Everything had gone so smoothly; I anticipated a flight that would be satisfying in every respect. On climbout, I started trimming up the U-2 so I would have the best possible platform for my celestial training. I was approaching 45,000 feet altitude and was ready to turn on the autopilot when the fuel warning light lit up – a bright orange glow. What the hell? A quick glance at the fuel counter told me I had used 45 gallons of fuel since start engine. The light was correct. I had 40 gallons of fuel before flameout. I immediately retarded my throttle to idle, turned back towards Laughlin, notified FAA and declared an emergency.
Once informed of my traffic and cleared to Laughlin, I cancelled my clearance and dialed our squadron radio frequency to inform Mobile Control of my problem. My eyes were set on the red fuel button; I was down to 35 gallons of fuel. I radioed Control that I intended to set up a flameout landing pattern and land. The calm, controlled voice of the Mobile Control pilot talked to me in a monotone voice—always a monotone voice for emergencies. “Winds are light and variable, no traffic in the pattern and you are cleared to land Number 1.”
When I arrived at high key for my flameout pattern, I estimated I had remaining 20 gallons of fuel. I thought to myself, “No sweat! I've got it made.” I concentrated and focused on making as smooth a landing as I possibly could. I was at maximum gross weight for landing; U-2 pilots considered that a “no-no.” We thought of the bird as being made out of aluminum foil. Touchdown and rollout were smooth and I breathed a grateful sigh of relief. I brought the aircraft to a stop and the engine quit; it was a flameout from fuel starvation. My fuel counter indicated I still had another 5 gallons of fuel. Well, maybe not!
Opening the canopy, I anticipated exiting the aircraft and receiving praise for my absolute skill and cunning. I brought the bird back on the ground without damage, right? But, right then the Squadron Commander jumped above the cockpit railing with a pissed-off look on his face. In a pissed-off voice and similar demeanor, he asked me, “Why did you shut it down?” Through the yelling, he told me emphatically, “We will have to close the runway while we get a tow vehicle out here to tow the airplane back to the ramp.” I replied, “Sir, I did not shut it down. The plane flamed out all by itself.”
Without comment the Commander's head withdrew and the roar diminished. Was I ever glad that a maintenance inspection found the fuel shutoff valve in the OFF position. I had taken off with only 95 of the 1335 gallons of fuel normally onboard. As I rode my bike home that night, I felt proud of myself for getting the bird back on the ground undamaged. One of the pilots in the squadron burst that bubble the next morning when he informed me, “That's your job!” From then on the maintenance inspection plate was left open and checking the fuel shutoff switch in the “ON” position became a pre-flight checklist item.
Erratic Airspeed Indicator
I had just taken off from Laughlin AFB at about 2230 hours on a night celestial navigation training flight. As I was climbing out, I set up the aircraft so that it was in trim and holding 160 knots indicated airspeed. The string outside the canopy was centered with the airflow indicator line and was aligned with the longitudinal axis of the aircraft. It was just an old simple string on this sophisticated aircraft. The wings were level and the aircraft was holding its airspeed and heading, flying hands off with only a gentle correction now and then.
As I passed 45,000 feet indicated altitude, I engaged the autopilot, checked that my VOR indicator was tuned to the Cotulla VOR and the pointer was dead on the nose of the aircraft. By then I passed about 50,000 feet and started to set up my sextant for taking my first heading star shot. The indicators pitched down. I usually flew with one hand on the aircraft control yoke. I over controlled the autopilot, then disconnected it and did a rapid crosscheck of the instruments. Everything was normal, aircraft attitude OK, vertical velocity OK, but the airspeed indicator was rapidly vacillating between no airspeed and exceeding limits. The altitude and vertical velocity indicators work off the same pitot static system and were indicating normal. Within a few seconds, I decided that I did not want to climb higher. I cut the power back and started a descent, turning back toward Laughlin.
Precise trimming the aircraft was to me critical to a successful flight. It aligned the aircraft so that it flew straight through the air and not sideways. Trimming in the U-2 was even more important because all those aircraft were handmade. None flew straight unless trimmed for straight flight. Trimming enabled the autopilot to better maintain a heading and a Mach number. It also made the indicators from the sextant celestial readings more accurate. Trimming also affected the gravity flow of the fuel stored in the U-2’s wings. An out of trim aircraft resulted in uneven flow of fuel because the high wing's fuel drained to the sump pump near the engine faster than to the low wing. A truly simple solution was devised to align the longitudinal axis of the aircraft with the direction of flight. A white line was precisely lined up with the longitudinal axis of the aircraft and then finely etched into the top of the cockpit canopy from fore to aft. Yes, an ordinary string was attached so that when in flight the airflow across the canopy would cause the string to align with that airflow. If the string was not aligned with the line etched in the canopy then the rudder trim tab was used to align the aircraft with the airflow and the string would indicate alignment with the canopy line. A simple string was used to give pilots clear assurance that the aircraft was flying straight through the air and not sideways.
When I contacted the Squadron, the first advice I received after reporting my situation was, “Try not to stall it or exceed 220 knots Indicated Airspeed.” Although it wasn't a laughing matter to me, I said to myself, “Shit, I already know that!”
The next problem was how to land without stalling or exceeding aircraft limitations. As I passed 45,000 feet altitude in descent, I engaged the gust control to give me an extra margin of safe airspeeds I could fly. It was a clear night with light winds so turbulence was minimum. As I approached Laughlin AFB, Squadron Commander Buzz Curry came on the radio and asked me to describe my situation. I explained my circumstances and we discussed burning off some fuel at 10,000 feet so I would have time to eject if the aircraft became uncontrollable. We decided that was my best option and they would get the U-3A launched. By the time Curly Evans was airborne in the U-3A, I had reduced my fuel load by half and we decided to attempt to land my U-2.
As I made my approach to landing, Curly was to fly formation with me and call out my airspeed. I was afraid of that approach because of the delay in reaction time, and I was uncertain that his airspeed would be precisely the same as mine. I requested to fly formation on his U-3A right down to landing. Curly was to fly five knots above our computed landing speed based upon my fuel load at that time. I also wanted Curly to rendezvous with me, not me with him. That way I would always know my airspeed in descent. I could get out of gust control and set up for landing. It all worked like a charm and we got my bird back safely on the ground. On postflight inspection our maintenance guys found a small flake of rust in the pitot tube.
The next day “Goog” Boyd, from Maintenance, made a formal presentation to me of the offending rust flake. It was only slightly larger than the head of a pin. It was hard to believe something so small could cause such an enormous problem, but it sure did.
Crosswind Landing
Crosswind landings in the U-2 were a real challenge whenever the component was above 15 knots. After reading about crosswind landings in Plane and Pilot, I recalled a crosswind landing I made in a U-2 at Plattsburg AFB, NY in 1959. I was returning to base from an air sampling flight near the North Pole only to find a crosswind of 15-20 knots, gusting to 35. The U-2’s maximum crosswind tolerance was 25 knots because of the tandem landing gear. The main gear, located just below the cockpit, and the rudder-linked steerable tail wheel, were in line and on the aircraft's centerline.
My ground controller had computed the crosswind right at 25 knots and reviewed the landing procedure with me, the danger being weather vaning up
wind. This was due to the high, large vertical stabilizer, rear center of gravity and lack of tail wheel traction (only six inch hard rubber wheels).
The technique was to land with full flaps on the downwind side of the runway in a combination crab and slip to kill the drift. Once I touched down, I was to immediately put the downwind wing tip skid on the runway and hold it with full down wind aileron deflection and full downwind rudder. Luckily, Plattsburg had a significantly crowned runway center which helped counter the weather vaning. I was able to stop my aircraft on the runway though it had slightly weather vaned. My U-2 and I had crossed the centerline and were headed for the “boonies.”
I have landed many places in the world, but I still remember every single second of that landing. A crosswind landing in a U-2 can be a memorable event when it is successful.
Jack D. Nole
(Deceased June 8, 1996)
Widow: Celeste
The following was submitted by Robert Ingram.
Colonel Jack Nole, commander of the 4028th Strategic Recon Squadron, had the distinction of landing the first U-2 aircraft at Laughlin AFB. He also earned the distinction of the first military pilot to safely bail out of a U-2. He recorded the highest altitude parachute escape in history on that ejection.
On September 26, 1957 Colonel Nole had been airborne approximately 35 minutes. He was on what was to have been a routine test flight following maintenance performed on the flight controls and the engine. He was nearing 53,000 feet altitude. Colonel Nole was in contact with Laughlin tower as he began his checkout of the various systems. Without warning the aircraft nosed over and began plunging toward the earth. The flap position indicator showed the flaps to be fully extended but he had not selected that position. Corrective action had no effect on the falling aircraft. The tail section separated from the fuselage. He reported the condition to Laughlin tower and their response was “Bail out, bail out!” He thought, “I wonder what they think I am trying to do.”
Ejecting from the U-2 was no simple process. Each hose, tube and connector had to be individually disconnected, including the shoulder harness and radio connection. Nole had shut down the engine when he first observed the trouble. His pressure suit had inflated and further restricted movement in the cockpit. He struggled to release himself from the various connections then released the canopy and exited the aircraft.
He faced another problem after he had ejected from the aircraft. At this altitude, he had two choices. One, he could pull the cord to open his parachute and allow himself to get oxygen from his emergency tank. Two, he could free fall and risk suffocation. There was a possibility of freezing to death if he opened the parachute at such high altitude. He remembered his training—any action was better than no action, so he pulled the ripcord.
As he descended, he was swinging alternately face up then face down. For the first time in his 17 years, in the cockpit, he became violently airsick. When he landed, he came down on his seat pack on his bottom. Investigators said it would have broken his back without the pack.
As a result of Colonel Nole's incident, many changes were made in the U-2, the most significant being the ejection seat. The first U-2 was designed without ejection seats, but “the decision makers” soon decided to install one in each aircraft. Quick disconnects were also incorporated for all systems and harnesses.
Colonel Nole's successful ejection contributed to the future survival of countless other pilots.
Chris Pocock
Uxbridge, United Kingdom
The following is an article that first appeared in the United States Air Force Yearbook, 1997. Chris has authorized use of this article.
Riding The Dragon Lady
We had been airborne for almost 50 minutes before I really appreciated just how high we were! As we cruised steadily across California's San Joaquin Valley, I glanced down and to the right. Way below, an airliner leaving a thick contrail was intersecting our flight track. As it passed underneath us, that jet seemed no bigger to the naked eye, than if I had been looking up at it from ground level.
Chris Pocock shown after his own U-2 flight to high altitude. Courtesy of Chris Pocock and Schiffer Publishing Ltd.
In fact, this was no illusion. The airliner was at 35,000 feet; whereas, we were above 70,000 feet!
We were 50 minutes out of Beale AFB, and I was riding backseat in the U-2ST trainer 80-1064, call sign “Pinon 72”. From the front cockpit, my Instructor Pilot (IP), Major Brandon King, explained that the Pinon grows at higher elevations than any other tree. The U-2 Dragon Lady is similarly found at higher altitudes than any other flying machine, except the occasional SR-71 Blackbird from the same stable, Lockheed Martin's famous Skunk Works.
The enlarged and improved U-2R model which first flew in 1967, proved to be an unrivalled platform for a new generation of reconnaissance sensors. It offered a stable environment for sensitive, long-range side looking cameras, radars and signals-gathering devices. They could listen and look further from the U-2’s lofty perch than if they were carried on more conventional craft. Most importantly, the U-2 could hang around—operational flights usually last for more than nine hours. Blackbirds, satellites and unmanned aerial vehicles come and go, but no one has yet devised a more cost-effective method of airborne intelligence gathering.
Such are the rewards of long-endurance, high-altitude flight. But there are also penalties, and I was wearing one of them, the S1031 pressure suit and helmet. It's bulky and inconvenient, forty pounds of cumbersome restriction to the everyday movements that one takes for granted (including bodily functions). It's also a virtually complete barrier to sensible communication with the outside world, save through the intercom system. But if you want to survive a cockpit depressurization at high altitude, you don't leave the ground without it.
U-2 pilots learn to live with it, and I seemed to be coping quite well too, thanks to the previous day's very thorough induction into the strange world of pressurized protection at Beale's Physiological Support Division (PSD).
Following a stringent medical, I had first been introduced to the S1 ejection seat. This is a zero-zero device for low-altitude escape, but if a high-altitude ejection is ever required, it is designed to descend from the heavens with its occupant still attached, who thus benefits from a continuing supply of oxygen for breathing and suit pressure from two emergency cylinders. At 15,000 feet, aneroids automatically command release of the body-restraining straps, and one floats free as the parachute deploys.
Then I was invited to change into long white underwear, and don the suit itself. This procedure requires the active cooperation of two PSD technicians who do most of the tugging, stretching, attaching and zipping. From the inside out, the suit consists of a nylon inner layer, a polyurethane-coated pressure layer, a restraint layer of adjustable mesh-patterned nylon, an immersion layer and an exterior cover of yellow-colored nomex.
Supervised by Dick Cook, a veteran PSD supervisor, my assistants pulled on my boots and clip-fitted the gloves to the suits’ rigid metal attachment rings. Then I squeezed my head with some difficulty into the goldfish-bowl helmet. This too was attached to the suit, and now I was ready to go “on the hose”. I flopped into a semi-reclined leather chair next to the oxygen console.
Nothing really prepares you for the sense of detachment which ensues once the faceplate has been latched down and the oxygen starts flowing. People carried on conversations a few feet in front of me, but I couldn't hear them. They sometimes moved out of my limited field of vision. I found that I could only follow them by raising my arms to the helmet and physically pushing or pulling the helmet sideways. The sound of my breathing was amplified through the built-in headset and soon became monotonous.
According to Major King, some prospective U-2 pilots never get past this initial suit up. A member of the 1st Reconnaissance Squadron (Training), King manages the recruitment of the 20 or so pilots who join the Wing each year. “One in ten of them feel uncomfortable and get claustrophobic. They become disc
oncerted hearing their own breathing. We call it the Darth Vader Syndrome,” he told me.
My indoctrination at PSD continued with a visit to the altitude chamber. I was positioned in the chamber and the “climb” began. At 20,000 feet, Cook invited me to remove the faceplate for a demonstration of the insidious effects of hypoxia. Then the ascent continued to 70,000 feet, then down to 55,000 feet, whereupon Cook simulated an explosive decompression. The chamber fogged over, though I could still see the glass of water which had been placed on a nearby ledge and which was now boiling vigorously. My body fluids would have met the same fate had I not been protected by the pressure suit which had now inflated to hold my arms and legs in a vice-like grip. I wondered how a U-2 pilot could physically manage flying the jet if this should ever happen for real.
Still, Major King gave every reassurance when we met later to discuss the next day's flight. After discussing my few essential tasks (pulling the pins, sealing the canopy, etc.), he proffered some culinary advice. On long flights, U-2 pilots take sustenance by squeezing pureed food up a tube inserted into the helmet through a pressure port. King recommended “Peach and Pear” and suggested that I also take at least two bottles of liquid along to help prevent dehydration.
Remembering the Dragon Lady: The U-2 Spy Plane: Memoirs of the Men Who Made the Legend Page 11