09/24/2019
(posted by me as a response on another page)
I would do it again, too.
There was not much thinking to do for a junior officer. Others wrote the flight schedule, others gave the orders, and all I had to do was follow them.
Climbing the escalator from the main deck, which had not worked since some time in the 1950s, probably, where our ready room was located, to the 01 level (flight deck) through the island and stepping out onto the deck where the pilots who defeated the Japanese Navy had taken off, never to return, was like going to church.
The helicopter I was going to fly was sitting on deck, rotors turning, receiving fuel (crew switch and a hot pump) as we mounted up, plugged in to the radio, and prepared to launch out into the night to rescue any hapless soul who found himself (men only, in those days) in the water.
Outbound on the 045 relative radial, 3 miles, then turn 135 degrees to starboard, arc around the 135 relative radial, and then back inbound to 1/2 mile before repeating the "delta" pattern.
Outbound on the 045, the needle starts to spin, and we say, "Aw, that TACAN is out again," and we time out before turning back, and . . . "Where the # # # # is the ship?" A-7's overhead, HH-46A in the starboard delta, and no ship in sight.
Twilight zone?
NPA (NAS Forest Sherman Field, Pensacola) Tacan is 90 nautical miles north. That's our Bingo field. Foxtrot Corpen (ship's course) is 270 Magnetic. The Moon is clearly visible to the South, and as we continue on, headed West, the ship shows up in the reflection of the Moon on the water. No lights to be seen, at all. The section of A-7's overhead is holding on the NPA Tacan, waiting for their Bingo fuel state to go home.
We decide, "We'll stay out here until we get some signal from the ship (a green light from the tower, or a red light telling us, "you can't land here,") or until we've got 1500 pounds of fuel remaining (1.5 hours) and then we'll head for Pensacola."
Then, a weak call on the UHF. It's the Air Boss, on the battery powered backup UHF radio. "99 Alpha Sevens, Bingo. Angel 401, remain on station and we'll bring you aboard."
"401 Roger, Boss," and we wait. Nobody talks. It's dark out there. Obviously, the ship, built for World War II in 1941 and 42, has "dropped the load," losing all power. It's 1977. Do the math.
45 minutes of flying in a big circle at 500 feet on the RADAR altimeter above the sea, and finally, the headphones crackle, "Angel 401, Signal Charlie," and the TACAN needle stopped spinning. We turn toward the head of the needle, and there's the masthead light, nice, bright, white a mile or so away.
We get aboard without a hitch (even landing a helicopter on a carrier at night is twitchy, because you never know what's sitting just outside the foul lines on the angle deck, and those two main rotors span 50 feet), shut down, and that's it. Flight operations secured.
Another skirmish in the Cold War has been won. Nobody got killed tonight. We'll all try it again, in the morning, about six hours from now when the Sun comes up.
How hard can it be to land a helicopter on a ship? Harder than you think, but nowhere near as hard as landing a stiff-winger. What's the big deal about doing it at night? Try it. King Neptune is out there, ready to snag you if you let your mind wander for even a few seconds. That's why helicopters have two pilots . . . you NEED two pilots.
Sure, nobody was shooting at us. Nobody was shooting at any of the seven friends who died in crashes during my 12 years of active duty. The Naval Air Systems command killed a few of them, and poor judgment killed one or two, but sometimes it's hard to fly when you hear Grampaw Pettibone shouting, "You're going to DIE!" in your ear.
Day one of flight training, they sat us all down in a big room, and told us, "In a 20 year career, the chances are almost certain that you, the man on your left, or the man on your right, will be involved in an incident that will result in the loss of an aircraft, if not a life." 1 out of 3.
I was the "one."
Would I do it again?
Absolutely.
