The Bird Farm

by Philip Kaplan

  In the U.S. fleet today, the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center (CATCC) guides returning aircraft to the carrier control area around the ship. When planes return from missions and adverse weather obviates a safe visual approach to the ship, the CATCC controls their arrival. It clears each aircraft for approach at one-minute intervals. The landing signal officer then comes into play, helping the pilot in his or her final approach to a landing. A seasoned naval aviator and carrier pilot, the LSO has been thoroughly evaluated and well trained at Landing Signal Officer school and on board ship. The LSO is an expert naval aviator who must bring sensitivity, the wisdom of experience, and exceptionally good judgement to the job. He or she performs this vital function using state-of-the-art equipment from a platform area adjacent to the landing area, on the aft port side of the carrier. In this prime viewing spot the LSO, assistants, and LSOs in training, monitor wind and weather conditions, characteristics of the operating aircraft, and the motion of the deck. They must also take into account the experience level of each approaching pilot in turn.

  In ordinary visual flying conditions, carrier aircraft return from their missions and may be positioned in a “marshal stack.” When this happens, flight leaders take their interval on flights at lower altitude levels in the stack. The actual landing procedure begins as either two- or four-plane formations enter the break for landing, astern of the carrier, on the same heading and to the starboard side at an 800-foot altitude. As the flight leader reaches a projected point ahead of the ship, he will break left and align his airplane on a downwind leg while descending to 600 feet and completing his landing checklist. On the final approach leg he will rely on the carrier’s automatic gyrostabilized Fresnel lens optical landing system—an arrangement of lenses and lights positioned off the port edge of the angled deck. If the carrier is rolling and pitching beyond the limits of the gyrostabilization capability, or if the Fresnel lens system should fail, a manual optical-visual landing aid system (MOVLAS) can be quickly set up for use. When the weather cooperates and conditions for aircraft recovery are reasonably good, the LSO operates “zip-lip”: without radio communication.

  “On his final approach to the deck, the pilot is flying at between 120 and 150 knots, depending on the type of aircraft. To use the Fresnel system, he must first locate the array of lights and focus on the amber light or “meatball” in the center of the mirrored lenses. If he has properly aligned his aircraft on the glide slope, he will see the “ball” aligned with a horizontal line of green reference lights on either side of the center lens. If his aircraft is too high (above the glide slope), the ball will appear in one of the lenses above the center lens; if the aircraft is too low, the ball will show on one of the lower lenses. An optimal carrier landing requires that the pilot visually keep the ball centered all the way down the glide slope to touchdown on the deck, and then engage the “number three wire”, the third of four heavy cables which are stretched across the aft area of the flight deck from just ahead of the ramp or rounded aft end of the deck. It is the pilot’s responsibility to “fly the ball.” The LSO can and does help him down with light signals and / or voice instructions.

  When a pilot has flown his plane to a point roughly three quarters of a mile from the carrier in the final approach to the deck, the ship’s air traffic control center delegates control of the aircraft to the LSO. The LSO and his half-dozen or so assistants, many with binoculars trained on the incoming plane, check first to be sure that its landing gear and flaps are in the proper down position, that the plane is lined up on the centerline of the flight deck, that its wings are level, and that it appears to be descending at the correct rate to catch one of the four arresting wires when it slams onto the deck.

  Bringing a hot and heavy beast like an F/A-18 Hornet aboard a carrier is a precise and demanding task, with little margin for error. The pilot must establish his plane’s position and attitude on the glide slope and then fly it down the slope at an exact three-and-a-half degree angle. If, when he arrives over the ramp, he has flown the slope perfectly, his tailhook will cross the ramp fourteen feet above it. If he is more than a few feet too high, his hook will miss the arresting wires, or bounce over them, for what is known as a “bolter.” Procedure requires Navy pilots to shove the throttle (or throttles in multi-engine aircraft) to full power the instant the airplane contacts the flight deck. When the plane’s tailhook catches an arresting wire, bringing it to an abrupt halt, the pilot immediately retards the throttle, the plane is allowed to roll back a few feet so the tailhook is disengaged from the wire, the hook is raised, and the aircraft is guided away from the active landing area. The arresting gear is then reset for the next approaching plane. Should a pilot experience a bolter and his tailhook fail to catch an arresting wire, his engine is at full-power so he can get airborne and go around for another landing attempt. With every approach, the LSO and his back-up each hold an up-raised “pickle” switch which either of them can use to activate flashing red lights on the Fresnel array, signalling a wave-off to the pilot. The wave-off is not optional.

  LSOs grade every landing approach to a carrier. They use a trend analysis form to chart the ongoing record of every pilot’s performance. When all landings in a flight operation have been completed, members of the LSO team visit the pilots who have just landed to discuss their grades for the task. Few things in the life of a carrier aviator are more important than these grades. If he cannot consistently and safely bring his airplane aboard the ship, the pilot is all but worthless to the Navy and will be sent to the beach. The grade given by an LSO for a landing approach is nearly always final and not subject to appeal. The grades given range from OK: a good approach with no problems; to FAIR: a performance with slight deviation from the correct approach; to NO GRADE: unacceptable deviation from the correct approach; to WAVE-OFF: the approach was too far from correct, was unsafe and had to be aborted; to BOLTER: try again.

  Competition among pilots for good grades is naturally high. When a pilot has done everything well and made a good approach, his tailhook should catch either the number two or number three wire. If the approach was a little high or fast, he may catch the number four wire; if a bit low or slow he may get the number one. Both numbers one and four are less safe than two and three—three being the most desirable.

  One of the most dangerous things a human being can do is a “night trap”: landing on a carrier at night. Nothing a pilot must do requires greater skill, is more demanding and genuinely frightening. Poor performance in carrier night landings is the biggest cause of naval aviators losing their wings, and some pilots say that even after hundreds of night carrier landings, they never get easier. Some feel that the more night landings they do, the more nervous and uneasy they are about them. “Doing a night trap concentrates the mind wonderfully,” comments one F/A-18 pilot. It is the lack of visual cues that creates the problem for pilots on night traps. Landing at night on an airfield offers a whole range of vital cues with which a pilot can judge how he is doing in his approach. Nighttime at sea is black on black. Often there is no horizon, making the experience even more disorienting. Setting up a proper approach can be a genuine waking nightmare. However, many people believe that a little fear (in combination with intelligence and a high degree of capability) in such a demanding situation, can be a good thing. It keeps you sharp, focused.

  Responsible for all flight activity aboard the carrier USS Coral Sea in the summer of 1974, the Air Boss shoulders a heavy burden.

  Every carrier landing of every naval aviator throughout his or her entire service career is evaluated and graded by landing signal officers;

  When carrier-based planes have to come to the boat in foul weather, there is a wide spectrum of electronic aids ready to assist them on modern U.S. carriers, from the instrument landing system (ILS), to the tactical air navigation system (TACAN), to the carrier controlled approach (CCA), to the automatic carrier landing system (ACLS). The latter is capable of bringing a plane to touchdown when the pilot has n
o visual contact with the ship, much less the flight deck. In ACLS, a precise guidance radar on the ship locks on to the automatic pilot in the plane when it is eight miles out from the carrier. Computers on the carrier and in the plane feed position updates to each other and the ACLS sends signals to the plane’s autopilot which establishes the approach. With this method, the autopilot can fly the plane to a safe landing on the carrier without the pilot ever having to touch the stick.

  On 1 May 1945 several U.S. Marine F4U Corsairs were operating from Kadena Airfield on the island of Okinawa in support of troops there. The carrier USS Yorktown received a “May Day” distress call from three patrolling Corsairs that had been blown off course and out to sea by unusual 100-mph winds. The fighter pilots were dangerously low on fuel when they called for help. When the carrier answered their call the Marines reported that none of them had ever landed aboard a carrier before. “Do you have tailhooks?” asked the Yorktown officer. “We’ll see … Yes,” replied one of the Marine pilots. The carrier’s Air Boss then obtained permission from the ship’s captain to let the Marines try to land aboard. Crash Two, the secondary landing signal officer, got on the LSO platform and talked the Marines into the landing pattern and up the groove, while the primary LSO, Crash One, signalled them with his paddles. All three pilots landed aboard safely and, as one of them climbed out of his cockpit, he remarked to one of the airplane handlers, “What was that man doing with those paddles back there?” “Brother, he’s the landing signal officer and he was giving you a wave-off!”

  Robert Croman was an SBD Dauntless dive-bomber pilot in the South Pacific during the Second World War. In March 1944 he was ordered back to the U.S. to attend Landing Signal Officer school. After graduating, Croman was assigned to Carrier Air Group 19, which was to be the first U.S. Navy unit to fly the Grumman F8F Bearcat fighter.

  A heavy fog had suddenly materialized at the U.S. Navy airfield near Santa Rosa, California, and visibility there was less than half a mile. It was 18 July 1945. Bob Croman was LSO for CAG 19 which was practicing field carrier landings for the first time with their new Grumman Bearcats. The pilots of the group were discovering the new plane to be both extremely powerful and utterly unforgiving. Croman was in his position at the end of the runway and with him were an assistant LSO, an ambulance, and its crew.

  LSO Bob Croman suffered a tragic accident when struck by an errant F8F Bearcat fighter during a landing attempt.

  The hot little Bearcat, with its big Pratt & Whitney engine and enormous propeller, developed a lot of torque. A pilot had to keep “ahead” of the machine or it would get away from him. The first three planes did well and Croman gave them each a “cut” signal to land. The next pilot, though, was clearly losing control of his plane in the approach, coming in too slowly. The LSO gave him the “slow” signal but the Bearcat continued lower and slower in the descent. At that point Croman tried desperately to get the errant pilot back on track, as the fighter roared toward him. The pilot added power, but too late. Torque pulled the plane to the left, toward where the LSO stood. It hit the runway hard, collapsing the left wing and landing gear and twisting the big propeller.

  Had this happened aboard a carrier, Bob Croman might have been able to throw himself into the safety net adjacent to the LSO platform. But on this airfield there was no escape for him. The Bearcat slid, screeching toward him; he dove at the area beneath the plane’s right wing and felt a heavy thud. He was lying on his stomach, dazed and unable to move. It seemed to him that he had lain there a very long time. The wrecked plane had continued down the runway after hitting him. The pilot got out of it without so much as a scratch.

  Croman had been flung like a rag doll on impact with the Bearcat. He lay contorted, with his right leg mangled. The leg was bleeding profusely and he clearly needed urgent treatment. Those at the scene rushed to help him. One person applied a tourniquet and removed Bob’s jacket. A medic gave the LSO a shot of morphine. Oddly, to that point Croman had felt no significant pain. The pain arrived and was unbearable. He recalled, “I knew I was not dead. You can’t hurt that bad and be dead.”

  The doctors at the Santa Rosa base dispensary could do little to help apart from stabilizing Croman. His leg was nearly severed six inches from the ankle, attached only by bits of flesh. Croman was flown to the Oakland Naval Hospital and rushed to an operating room. He lay there, awaiting help from a doctor when the doors opened and in came a Dr. McRae, the same doctor that Croman had met and become friendly with fifteen months earlier in the South Pacific. McRae took charge of the situation and reattached Croman’s leg in a surgical procedure lasting more than eight hours.

  Bob Croman underwent sixteen additional operations on his leg during the five years after the tragic accident. Both his Navy and flying careers were ended. But, despite the fact that his leg had atrophied preventing the movement of his ankle, he was extremely grateful to the Navy for the treatment he received, and especially thankful to Dr. McRae who somehow arrived at that critical moment.

  “A safety net, perhaps ten feet wide, was placed a few feet below and abaft of the LSO. From ‘Vulture’s Row’ I watched LSO Bert Harden signal a plane to take a wave-off because the aircraft was too slow. The airplane responded slowly, and headed directly for Bert, who dived for the safety net. He jumped so vigorously that he completely missed the net and made a perfect swan dive into the sea sixty-five feet below. The destroyer behind Enterprise picked him up unharmed.”

  —Jack Kleiss, former U.S. Navy pilot

  Frank Furbish, former U.S. Navy fighter pilot: “The threat is as much the boat as the enemy. Carrier aviation is a very unforgiving occupation. Lives are lost and careers destroyed due to the specialized skill required to land on the boat. There are many excellent pilots who can fly a fighter with incredible skill but can’t land on the boat. And the opposite. One study of experienced carrier pilots who had been hooked up to sensors, showed that their heart rates and respiration were actually higher when landing on the ship than in combat. Daytime carrier landings are generally not too difficult if the seas are calm and the weather is tolerable. Night carrier landings are always challenging. Operating on the ship at night is not a soothing experience. It requires complete and total concentration along with a good measure of confidence. Night take-offs and landings during poor weather with a pitching deck and blue water ops with no divert are the ultimate tests of aviation skill. I would question the credibility and sanity of anyone who claimed to be relaxed during night traps.

  Nicknamed “Paddles,” this World War Two landing signal officer is at work guiding a naval aviator to a safe landing aboard their carrier in the Pacific.

  “Your first carrier landing is an experience you never forget. In my case, the training carrier at the time was the USS Lexington, an old World War Two-era small deck carrier that was based at Pensacola, Florida.

  “We had a very early brief around 0530. The night before, we had all tried to get to bed early in order to be rested for the day. My roommate was asleep in about fifteen minutes and began a loud and continuous snore. I couldn’t relax and got just two hours sleep. When we reported to the brief, the flights were delayed for hours, but we had to ‘stand by.’ It was going to be a long day.

  “Your first carrier landing is solo. An instructor pilot takes out three students on his wing and drops them off in the ‘break.’ The break is a maneuver that starts parallel to the ship on the starboard side at 800 feet. Once past the bow a hard level turn and descent to 600 feet for the downwind. At this point you are slowing the aircraft and configuring for landing, speed brakes, gear, flaps, and hook. Spacing is critical, not only on the ship, but relative to the aircraft ahead of you. The Air Boss wants forty-five second intervals for landing. The speed in the break is usually around 350 knots. You are on your own from there until you finish your qual. Your first two passes are touch-and-gos. The intent is to put young pilots at ease, knowing they did not have to trap on those first two. We considered it ‘practice bleedin
g.’

  “When naval aviators are asked what it is like to land on a carrier, the most common response is that it is ‘a cross between having sex and being in a train wreck.’ Having accumulated nearly 300 traps, I would say that the day landings are closer to the sex, and the night landings are closer to the train wreck. There is a good reason why you only do day carrier landings prior to wings: retention. Night carrier landings are, without a doubt, the extreme test of aviation skills. All aspects of flight, glide slope, line-up, and angle of attack, must be right on. The hook clearance on the F-14 over the round-down is about fourteen feet. The line-up tolerance is just as critical. If your speed is fast, the hook won’t catch (nose low, tail up) and if you are too slow, you risk an in-flight engagement, slamming the aircraft to the deck. Do this all at night, in weather, and with no diverts within a thousand miles, and you not only have a test of skill, but one of character.

  “We practiced night after night on a specially lit runway. We used San Clemente Island, a good training site due to the lack of lights from a city or base, and the fact that there was a sixty-foot cliff just short of the runway. ‘Work-ups’ didn’t end after your initial qual, as landing on the boat is a fleeting skill. The need to stay ‘current’ is ongoing, and there are various safeguards in place to ensure that pilots stay ‘in qual’ once on the ship. These rules require day traps prior to night traps, and/or a divert field should a pilot go for more than seven or fourteen days without a carrier landing. While shore-based, we constantly went out of qual and had to work back up to a proficient level prior to deploying. This applied to pilots with 2,000 traps as well as to those with ten. It’s not like riding a bike.