Earning flight pay the hard way

Flight Journal, Oct 2001 by Premselaar, Joel

FLIGHT PAY - "SKINS," IN MILITARY JARGON-IS COMPENSATION FOR DOING EXTRA-HAZARDOUS DUTY, WHICH IS HOW FLYING WAS PERCEIVED BY THE MILITARY. IT WAS HAZARDOUS, SO YOU GOT PAID MORE, AND BELIEVE ME, THERE WERE TIMES WHEN YOU EARNED YOUR ENTIRE PILE OF "SKINS" IN JUST A FEW MINUTES.

TREASURE ISLAND VISIT

DATELINE: AUGUST 18, 1950; TREASURE ISLAND, CALIFORNIA

I was strapped into my trusty F6F Hellcat and sauntering over San Francisco Bay at 4,000 feet, hoping for some fun and games with P-51 playmates out of nearby Hamilton Field. Disappointed to find the sky empty, I pointed the Hellcat back toward home plate-Naval Air Station, Alameda-and switched to tower frequency to ask for landing clearance. Suddenly, a sharp jolt through both the airframe and my own frame produced an instinctive response to fight and (not or) flight. Incredibly, right before my eyes, the propeller blades were motionless!

Paradoxically, the ensuing silence was calming. With almost studied nonchalance, I assessed the situation. Several years earlier, I had faced a similar situation. I had been flying a seaplane and was put at ease by having the entire Pacific Ocean for that unscheduled landing. This situation, however, was quite. different. I had just passed the south end of Angel Island. Below me were the waters of the Bay, and directly ahead was a naval base on Treasure Island, and it didn't have a runway. I dismissed the idea of ditching in the Bay because I was wearing my new-and expensive-watch! I wasn't disturbed either by this decision or by my feeling of detachment. I felt suspended in time and space. Another aircraft calling Alameda tower jarred me back to reality.

I concluded that my best option was to head for Treasure Island. With help nearby and that precious watch no longer weighing on my mind (some of my common sense had returned), I decided to ditch alongside the island and to swim ashore. Closer to the island, I spotted a small, rectangular paved area on the north end where I might belly in. I committed myself to solid land, squawked "Mayday" and transmitted my intentions to Alameda tower. After selecting flaps, I shut down all systems. To facilitate my escape from the plane, I slipped out of my parachute harness and opened the canopy. Anticipating an abrupt stop, I locked my shoulder harness and then tightened it-and my seat belt-that extra bit. The waves below revealed a wind direction and velocity that prohibited my landing in the direction that would present the fewest obstacles; instead, it committed me to a landing over buildings and toward the west. To maximize my landing distance, I set up my approach on the pavement's diagonal; if all went well, the plane would come to a halt between a grandstand and a pole at the far end.

Buildings butted against the near end of the field. I focused on a touchdown point and sideslipped over them to get down early and optimize my "runway" length. I never took my eyes off my intended touchdown point until I contacted the ground. It was then that I saw a large tractor-trailer crossing my path, and my pucker factor exceeded all previous limits. I was later told that the driver had been practicing parking. He must have seen me coming; I watched the tractor's exhaust belch black smoke as it accelerated out of my way, and I cleared the trailer by half a wingspan.

I slid off the pavement and came to a halt in a cloud of dust. The pole took one wingtip; the other wingtip barely missed the grandstand. I had no sooner scrambled clear of the plane when a vehicle drove up, and a bug-eyed lieutenant commander jumped out with a bottle in his hand. "Have some brandy; you must need it," he offered. Thanking him, I declined, whereupon he exclaimed, "Well, after what I saw, I sure need one!" The bottle went to his lips.

As I read the aircraft accident report (AAR) later, my chest dimensions increased significantly because of the glowing compliments about the skill with which I handled the emergency. Then came a startling revelation: the plaudit was for the airmanship I had demonstrated by sideslipping under the power lines that served the floodlights strung across the parade ground where I had landed. Parade ground? So that was my emergency field! Closely examining the photographs with the AAR, I saw, for the first time, the wires I had so "skillfully" avoided. I'm usually honest, but pride kept me from revealing that I never even saw the wires and floodlights until I reviewed the accident report!

FRIENDLY FIRE!

DATELINE: JANUARY 14, 1952; NAVAL ORDNANCE TEST STATION, CHINA LAKE, CALIFORNIA

I acknowledged the controller's clearance for a hot run on the B-1 test range and flipped on the master arming switch. Rolling the F4U Corsair onto its back, I brought the nose down for a 250-knot, 20-degree dive. As the target came into view, I placed the sight's pip just below the target and rolled upright-routine stuff. I flew the planned flight profile to reach the prescribed 1,500-foot firing range just as the pips arrived on the target. Squeezing the trigger to its first detent got the data-collecting cameras in the "theater" and the gunsight camera rolling. On the mark, I pickled off my packages of rockets.