by Pete Fusco
The National Transportation Safety Board conducted an investigation, which was aided by the presence that day of Stanley Segalla, a veteran performer whose “flying farmer” act was one of the more popular on the airshow circuit. Segalla watched the flight and the crash firsthand. He provided the insight and experience of a lifetime of aerobatics in his analysis:
I observed the snap roll which followed a slow roll down runway 17. He appeared to be at 85 mph out of the slow roll. He then immediately did a snap roll, still at about 85 mph. That speed is too slow. Normally a snap roll would be done at about 110 mph. When coming out of the snap roll he still had a lot of back stick pressure (that causes too much drag). When he came around through the 180 inverted position the aircraft did not unload to gain airspeed. The aircraft was still stalled while rolling to the left. The aircraft struck the ground in about an 85 degree nose down attitude.
While Segalla’s account may sound critical of Shelly, it supports a theory that came out of the NTSB forensic report, which determined that Ronald Shelly may have suffered a heart attack. The autopsy revealed “mature atherosclerosis.” According to the medical examiner, there existed other indicators of heart disease “certainly severe enough to cause sudden incapacitation at any time.”
Gene Littlefield, an airshow pilot and Federal Aviation Administration-designated Aerobatic Competency Evaluator, evaluated the crash video for the NTSB. Littlefield, who performed in a Stearman similar to Shelly’s, gave added credence to the heart attack explanation:
The video coverage seemed to show a poorly-executed left snap roll descending to the ground while continuing to turn left. This happened following a nearly perfectly executed left slow roll. In examining the “stop action” video, the rudder is clearly visible throughout the maneuver but it did not deflect to the left at the onset of the maneuver as it must, to be a left snap roll. As a matter of fact, the rudder does not deflect in either direction … it stays absolutely neutral.
Daughter Karen had said she trusted her father and would not wing walk for any other pilot. Perhaps Shelly, who made a number of errors a professional such as himself would never have made, was simply not in control of the aircraft during the last seconds and did not betray a daughter’s trust.
Segalla’s and Littlefield’s expert analyses, as told to the NTSB, are a matter of record, available to any student of aerobatics, veteran or beginner. Both men enjoyed long airshow careers and lived to old age. They’re gone now, but not before they added to the canon of airshow accident knowledge, a chronicle written over the span of a century one agonizing word at a time, all of it hard-earned but not all of it so conveniently written, catalogued, and accessible.
48
BEHIND THE CANARY
TWO of the first Saab JAS 39 Gripen supersonic jet fighters were lost in crashes. Saab test pilot Lars Rådeström had the misfortune to be flying both at the time. He also had the good fortune to survive both.
The first crash was in 1986 during landing when the new fly-by-wire computer system contributed to a pitch oscillation. Rådeström boldly stayed with the airplane as it tore itself to pieces on the runway. He was fortunate to only suffer a fractured elbow.
The second Gripen crash was in 1993, when the same type computer allowed—or caused—another out-of-control oscillation. This time, perhaps recalling his cartwheel ride along the runway and the pain of a fractured elbow in the first mishap, Rådeström decided he had been pushed around by a computer long enough and ejected. Had he been operating over a test range at the time, Rådeström might have avoided fame and inclusion in this book, but Rådeström happened to be demonstrating the Gripen for thousands of spectators over Langholmen Island at the annual Stockholm Water Festival.
To guarantee expanded media coverage and legend status, he and his parachute landed in a tree. Lars Rådeström became famous in Sweden as “the man with three lives.” He was unhurt but one spectator received burns and was hospitalized.
Both crashes were attributed to pilot-induced oscillation (PIO), although subsequent investigations showed that the computer allowed more pilot input than the pilot or it could counter and stabilize at slow speeds. Some adjustments were obviously in order and were made.
The Gripen was one of the first fly-by-wire jet fighters in the world. It was produced by a consortium of Swedish and foreign industries. After an unpromising beginning, two prototype crashes, long delays, and cost overruns, the Gripen finally proved its worth. Almost two hundred were eventually built and sold to air forces around the world.
Since aviation’s beginning, test-piloting new aircraft has been a painful, inglorious narrative with great loss of life. In the 1950s, for example, test pilots of many countries, pushing their new jet fighters to the limit in a race for global domination, died at a rate of one per week. Today, computer simulations and drones for testing airborne concepts have dramatically reduced the number of fatalities, though not the necessity for grit.
But computers can only reveal so much and be trusted so far. In the final test, there must always be someone willing to follow the canary into the mine. Rådeström entered the mine not once but twice, both times with near-fatal outcomes. When he emerged back into the daylight, he had mined knowledge, an ore worth far more than gold. The Gripen became a better aircraft because of him.
Lars Rådeström retired as a test pilot after the second Gripen misadventure and took a well-deserved, albeit less-exciting, desk job at Saab.
49
CZAR 52
There’s something compelling about a very large aircraft flying close to the ground. Airshow spectators who stand in line for a beer and ignore a Pitts Special performing a complex aerobatic routine quiver with satisfaction at the sight of a jet airliner or bomber doing nothing more than performing a low pass and making lots of noise. It’s why circuses had elephants.
There are few aircraft larger than a Boeing B-52 Stratofortress, a now-and-again airshow participant since it first flew in the 1950s. The appeal is easy to understand. The B-52 is a giant, sinister in both appearance and intent, with a history to match. What is not easy to understand is why pilots demonstrating such large aircraft feel obligated to perform maneuvers at low altitude that were never meant to be performed at any altitude.
No disaster makes a better argument for flying large aircraft higher and sanely, not lower and crazily, than the crash of a B-52, call sign Czar 52, while practicing for an airshow in 1994 at Fairchild Air Force Base in Washington State.
On June 24, 1994, Lt. Col. Arthur “Bud” Holland and three other air force officers, all very experienced pilots, died when Holland, flying at 250 feet, banked his B-52 to almost 90 degrees while circling the control tower. In the turn, Holland allowed his airspeed to bleed to a stall. The wing was at almost a right angle to the ground and the aircraft too low and slow for any hope of gaining enough lift to recover. Czar 52 literally stopped flying and fell out of the sky, crashed, and exploded. No one on the ground was injured. The bomber reportedly hit close to nuclear weapon bunkers, a story the air force has never confirmed.
Holland had a long history of breaking air force flying regulations, as well as a reputation for not being open to criticism or to heed a warning. He once orbited his daughter’s softball game in a B-52 at 2,500 feet with a bank angle estimated at 80 degrees, which would have increased the stall speed by about 60 percent. The aircraft entered a spiraling descent and lost 1,000 feet before Holland regained control. Hindsight marks the day as a warm-up for the tragedy at Fairchild AFB.
At an airshow, Holland once flew Czar 52 so uncompromisingly that he popped about five hundred rivets from the airframe. He was known to call other crewmembers “pussy” when they objected to his reckless flying, which included clearing a mountain ridge by only a few feet. Crewmembers claimed Holland talked about rolling the B-52. (As far as is known, he never tried it.)
Holland had performed at the 1992 and 1993 Fairchild AFB airshows. He violated Air Force safety regulations both
years, flying below 100 feet, performing steep turns greater than 45 degrees of bank, doing steep pull-ups followed by wingovers, and flying over airshow spectators. Holland was reprimanded but no formal action was ever taken. Nor was it his first reprimand.
Despite his record of ignoring rules, Holland was chief of the 92nd Bomb Wing’s Standardization and Evaluation branch. In other words, he was responsible for evaluating all the B-52 pilots on the base.
Squadron commander Lt. Col. Mark McGeehan, thirty-eight, was well aware of Holland’s history and reputation and rode along on the doomed flight to keep a reign on him. McGeehan had told other B-52 crewmembers that flying with Holland was up to their discretion. No one with reservations about Holland’s judgment had to fly with him. McGeehan was so concerned with the safety of his men that he choose to fly co-pilot for Holland until the problematic pilot’s approaching retirement. It’s safe to say Holland resented McGeehan’s presence on the flight deck.
There is no evidence that McGeehan or any of the crewmembers tried to override Holland as he executed the extreme maneuver that led to the crash. At the time, cockpit voice recorders were not yet installed on B-52s. It will never be known what dialogue or possible struggles for control of the bomber may have taken place in the cockpit during the final seconds of Czar 52. The two other crewmembers killed were Col. Robert Wolff, forty-six, on board as a “safety observer” and Lt. Col. Ken Huston, forty-one.
The B-52 known as Czar 52, fatally banked beyond any hope of recovery, captured a split second before impacting the ground at Fairchild Air Force Base. All four aboard were killed.
(Watching the video of the Fairchild AFB crash on the internet, one can almost hear Orville Wright in 1911 hollering “Cut it out!” to the headstrong Ralph Johnstone, one of the “Stardust Twins,” for exceeding 45 degrees of bank in a Wright Model B. The ill-advised practice led to Johnstone’s death.)
Air force investigators blamed the accident on Holland’s personality and behavior. They also faulted air force officials for condoning Holland’s long history of flouting rules. According to a Time magazine article, no fewer than thirteen air force commanders had allowed Holland to remain on flight status in his career, despite his questionable record. Only one of those commanders was court-martialed. To squadron commander McGeehan’s credit, he had pleaded with the higher brass to ground Holland, a plea that fell on deaf ears.
Most organizations that fly airplanes, military or civilian, attempt to give pilots the benefit of the doubt. Exhaustive training regimens and testing will normally produce a capable pilot, but there is no way to predict his or her conduct past the training cycle. As early as the 1970s, federal and military investigators recognized that overbearing cockpit personalities had caused several major airline and military crashes. The problem went back to the days of sail when no one dared question a captain’s judgment, no matter what; they called it mutiny and hanged mutineers.
In the 1980s, the airlines and the military finally addressed the issue with mandatory “Crew Resource Management” classes that encouraged all crewmembers to speak up when they saw something wrong, or even if they simply felt uncomfortable. There would be no repercussions against the crewmember. (The Czar 52 crash at Fairchild AFB, among many others, civil and military, has been used as a case study.)
The CRM classes have produced remarkable results in the last thirty years, although all involved readily admit that some personalities with incorrigible “captain complexes” resist the process. Whether it be military, airline, or corporate aviation, it’s naïve to think that there are not professional pilots flying today who, at the very least, are being carefully monitored.
It’s been said, fairly or unfairly, that there is no such thing as an accident. Certainly no pilot plans an accident, but many have taken precious few precautions to avoid one. Or, as in the Czar 52 disaster, did not do enough to prevent another pilot from having one.
50
LONE STAR FURY
ON April 16, 1996, Charlie Hillard performed in his Hawker Sea Fury at the Sun ‘n’ Fun International Fly-In & Expo in Lakeland, Florida. He landed on the main gear with plenty of runway in front of him. All seemed normal until the aircraft unexpectedly lurched right, departed the runway, and flipped over onto its back. The canopy was crushed and the weight of the aircraft rested on Hillard’s neck, which was pushed against the top of the control column. Hillard hung upside down in the cockpit, struggling to free himself. Before he could be rescued, Hillard died of what was later described as “postural asphyxia”—suffocation. He was fifty-eight years old.
The single-seat Sea Fury fighter, the Lone Star Fury, was built with turnover protection, but Hillard had removed it in favor of a second seat. He was planning to reinstall the protection but had not found the time.
Some observers thought the fact that there were scuff marks on the right main landing gear tire but no scuff marks on the left tire indicated that the right brake had locked and caused the Sea Fury to swing to the right. The original Hawker-installed brakes had been replaced with more powerful multi-disk brakes from a North American F-100 Super Sabre fighter jet. A persistent story is that the control tower requested Hillard to turn off the runway sooner than he had planned; he would have had more speed during the turn, which, along with the better brakes, might have contributed to the accident.
The National Transportation Safety Board investigator who handled the accident concluded Hillard lacked experience in the Sea Fury and used brakes and ailerons improperly in a right crosswind. At the risk of casting doubt upon the honorable federal investigator’s credentials, one wonders if he had ever actually seen Charlie Hillard fly. The investigator would have been hard-pressed to find a single airshow pilot in the world to agree that Hillard lacked flying ability, then or now.
A young Charlie Hillard in his Great Lakes Trainer early in his long career. Courtesy of the Butch Meier Collection.
Legendary status is oftentimes loosely bestowed upon individuals. Charlie Hillard earned his legend title; every step of the process was on public display over four decades of brilliant performances and aerobatic competitions. Hillard didn’t just improve over time, he evolved, each time emerging fully developed at the next level.
Hillard, a Texan, enjoyed an irreproachable pilot pedigree. Aerobatic guru and unsung patriot Frank Price of Moody, Texas, taught him to fly aerobatics in an airplane once owned by Duane Cole of Cole Brothers’ Airshows. Price is not as well-known as he should be. In 1960, believing that the United States should be represented at the first World Aerobatic Competition in Czechoslovakia, Price shipped his Great Lakes biplane to Munich, where he reassembled it and, navigating with road maps, slipped through the Iron Curtain to the competition. After competing unsuccessfully against superior Soviet-built aerobatic aircraft, Price slipped back out without ever asking anyone for permission. Following his aerobatic training with Price, Hillard bought and flew a clipped-wing Piper J-3 Cub once owned by Bevo Howard. Harold Krier, a master airshow performer, flew with Hillard and personally validated the young pilot’s skills. Krier gave the nod to promoter Bill Sweet, a.k.a. “Mister Airshow,” who hired Hillard for his National Air Shows. Such an impressive résumé may never be duplicated.
In 1971, along with noted airshow pilots Gene Soucy and Tom Poberezny, Hillard formed the three-ship Red Devils Aerobatic Team. In 1979 the team switched aircraft from the Pitts Special to the Christian Eagle and became the Eagles Aerobatic Team. The three flew together for more than twenty-five years, the longest-running civilian aerobatic team in history.
In 1995, the Eagles team disbanded and Hillard purchased the Hawker Sea Fury, which he painted red, white, and blue and named the Lone Star Fury. In many ways, it was the logical next chapter in Hillard’s amazing career. The Sea Fury had been designed in England at the end of World War Two. Large and imposing, it was one of the last propeller-driven fighters built, the younger but bigger brother of the fabled Hawker Hurricane and Typhoon.
Not th
at Hillard needed anything as conspicuous as a Hawker Sea Fury. Like all the greats before him and those yet to arrive, it didn’t make any difference what Hillard flew, or even whether the motor was running! At one point in his airshow career, Hillard had a dead-stick routine considered the best in the business. He was as compelling in his prosaic 85-horsepower Piper Cub as he was in his 3,000-horsepower Sea Fury. The only difference was that the Sea Fury is one of those aircraft that owns the sky while in it. The same was true of Hillard. They made a perfect duo.
The original sleeve-valve Bristol Centaurus engine in Hillard’s Sea Fury had been swapped for a Curtiss-Wright R-3350 Duplex-Cyclone, the redoubtable “Wright sprinkling can” of Douglas DC-7 and Lockheed Constellation fame. The 18-cylinder oil-oozing Wrights briefly ruled military and commercial aviation in the United States until ousted in the late 1940s by jet power. They never got over the humiliation. At full power and low pitch, the aggrieved monsters still sound pissed. The combination of Sea Fury, snarly Wright Cyclone, three smoke sources, and Hillard’s unrivalled flying offered something for everyone.
Hillard did it all in his fifty-eight years. He designed and test-flew aircraft and flew for the movies. He flew airshows for nearly forty years. He won the National Aerobatic Championship in 1967 and in 1972 became the first American to win the World Aerobatic Championship.