeyer’s aircraft was landing.  It was observed that Fairdale 236 must have realized their error, panicked and sharply pulled up into DeMeyer’s plane, taking off its nose, rolled inverted, and crashed on the ground below, exploding on contact.  DeMeyer’s plane was pushed up forcing it into a snap roll, spinning it into the ground.  Fairdale 229 did not explode on the ground like Fairdale 236.

Both pilots in 236 were killed.  Ensign DeMeyer was in the NAS Pensacola Hospital recovering for over two years, before being medically retired as a LT(jg) in August 1968.

That was the official Summary of the Accident Report.  The Tailhook Daily Briefing is fortunate enough to have the pilot of "Fairdale" 229, Lt.(jg) David DeMeyer tell his story, in his own words here today.  It is a poignant reminder of how truly hazardous the business of Naval Aviation is, from the first day on the flight line at NAS Whiting to the "Night in the Barrel" at the back of a "Dutch Rolling" boat! 

The following tale covers it all from the first hand experience of a highly confident Naval Aviator in Training involved in a life changing accident, all the way to the politics of CYA and the moral turpitude of a Senior Officer to call "BS" when "BS" needed to be called!  We encourage more of these tales, as they are educational, entertaining, and most importantly Historical... If we never tell the tale, who whill know.  Enjoy...

 

The Mid-Air Collision Story of David DeMeyer

Dear Fellow Naval Officers and Tailhook Members –

It is great to be alive. This is my story.

I have been asked many times over the years why I haven’t written down my recollection of the crash.  Maybe my procrastination is due the frequent reminder that I have been so blessed by having an extra 40 years of life, and/or, the thought of the two pilots in the plane that hit me whose lives were snuffed out so quickly on that hot, humid Florida afternoon.  I don’t recall ever being told their names, but I think of them often and the pain their families must have endured then and still do.

At the encouragement of my lifelong good friend, Bud Orr, who attained the rank of Captain, USN, with a very successful 30 year career in Naval Aviation in the Attack community.  His career was highlighted by being CAG of Carrier Air Wing 14 during Desert Shield aboard the USS Constellation (CVA 64).  It was at his encouragement that I am recounting my story.

Mid-Air Collision Story – June 16, 1966

Naval flight training in 1966 was a very exciting and busy time.  The Navy was pushing hard to get as many pilots trained as possible as the Vietnam war was really heating up.  In those days every flight student carrier qualified, even the Marines and Navy pilots that were destined to go into the helicopter pipeline, got the opportunity to “hit the boat,” in the T-2 Buckeye or the T-28 Trojan.

NAS Whiting Field was approximately 40 miles east of NAS Pensacola, and all the flight students that were in the prop pipe-line were sent there, before carrier qualifying.  It was a very busy base with two airfields.  I was attached to Training Squadron Two (VT 2) at North Field.   VT 3 was at South Field.  I suppose there were around 250-300 hundred flight students going through various phases of training at any one time at both fields.  Training flights were launched daily from 0500 hours into the wee hours of the night.

The morning of June 16, 1966 started early for me, as I was on the flight schedule board for a P-8 check ride with a Marine Corps Captain at 0600 hours in the morning, followed by a P-9 solo in the afternoon.  I recall “acing” the check ride as I worked through the endless testing of emergency procedures, and performing my aerobatics with precision.  I was very upbeat with my success and anxious to go out solo in the afternoon by myself.

I flew over to Santa Rosa Island to fine tune my loops and barrel rolls as the island was over 25 miles long and set up East to West.  It was my favorite place to practice.  I could easily check out my plane’s set-up, attitude and line-up over this island to see if the plane was falling off on one wing or another while inverted while performing all the required aerobatics and spins.

The landing pattern at Whiting Field was fairly straight forward compared to enduring the complicated three tiered pattern at NAS Saufley Field during Primary training in the T-34.  We were landing to the West that afternoon, so I entered the pattern at 1,500’ over the center of the dual runway below.  As I broke right in Fairdale #229, I reduced my power, pulled the speed break, and lowered the gear.

Before getting to the 180º, the tower announced that a plane somewhere back in the pattern had called in with an unsafe gear indication, and that a check pilot was being sent up to verify it.  Also the “daily thunderstorms” were approaching, so everyone who was already in the pattern was instructed to clear the runway as soon as they landed.  In the Whiting Field pattern the planes landed on alternate sides of the double-wide runway.  Looking down over the situation; that meant the plane (Fairdale #236) that was a good distance ahead of me on the down-wind leg would be landing on the port side, and I would alternate and follow on the starboard side.

At the 180º I pulled back my power further to reduce air speed and started a right turn descent to line up on the right side for landing.  My coordination and concentration was right on target to “grease it in.”  [My regular instructor and I would always make bets on who could get the most imaginary 3^rd wire landings. I was thinking I would win a bet with this landing, if I only had someone in the back seat].

Then, “BAM!  I experienced a sudden jolt and the plane’s nose pitched up violently.  I thought, “Christ, something has hit me!”  Then in a flash I saw the inverted canopy of another T-28 with two white helmets in it, as if doing a barrel roll over me.  It was estimated that we hit at about 200’ and going around 140 -150 MPH.  My next recollection was being snapped into a spin attitude and seeing the ground coming up.  …I yelled out, “It’s been a good life, Dave.”  There is no ejection seat in a T-28.

I knew I was dead.  It was 1611 hours CDT.

The next thing I remember was two crash crew members in silver asbestos suites shouting, “Cut his straps! cut his straps!” (the parachute straps holding me into the seat). 

I looked down and saw my right flight boot turned totally backwards.  It was then that I screamed, “my legs, my back.”  The crewmen said I basically ejected myself out of the cockpit in the shock at seeing my foot backward.  As a result, I have horrible scares in my lower right leg from the sharp sheet metal that cut out huge sections of flesh, and muscle.  There was no time to waste.  The other aircraft had exploded upon impact.  They were afraid my plane was next…It never did. It was determined that although both of my fuel tanks ruptured upon impact with the ground, the fuel did not get to the hot engine and explode.

I recall them laying me on the wing and saying, “he’s so broken up, he is like a jelly fish.”  Every time they moved me, the pain would be so intense that I would pass out.  I learned that day, that God must put in a little switch in a person’s body, that when the pain gets so bad it becomes intolerable, he’ll just put a person into an unconscious state to make it possible for one to continue on somehow. They moved me to a canvas stretcher laying me on my stomach in the hot and humid Florida sun.  Lying there with heavy grass cutting at my face I recall seeing #236 aflame and burning a short distance away.  It was difficult to see well, as I had so much blood running down into my eyes and face. 

The two pilots in #236 were pulled from their burning aircraft, and flown via helicopter to the NAS Pensacola at Mainside, about a 40 mile trip.  They both had 3^rd degree burns over their entire body.  One officer lived for around 90 minutes, while another lived for a day and half before passing.

Because I was so broken up, they decided to take me to NAS Mainside via an ambulance.  They felt that I could not endure the vibration of a helicopter trip.  Instead they took me over to the NAS Whiting Field Infirmary for some preliminary x-rays.  That was a story in itself as they got my foot wedged into a 200 pound swinging hospital door in their rush to get me medical attention and nearly tore off what remained of my right foot off.  God shut me down at this point and I was unconscious for a period after that.  The doctors and nurses discovered numerous problems.  My right femur was broken, as was my right tibia and fibula.  I had entire pieces of leg mass and muscle missing from my lower leg; the right ankle was so mangled that it looked like spaghetti, my back was broken, as was my right arm.  My faced was smashed in (I had 234 stitches in my face alone), but found out later, I was lucky to have it.  My left knee saved my life.  It seems the left knee was nearly severed in two from the impact of the 300 pound instrument panel flying out of the cockpit upon impact with the ground.  But, by taking the brunt of the blow, it partially deflected the impact to my head.  Otherwise, I would have been decapitated.

I awoke again inside the ambulance as we drove in the darkening evening along Hwy 98 to NAS Pensacola Hospital.  I remember listening to the two Corpsmen in front arguing over how much to sound the siren.  After an hour of that one gets a headache!!

The ambulance pulled into the hospital around 10 PM.  All I remember was chaos.  The day of our crash brought 3 extremely injured Navy pilots into the emergency rooms on the very evening that the CO of the Hospital, Capt. Sam Houston, was hosting his going-away party at his stately quarters adjacent to the hospital. The hospital in those days was located on a slight hill above the Mustin Beach Officers Club, shaded by the 300 year old Spanish Oak trees (The hospital in later years was converted and is now used as the headquarters for the Chief of Naval Training, a Vice Admiral).  Capt. Houston was being re-assigned as the CO to the Naval Hospital at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. With the planned festivities, all the officers, surgeons and nurses were dressed in their finest Hawaiian garb.  However, instead of having a nice time imbibing in drinks with umbrellas in them, they were feverishly trying to save 3 three lives.  I recall looking up and seeing a LCDR Nurse picking nuts and bolts out of my left knee, while another doctor was attempting to sew my forehead back on - both dressed in the latest “Don Ho” shirts.  Another team of surgeons were trying to save my lower right leg, ankle and foot.

It was at this point, they nearly lost me.  I was awake enough to know that the entire hospital was abuzz with activity, and the emergency room next to mine had a lot of going on too.  Suddenly, it went silent, and I heard someone shout out, “where do I get a ‘morg’ report?”   It was with that news that I went into severe shock and they had to put electric shock paddles on me to get my heart going again and revive me.

The next thing I recall was coming awake sometime around 4 AM in my room with two doctors and two nurses drilling holes into my leg bones, installing pins and stirrups in them, stringing cords through a variety of pulleys and weights and attaching them all to a scaffolding system above my bed; plus, placing a cast over my right arm, and IV tubes and bandages on my left.  I already had my “hockey goalie” mask on to cover my facial wounds.  Everyone had been working under an adrenaline rush for over 12 hours – trying to save lives.  By now, it was 5:30 AM and I was in a complete daze watching all that was going on.  The four person medical team had a pizza delivered to the room, and only needed to place the 75 pounds of “Morris Scale” truck weights above my femur to pull the broken leg bone apart (that was Orthopedics in 1966).  As they were preparing to finish their report and their pizza, the 75 pounds of weights came crashing down directly on my femur break.  I learned later my scream was so loud that I awoke the entire hospital, putting them all in shock.  They all had gone through a lot that night and everyone had been on “edge” from all the frantic activity - but my scream was the “topper”. 

Dr. Harvey, LT, USN, Medical Corps, was a great Orthopedics specialist and was so good to me in my many months to follow, had a great response – “Oops, slip knot!”  You had to have been there.  We all cried with laughter, even me (once I came to)!

After that night, I would be either in the hospital or attached to the hospital for the next 26 months before being discharged from the Navy.  Many memorable things happened to me during those many months.  What follows are some highlights and low-lights of that experience:

The very next night was probably was the worse.  The remaining alive pilot from FD #236 was in terrible pain in the room adjacent to me and his cries of pain still haunts me to this day.  His room and mine were the only two that had direct oxygen hook-ups in the SOQ (Sick Officers Quarters).  For the first 18 hours I had my room to myself.  However, there was an emergency with a retired Army LTCOL who was brought into the ER and was dying of emphysema and needed to be placed into an oxygen tent.  He arrived in my room about 11 PM and the staff had settled him in by around midnight.  Not more that an hour later, he began thrashing violently from the lack of air.  He threw off the oxygen mask and tent and climbed up the Venetian blinds.  He then fell back from the window pulling down the blinds with him.  His head hit my legs weights, the bed and then a dull thud when his head hit the hard linoleum floor below.  …Dead. 

It was a full moon that night, his open eyes peering through the blinds he was clutching.  My weights were still swing above my legs.  I couldn’t believe what I had just experienced!  My arms, one being in a cast, while the other was all bandaged up to cover my wounds and hold my IV lines in place, were held captive with all the cables and ropes that were attached to the bed’s scaffolding as I tried frantically to hit the red “panic“ button to alert the nurses in desperation.  It was an awful sight… It is still the eeriest night of my life.

But there were many positive and fun highlights too.  I remember after lying in my bed for over six weeks, I was absolutely thrilled the day the Navy Corpsman volunteered to push my bed out into the visitor’s room area to watch the weekly movie being shown by the Red Cross.  To me, it was as good as getting my first liberty pass after being at OCS in Newport for two months.  The Red Cross volunteers were terrific people who also wrote many letters for me to my family and friends until my broken arm healed.

Also, I was very lucky to have many members of my squadron stop by and visit on a frequent basis.  Prior to my crash, I was also fortunate to have met some really nice girls from Pensacola JC.  Generally, their fathers would not let their daughters out of the house to be around “those flyboys”.  However, I tricked them by going to the PJC library on Sunday evenings and had met some very cute young ladies prior to my crash.  When they learned I was in the hospital, they convinced their parents that is was OK to go to a hospital and thus, were “allowed” to visit “that poor Ensign who survived the mid-air.” 

Well, as soon as my squadron mates realized that DeMeyer had some “hot chicks” visiting him, the attendance really picked up.  To my count, I believe two couples later got married as a result of meeting in my room.  I always thought that was pretty neat.

A very dark day occurred, however, about 6 weeks after the crash when two JAG officers from the Navy Legal Department came to my room and informed me that due to the pending Crash Report, that I would be up for a court martial and a charge of manslaughter once I recovered.  I was shocked at the news.  I said, “I was in the right runway, the others guys were not and were in my space. How can this be?”…”Those are the charges, sir.”

Over the next three months I developed a bleeding ulcer over the constant worry of my fate.  Unbeknownst to me, a lot was going on behind the scenes over the Crash Report during that period.  It seems that RADM John Lynch, who was CNABATRA (Chief of Naval Basic Training), at the time of the crash, had the required final sign-off on the safety report.  Well, not too long after the crash, RADM Lynch was promoted to Commander of the Third Fleet, based in Naples, Italy.  I later learned that he sent the report back, unsigned, and supposedly stated, “You are not going to pin this crash on some poor flight student.  You get me the facts on what REALLY happened and then I will sign it.  I will not sign a ‘white wash’”.

After about three months had passed the same JAG officers return for another visit and informed me that all charges against me had been dropped.  They explained that when the revised Safety Report was submitted, the true facts came out.  The charges were as follow: 

1. The Tower got “Supervisory Error” for clearing us to land then forgetting about watching the planes on final. 
2. The two pilots in FD #236 got “Pilot Error” for making an extra long tear drop turn and attempting a landing on the wrong runway. 
3. I got “Pilot Error” for being in the pattern in FD #229 and not realizing that the plane ahead of me was not to be seen landing on the alternate side of the runway. 
4. The Runway Duty Officer got charged with “Primary Cause” of the accident for admitting to observing seeing our safe interval decreasing but not “waving us off.”  The RDO is always an experienced Instructor-Pilot with three flight students to assist him on the “wheels watch” in the touchdown area of the runway.  They were equipped with a radio truck capable to communicate any instruction to the planes, plus the use of visual wave-off paddles, and a flare gun.  None were used, nor did anyone call out, “Planes on final, wave off,” ever issued.  If that action would have been taken, the mid-air collision would have quite possibly been avoided.  I do not know what happened to that Officer, but heard he was transferred out of Whiting Field right after the Final Crash Report was released.

Over the years, I have heard from other Naval Aviators that are familiar with the crash that they heard FD #236 was a Pilot-Instructor and a student pilot, who was on an instrument hop with the student “under the bag”.  I don’t know if this is true or not, as I clearly saw two white helmets doing a canopy roll over me after hitting me and there was not a bag to be seen from my quick view.

Those that actually saw the accident happened were interviewed and supposedly quoted as saying that FD #226, which was below and behind me was adding power to make the landing.  [For those that were stationed at NAS Whiting, they might recall there was the Navy Golf Course to the NE end of the runway.  Observers said we actually collided over the golf course and that the momentum carried us forward crashing onto the grassy area just short of the runway].  It is speculated that one of the pilots must have seen me (FD #229) above and panicked.  Suddenly, it appeared as though one of them must have pulled back on the “stick”, as their plane pulled up sharply in a 45º angle of attack and rammed the front of my plane (the engine area).  One can see from the official crash photos that the prop of my plane severed the empennage section (vertical and horizontal stabilizer) from the fuselage on #226.

After 4-5 months of “traction,” my hockey goalie mask came off and I had only few scares showing.  The cast came off my arm, and my left knee wound healed.  However, the hole created from the missing flesh and muscle in my leg had not closed-in yet (at one time one could see both the tibia and fibula bones exposed when the bandages were changed).  Not a pretty sight.  Also, I had no feeling in my right foot or ankle for a long period.  Dr. Harvey and Dr. Sinclair would come in on their daily morning rounds and stick pins in my foot and ankle and ask, “Feel this?”  For six months I would say, “No”.  Fortunately, the feeling did eventually come back.  It was then that the doctors later confided in me they thought they might not be able to save my foot and it might have to be amputated.  Thank God, eventually my leg responded.   Now, the main problem was to fix the broken femur just above the right knee.  It was not mending.

Consequently, they decided to put me in a full “Spika” body cast, that went from my arm pits to my toes (with the exception of a “little trap door” (to take care of the body functions).  Hopefully this would facilitate the femur to heal.  This actually made my days so much better for me.  Each morning after breakfast and being washed, shaved and freshened up for the day, the corpsmen would wheel in a gurney for me to roll over onto from my bed.  It was like being a turtle, as they shortened two crutches for me so that I could push off and away and direct the gurney to wherever I wanted to go.  It was so exciting to be able to leave the confines of my room after so many months surrounded by four walls.  Each morning I looked forward to my daily adventures and travel around the hospital.  It was great fun.  Some days, I would be gone all day.  My favorite place was the sun porch just outside the “geedunk” where I could visit with all of the other ambulatory patients and visitors.  On occasion, I would need someone chase after the towel covering my “trap door” after a stiff breeze.  I also had the best tan from my shoulders on up!

During my entire stay, I was fortunate to have some terrific room mates.  I can’t say enough on how these great men helped me keep my morale and spirits up.  LT Vel McDaniel, Capt. Ken McCoy, 2^nd Lt. Don Dutton, Capt. Fred Craig (a Blue Angel), Ensign Dave Close, Capt. Larry Charbonneau, and LT John Cuttita, were some of the special guys that were with me.

After being in the body cast for over 4 months, the doctors decided to cut it off to see if the femur had healed.  Boy, after all that time - the smell.  Wow, you talk about “ripe”!  When the entire cast was sawed in half and they opened it up like a clam shell, I just had to look and know things were not right.  My right thigh had shrunk to a size so small that it was not larger that my wrist.  And where the femur break was broken was a bulging knot, about the size of a tennis ball.  I only had to look up and see the two doctor’s face of disappointment, and their eyes misting.  I just laid there not making a sound, but had a steady stream of tears running quietly down my face.  I was so devastated.

However, by the next day I had bounced back and suggested “I had a plan” to the doctors on their morning round.  Now that is something.  A broken-up Ensign had a plan for his orthopedic doctors. But I really did. Over the months of concern over the femur break, I had learned what the German’s did to downed Army Air Corps pilots during WW II.  They experimented by installing stainless steel rods into their bones to promote a quicker recovery.

When sharing my plan they were not as enthusiastic as me.  The reason they said was the high chance for a very dangerous staphylococcus infection taking this approach.  I begged, stating that I had been in the hospital for nearly a year now, and I was willing to take the chance.  They finally agreed, and not only put in a “kutchner itermedulary nail” down into my femur through my hip, but also did an extensive bone graph around the break with graphs from my ileum bone.

So what happens?  Sure enough I get a major “staph” infection and had 105 degree temperature for over 8 days.  The nurses and corpsmen kept me from going over the “edge” by constantly giving me alcohol baths in their attempt to keep the temperature down.  It was awful to be so terribly sick but finally the high temperature broke. It was just like seeing one of those old cowboy characters in a western movie who is found delirious in the desert.  He is given water and the fever breaks.  Within a half hour I was back to 98.7.  The doctors estimated I lost over 30 pounds in those 8 days.  Heck of a diet!

Also I remember how attentive the Catholic Chaplin’s were to me.  They visited me a couple of times a week, and once I was in my body cast, would arrange to have me wheeled to the hospital chapel for Sunday Mass.  For Christmas Mass, Father Fallon (CDR USN) arranged for me to be taken via ambulance to the beautiful large Chapel on the base for services.  It was truly special.

After the infection was cured, I started to make a good recovery.  I went through many stages of physical therapy at the hospital and eventually was strong enough to be taken down to the Training Tank (home of the Dilbert Dunker) and swim when it was not in use.  After awhile, the corpsmen would just wheel me up to the pool edge and dump me in and off I’d go.  I loved it and in a very short time I was swimming strong and my leg muscles were coming back.

I don’t recall how it happened, but later on I was offered a half day job on the CNABATRA staff as Assistant Public Affairs Officer, working under CDR Jerry Novak, a terrific man and officer.  My routine was to go to PT and swim in the  morning, then go down to CNABATRA HQ building in the afternoon.  It was located directly across the street from the USS Lexington (CV-16), the training carrier.  By that time I had progressed from a wheel chair to crutches and could get around pretty good.  It was a great experience, as I was involved in setting up tours for the Congressmen, VIP’s, and Navy League groups that wanted to view the Naval Flight Training program up close.  Later, when I graduated to a walking cane, I was able to be the Escort Officer for the Naval Aviation Command Choir, when they took a tour or gave a weekend performance, e.g. Johnny Carson Show, Memorial Service for the Apollo Three Astronauts, etc.  The choir was under the direction of LT Butch Engwell, USN, a RIO/Navigator in heavy attack and made up of 40 flight school students in various stages of their training.  It was great fun.  I helped arrange for the sleeping facilities, coordinate the buses, meals etc. on their trips.  I also had the experience of accompanying the NAS Pensacola Goshawk’s Football team on their trip to play Mexico University in Mexico City.  Very few people probably know that the Goshawks’ quarterback in those days was no other than Roger Staubach, a LT Supply Officer on the CNABATRA staff, who is now in the NFL Hall of Fame.

On August 1, 1968 I was medically retired as a LT(jg).  If I would have waited another month, I could have been retired as a full LT.  However, I had landed a job with Polaroid Corporation and did not want to miss the opportunity.  Since that time I have maintained a fairly disciplined exercise routine.  It has kept me out of a wheel chair, although I have had seven leg and ankle operations over the years since being retired.

Over the last 13 years, my legs, knees and ankle pain has increased a great deal.  I have tried to stay mobile by working out religiously three times a week by doing a half hour of leg weights, followed by a half hour of a stationary bicycle, then finishing with a mile swim.  This routine has helped me qualify for a total right and left knee replacement in the past two years.  The result has been wonderful as I have been in constant pain for over 39 years, and the new knees have helped so much.

For many years I only went to Navy hospitals, but because of cutbacks and a lack of locations I switched my medical care to the Veteran Administration Hospitals.  This has turned out to be a good decision, as I have been treated so well by the VA and they have been very professional fulfilling all my medical needs as my need for care has increased over the years.

Overall, I have really been blessed.  I think daily of how lucky I was to live through this ordeal.  Every June 16^th, wherever I am, I stop and reflect on my good fortune and feel deeply saddened for the two pilots that were killed and think of their families and the pain they still must have at their loss.  If possible, I will go to Mass on the 16^th.  In remembering that fateful day, I can’t help but get emotional and teary-eyed.

Here I have been given an extra 40 years of life, when I should have been dead too.  I have been given a wonderful life with a terrific wife and four great boys who are now young men and graduated from college.  I get overwhelmed with having that life, and yet, so saddened by the death of two men I never knew.

Often, when on one of my long swims, I think about and even fantasize about what my life might have been if the crash had never happened.  I would like to think I would have been a career Naval Officer and Aviator.  I absolutely loved the Navy, and all my experiences and friendships.  However, who knows? 

Maybe the mid-air collision saved my life?  As most of you who went through flight training in the 60’s know, there were many who did not make it.  Training accidents, car crashes in fast cars, pilots being shot down by missiles – either being killed or missing in action, even a “cold cat shot” has taken many.  Two of my close flight school friends were killed in their duty of serving their country.  1^st Lt. Lloyd Knudson, of Southern Cal, and LT. Jim Merrick, U. of Iowa, were two who I recall clearly and often.  Maybe, I too would have “bought the farm” somewhere along the way and not be alive today.  Who knows?

I do know I am a proud American who believes in God, Family, Flag and Country, and was very proud to serve as a Naval Officer.  I still go down to Pensacola on a frequent basis to see a Blue Angels performance (I have attended over 30 shows all over the United States), visit the Naval Aviation Museum, and hit the Mustin Beach O Club, for Friday Night’s “Happy Hour.”

“Yes, you can go back”!... Seeing all of the young officers - guys and gals - who are now training to fly the latest Navy aircraft who show the same energy, professionalism and commitment we had when we were going though flight school 40 years ago, is a joy to see and experience.

This is the story of Ensign David DeMeyer’s mid-air collision on June 16, 1966 at NAS Whiting Field, near Pensacola, Florida.

Some background on David:

• Born in Mount Vernon, Washington on May 5, 1943
• Mount Vernon was a small town of 7,000 (at the time, 28,000 today) in the Skagit Valley, an agricultural area some 70 miles north of Seattle, Washington, and 35 south of the Canadian border.  The area borders Puget Sound and the San Juan Islands.
• Graduated from Mount Vernon High School in 1961.
• Graduated from Washington State University in 1965.
• Accepted and signed up for Navy Officer Candidate School while at WSU in the Spring of 1965, his senior year.
• His first airplane ride of his life was a flight from Seattle to Boston on his way to Newport, Rhode Island to start Naval OCS on June 18, 1965.  As a result, David immediately became interested in aviation and took the aptitude test for flight school while being trained to be on a ship in the “black shoe” Navy.  But after that initial flight he was determined to be in the “brown shoe” Navy, and become an ”Airdale.”
• Received his commission as a US Navy Ensign on October 28, 1965, with orders to report to Naval Flight Training, Pensacola, Florida.
• David soloed in the T-34 at NAS Saufley Field in March, 1966.  However, he missed going to basic jets in Meridian, MS by finishing #14^th out of 128 students who completed Primary Training that week.  This was in a period when only 12 students were selected for the jet pipeline each week.
• David moved on to NAS Whiting Field to start basic training in the T-28 Trojan in April, and was assigned to VT-2 at North Field.  David immediately took to the big prop trainer and loved its power and size.
• David is an Active Member of the Tailhook Association.

Good Gouge on the Impending Satellite Missile Ex...

"Space-faring nations have an obligation to minimize the impact of their operations on the nations that lay below." - SJS

Curious about the reasons, practicality, and methods relating to the impending Missile Ex to shoot down "US 193" slated to take place in the not too distant future?

Rather than get your dose of common sense from CNN or the like (bad advice in most circumstances) I recommend you take a tour over to one of The Tailhook Daily Briefing's guest author's, Steeljaw Scribe's, website to get a good and quite knowledgeable assessment and analysis of what is what relating to our planned shoot ex!  

Click the image below:

Flightdeck Friday: TFX & Turkeys - Pt I

1959. Changes are afoot in the tactical aircraft programs for Air Force and Navy’s specific requirements. The Air Force sought to replace the F-105 with a new fighter-bomber that would address the shortcomings of the Thunderchief – it was to land in half the distance of the F-105, be able to fly unrefueled to Europe or Southeast Asia (the latter with one refueling), have a tree-top dash capability of 900 kts for 400 nm and a high altitude dash speed of 1400+ kts. By 1960, these requirements were formalized in TAC’s Specific Operational Requirement Number 183. On the Navy’s side, the prospect of facing large raids of missile carrying aircraft in the near future led to the requirement for a missile carrying platform that would engage the raids at long-range. In combination with the new F4H-1 Phantom, in prototype stage, the Fleet Air Defense mission would be satisfied with this combination of fast-climbing/high-speed interceptor carrying short and medium range missiles to intercept any leakers that made it through the barrier established by the long-range missiles launched from their carrier.

Flightdeck Friday - Fleet Air Arm Edition: “Hurricats”

Desperate times call for desperate measures…

In 1940 Britain was in a desperate fight for survival.  Isolated from the Continent, Britain was relying on a lifeline extended from the States via merchant convoys.  Plying the North Atlantic, out of range of land-based air cover, the convoys were subject to attack from German submarines, operating singly at first and later in wolf-packs, and from the air – He 111’s and Ju 88’s to be sure, but primarily from the long-range Focke-Wulf Fw 200 Condor.  The Condors, first operating from Norway and later from France, were able to range far out into the North Atlantic, well out of the range of the RAF’s shore-based Spitfires and Hurricanes.  Without being threatened, the Condors could range freely to provide detailed reports on convoy positions to waiting wolf packs as well as attack the un- or under-armed merchants and their few escorts on their own with bombs.  Between June 1940 and February 1941, Condors alone accounted for sinking over 365,000 tons.  Obviously something had to be done.