Solo (17 page)

The T-33 was a clunker, slow on the uptake. It would finally get to moving along on takeoff roll, with its single jet engine wide open (no afterburner), and then lift into the air only after a long roll. It handled well in the air, but its technology was archaic. For example, fuel fed into a central fuel tank from three separate feeder tanks—one at a time—and when fuel was about to run out of one, a red light came on and a manually operated switch turned a valve so that another tank could feed. A buddy forgot to make a switch one day, and the engine flamed out; he couldn’t get the engine restarted, and ejected safely.

After we were each checked out in the T-33, we flew to the gunnery range in four-ship formation unless mechanical problems (common in the old T-33) forced one of us to abort the flight.

Captain Porter had four air-to-ground gunnery students, old and young. When a four-ship went to the range, we each flew alone in our airplane except for the lead aircraft. Captain Porter would ride in the backseat of that aircraft, where there was a second set of flight controls.

The pilots and instructor always met for a flight briefing about ninety minutes before takeoff, talked over every detail of the upcoming flight, and then caught a van to the flight line. The routine was the same as ever. After preflighting our aircraft (we were assigned aircraft by the numbers printed on the tail), we each strapped in with the help of an enlisted man whose job was to be with us until we taxied away.

At this point in my flying career—I’d been flying for about three years—I was confident, and stepping out of the van and facing a jet aircraft, even a clunky old T-33, that was about to be mine for more than an hour, made my blood rise. I’d say hello to the airman assigned to the aircraft; look over the aircraft logbook, which recorded recent maintenance; ask the airman any pertinent questions; and check the general condition of the aircraft, including landing gear, landing gear struts, wheels, guns, bomb canisters, and my ejection seat. This walk-around was not unlike that walk-around in the Cherokee 140, back when I first started flying with Mr. Vaughn. He would have said, “Well, yeah”—sniff—“pretty much the same thing except for the guns and ammo. But you’ve got to use that checklist.”

The general procedure on the bombing range was exactly as it had been in the F-4 except that I was now up front. Solo.

An adjustable bomb sight, or “pipper,” was mounted against the windshield in front of the pilot. It was set according to the proposed speed, angle of dive, and altitude at release of ordnance. In theory the bomb, rocket, or bullets would be released or shot when the aircraft was at an exact spot in the air, at an exact speed and angle, and would thus hit the target in the crosshairs. In practice we often released high, low, fast, slow, or at too shallow or steep an angle. Back then, no instrument indicated angle of dive, and no laser beam directed the bomb. Additionally the wind might be blowing more forcefully than forecast by
the tower. So after release, upon hearing a bad score, I’d have to figure out the problem. For example, if the angle, speed, and altitude of release were accurate, and the pipper was on the bull’s-eye at release, but my bomb was off to the right, then I’d likely decide that the wind was stronger from the left than had been forecast; and so on the next drop I’d aim at a spot on the ground to offset the direction and velocity of the wind. Wind had more effect on bombs than on rockets and more effect on rockets than on bullets.

We soon discovered that simultaneously doing all of the following on the gunnery range in the T-33 was not simple: staying in the pattern, not lagging behind or crowding the previous aircraft, resetting the bomb sight as necessary, monitoring the fuel so that when fuel was low in one feeder tank, the next tank was selected, adjusting dive angles, adjusting airspeed, making the correct radio calls at the correct time—all while watching out for other aircraft.

The need for a forward air controller in combat became clear. He’d verbally clear a fighter-bomber to drop bombs on each pass, one after the other, and serve as the fighter-bomber pilot’s eyes and ears.

One day I completed my T-33 preflight, cranked up, closed my canopy, switched on my radio, and waited for the lead aircraft to initiate a radio check-in.

“Silver Flight, radio check,” called lead.

“Silver Two.”

“Silver Three.”

“Silver Four,” I called.

I was about to experience the pure aloneness and exhilarating tension that was possible in a four-ship-formation flight. I knew the airplane well by then, and I was able to fly nearly flawless formation. After we were cleared onto the range, I’d fly the range patterns, getting my aircraft situated above the target, which would be at nine o’clock low—it’s like looking from a very high building down at something on the ground (not straight down but at a thirty- to forty-five-degree angle). Then I’d pull the throttle to idle, roll into a ninety-degree-plus banked left turn, pull the nose around as it fell below the horizon line until I felt almost aligned with a straight path across the ground up to the target, and then abruptly roll out of my turn. I’d be in a wings-level dive toward the target. From the cockpit I’d see the target out in front of me, and the nose of the aircraft would be tracking across the ground straight toward it. At this point in the process I might see that the target was a few degrees left or right of a straight line from my aircraft nose to the target, and I’d make a quick correction while checking my altimeter.

Pipper tracking toward target.

Altitude, three hundred feet from drop.

Just right.

Pickle (meaning “press the bomb button on the stick grip”).

I’d then pull about four g’s out of the bottom of my dive to a nose-high climb attitude, push the throttles to 100 percent, dip a wing, and look back over my shoulder at the target below. Was it a shack? Yes! The tower operator announced,
“Silver Four, shack.” I’d write down my score on a card that was clamped onto a stiff board attached to my right knee with Velcro.

After we’d expended bombs, rockets, and bullets, we’d all come home and I’d fly the traffic pattern and land. We’d meet in the van, talk about it all, laugh, go to the officer’s club, and talk some more.

But just after engine start, on this particular day, my engine temperature was out of bounds. I quickly shut down the engine and, before turning off the battery, called lead: “Silver Lead, Silver Four.”

“Go ahead, Silver Four.”

“Engine problems. Aborting.”

“Roger, Four. If you can get a spare, we’ll see you at the range.”

I had to move fast. I wanted to catch them
on the way
to the range.

A spare was available. I found the aircraft, did a quick but thorough preflight check, started the engine, checked instruments, lowered the canopy, and taxied out. I pictured the others at least a third of the way to the range, flying in a three-ship formation. I
hated
to miss a minute of formation flying.

After being cleared onto the runway for takeoff, I took off and turned to the heading that would take me to the range. I opened the throttle—pushed it to the wall. If I caught them before they got to the range, Captain Porter would be impressed, as would the others.

The F-4 that I’d been flying for two years had two powerful jet engines, and the throttles were side by side. The
throttle handles came up out of the left console and moved forward or backward together, fitting into my gloved left hand as would two short, stubby gearshifts. In the F-4 (as well as in the T-37 and T-38) there was always that feel of
two
throttles, the knowledge that if an engine failed, you’d simply pull that throttle all the way back, click it over a little hump, thus shutting down the fuel and ignition supply, and then continue flying with the other engine. You wouldn’t get the normal power response, but you’d have enough power to fly home and land safely.

But in the T-33, just that
one
throttle rested under my left hand, and that felt odd. Additionally the T-33 had only a fraction of the power of the F-4, and on that day she seemed unusually slow on takeoff and I was in a hurry. I kept the aircraft at a low altitude, flying over New Mexico flatlands. Flying low, I could enjoy the speed. In spite of the relative lack of power, the old T-33 scooted right along once she got moving.

I caught up as the three-ship formation lazily entered a racetrack pattern to wait for entry onto the range.

Once on the range, we all flew our patterns, made our calls, dropped our practice bombs, shot our rockets and guns. During join-up, after the last pass, Captain Porter called over the radio, “Silver Flight. Fuel check.”

This meant each pilot had to call on the radio the amount of fuel left in his tank. Why, hell, I hadn’t even thought about fuel. I’d switched my tanks at appropriate times. But we always had enough, didn’t we? We’d usually try to land with over two hundred pounds of fuel,
enough to easily get us to any of the nearest civilian fields in case the runway at Cannon was closed because of an emergency, and it took about two hundred pounds to fly back to the base from the bomb range. Therefore, after the range flying, we each needed in the vicinity of five hundred pounds for a comfortable flight home—four hundred minimum.

I looked at my fuel gauge. Silver 2 and 3 called in comfortable numbers. I was embarrassed, startled, and suddenly uneasy. “Silver Four. One niner zero pounds.” I could feel my neck and ears getting red.

Captain Porter radioed, “Say again, number four.”

“One niner zero pounds.”

Captain Porter immediately gave me a heading to fly and told me an altitude and power setting, a power setting that he knew would be the most fuel efficient. He called ahead to the airfield and declared an emergency. Fire trucks would be waiting, just in case. But if I crashed, I probably wouldn’t burn—from loose fuel, anyway.

Porter asked me again for a fuel reading, as he would several more times. He had decided I would land before the others, and not from a conventional overhead pattern. I’d fly straight in, and to assure that I was at proper altitudes and airspeeds all the way in, until just before touchdown I’d fly on Captain Porter’s wing. He’d make all the radio calls while flying the appropriate throttle setting and route.

At about a half mile from the runway, he told me to extend my gear and land straight ahead. He and I both knew I had to make the landing good. I couldn’t afford a go-around. He broke away and would come around to land
after the other two aircraft had safely landed behind me. It all went smoothly, and I touched down with enough fuel to taxi in and close my throttle. I completed my after-flight checklist, got out of the airplane, and waited for the van. I was the first pickup. I climbed in, and the van drove toward the other pilots, standing in a group. I was sitting inside the van on the bench that ran around its interior, my helmet in my lap, when Captain Porter stuck his head in the door.

“Edgerton. You plumber. You dumb-ass plumber. Take him on in,” he said to the van driver. “We’ll wait for the next van.”

I rode in alone.

Captain Porter was unforgiving in the debriefing. How could a good pilot not check his fuel every thirty minutes? It was another of those cheap lessons. Seat belt, mile and minute ticks, takeoff trim, and now fuel check—lessons I’d now take on to Hurlburt Field, in Fort Walton Beach, Florida.

T
HE
OV-10
WAS AN
odd-looking bird. It sat nose low, tail high. Twin booms ran from the twin turboprop engines to the tail, where a high horizontal stabilizer (or tail wing) rested between two vertical stabilizers. This meant that it looked a bit like the old P-38, a famous World War II fighter. In fact the OV-10 was almost exactly half the weight (ten thousand pounds compared to about twenty thousand pounds), with half the horsepower of the P-38 (about fifteen hundred versus about three thousand). Because it was relatively fresh off the assembly line (1967), both the inside and the outside of the OV-10 looked and smelled new—not at all like the old, worn T-33s. The instrument panel was relatively simple. It was a two-seater, with tandem seats like a fighter, and had fighterlike flight controls—stick in the middle, throttles on the left.

In the F-4 and other jets I’d flown, the clear Plexiglas canopy over my head stopped at about my shoulders, so I
could see above me, left and right, but not below me unless I banked my aircraft. With the OV-10, the Plexiglas canopy was like a jet canopy, clear overhead, but the base of it came around and down nearly to my butt on each side. Flying along, I could lean to the left or right and look almost straight down. It was designed for, among other tasks, reconnaissance.

Our job at Hurlburt Field was to get used to flying the OV-10 and to learn how to be a forward air controller.

S
OMEHOW PROPELLER ENGINES
seem friendlier than jet engines. They sound friendlier. And you
see
how the engine is working—you see the propeller, whereas with a jet engine you can only hear the noise.

The OV-10 was fully aerobatic, and flying aerobatics was part of our familiarization week. In the classroom we learned the aircraft’s performance limits. In the air we learned the feel of those limits.