On January 22, 1968, I was a young LTJG at Naval Air Station Miramar, California, attached to Navy Fighter Squadron VF-53 preparing for a deployment to Vietnam aboard the USS Bon Homme Richard, CVA-31. As part of the pre-deployment regimen, all pilots were briefed to fly Field Mirror Landing Practice (FMLP) that night beginning about 2100. This was our last chance to practice before deployment; we were scheduled to fly our planes to NAS North Island two days hence so that the planes could be lifted aboard the carrier with a crane. Craning A/C aboard the ship before deployment was common practice so that all aircraft and pilots would be assured of leaving with the ship.
As part of NATOPS (NAVAL AVIATION TECHNICAL OPERATENG PROCEDURES), we were required to get a minimum number of FMLPs of which I needed five (5) more. Sometimes, we referred to these FMLPs as "bounces" because we landed, added full power, and leaped back into the air resembling a bounce. We were briefed by the LSO (Landing signal Officer). Each of the squadrons had one aviator who had been to LSO school. Our LSO was Lt. George Hise. George was sharp and a laidback kind of guy. After he lost his brother, Jim, a fellow VF-53 pilot on the previous cruise, he didn't see the need to waste any part of his life being worried about anything. During his briefing, he stressed the need for a tight pattern, and a close adherence to assigned pattern altitude. He also emphasized proper spacing so that the maximum number of FMLPs could be accomplished in the minimum amount of time.
Around 2000 we manned our aircraft, the F8E Crusader; of course, it was dark. That was the whole point of this flight, wneeded night FMLPs. Some squadrons would schedule their night FMLPs right after 1800, which according to the Navy rules at the time, would qualify as a night landing. However, we referred to those night landings when it was not totally dark, as "pinkies". Preflight and taxi out were uneventful. I was not the first pilot to get airborne, so as I sat in the cockpit awaiting takeoff, I was watching the lights of the aircraft making the FMLPs to get an idea of the interval between the aircraft and where my place in the pattern might be.
Like most of my fellow pilots, I was going to be as aggressive as possible with my technique entering the FMLP pattern. I thought it through quickly, I would leave the gear down and the wing up as I picked up about 170 knots after takeoff. Remember, this aircraft was the F8E with a wing that was raised and lowered at the leading edge and hinged at the trailing edge where it was attached to the fuselage (the flaps and slats deployed automatically when the wing was raised). I envisioned an aggressive pull up to about 30 degrees nose up while rolling the aircraft to about 60-75 degrees of roll so I could stop the rapid climb at pattern altitude. I knew that no one would see my performance this late at night, but I would have the satisfaction of knowing I had been very aggressive with the aircraft and yet safely performed the maneuver. I was cleared for takeoff. I began my takeoff roll with basic engine thrust (without afterburner) because of the light load of fuel. Just
after rotation at 131 knots, I began the planned steep climbing turn to join my fellow pilots in the downwind pattern. At approximately 150' above the ground, I experienced a total electrical failure. There was not one single light illuminated in the cockpit. As per the NATOPS emergency procedures, I found the RAT (Ram Air Turbine) handle and pulled it. This released a small propeller driven generator designed to give basic lighting and electrical power to the instruments and radio. As I waited for the RAT to come up to speed and thus begin supplying electrical power, I began recovering from the unusual attitude I was in at the time electrical failure occurred. Remember that I had been performing a "Sierra Hotel" (**** Hot - a term common among Naval Aviators) maneuver. For the next few seconds I was real busy trying to get some bearings from the outside world because I could see nothing in the cockpit... Nothing! I was in total darkness. Not a single light ever appeared.
I kept thinking, "That RAT should be up to speed by now!" I later found out that the generator was ok, but I had blown some fuses - cause unknown. I had my flashlight, but I was using both hands to fly. I was so preoccupied with getting the aircraft under control and not getting too slow, I found myself fast and about to run up the tailpipe of the F8E ahead of me. As I pulled off power and swung wide to avoid a midair collision, I thought -- "what better substitute for my instruments than that aircraft. I'll fly his wing right down to touchdown." In normal situations a pilot would never join on another aircraft without letting the other pilot know. Then the lead pilot would make all his maneuvers and decisions allowing for the wingman, but this situation was not normal! Once the decision was made, my pucker factor decreased to about 20% (based on the premise that with a 100% pucker factor, a pilot could bite a "doughnut" out of his seat cushion with his anus).
I rendezvoused with the F8E just as the pilot began his turn off the "180" (The "180" was the position about 1 mile abeam the intended landing point headed in the opposite direction from the active runway heading). As he turned his aircraft away from me, it made my job of rendezvousing (undiscovered) easier because the pilot was looking at the runway so as to adjust his turn to rollout in the "groove". The groove was an imaginary point short of the runway where the centerline and a 3 degree glideslope were one and the same. I wanted to rendezvous undetected and remain undetected because the discovery of an aircraft only 10 to 20 feet away might cause the unsuspecting pilot to perform some violent maneuver thinking that he was about to have a midair collision. I was careful to rendezvous from below and to the right...opposite from where the other pilot had his attention focused. I was also careful not to get too close because, with experience, a pilot can tell when the
airflow over his aircraft is being disturbed by another aircraft flying too closely.
As he made our approach, I was desperately trying to watch his aircraft with one eye and watch the runway with the other. I wanted to be sure that the pilot was heading where I wanted to go, and more importantly, he was not flying below the glidepath where I might hit the ground before him since I was flying behind and below his aircraft. Finally, about 1/2 mile from the runway I saw the "ball" and knew that, so far, all was well. The "ball" of course was the bright ball of light on the fresnel lens that gives carrier pilots their glideslope reference during approaches to the carriers. I was feeling more comfortable now because I could see the runway, the ball, and my unsuspecting leader. This meant I could safely land my airplane and not hit anyone else since the next aircraft would be at least a mile behind us. My landing was uneventful and I rolled all the way to the end of the 8000' runway. I set the parking brake and waited for someone to come get me in a " Follow
Me" truck so I would be under the positive control of the tower while crossing the parallel and active runway. (The "follow me truck" always had direct radio communications with the tower.) I later found out that the LSO had called the tower and notified the controller that a "dark aircraft" had landed.
I waited for what seemed like an eternity, but no one came. There was not one single flashing red light on the entire airfield. I figured no one knew I was there. I was becoming worried that if the next aircraft that landed came to a full stop, he might roll to the end and hit my aircraft since we normally did not use a taxi or landing light, and my aircraft was unlit due to the electrical failure. The more I thought about it, the more I thought "I'm a sitting duck." I thought the Commanding Officer would, at the very least, accuse me of using poor headwork should I sit there and get hit. So, I made the decision to cross the parallel (and active) runway without clearance from the tower.
I watched the aircraft land on the active runway for a few minutes so I could get a feel for the traffic rhythm. Then I bolted across the runway just behind an aircraft on landing rollout, and no one knew, or cared, at that point because I had successfully made it.
But I was having a difficult time taxiing the plane; the nose gear steering relied on electrical power through a switch on the stick; it controlled the hydraulic piston that turned the nose gear in unison with the rudder pedals. Using differential braking, I began my taxi to the fuel pits since normal procedure was to refuel the aircraft on the taxi in and before we parked the aircraft. It was a known fact that a full fuel tank was much less a fire hazard than one not full due to a lack of air/fumes in the tank. The standard procedure was to fold the wings so that the aircraft would fit into the narrow lanes between the different fueling stations. Another reason for folding the wings during refueling was that a pressure relief or vent valve (located in the wing fold area) could be checked by verifying that air was escaping through the vent during refueling.
Of course, I arrived at the fuel pits unannounced and unexpected. The fueling personnel had some difficulty directing my aircraft which, without lights, they could not see very well. But finally, after some squinting and misdirection, I was parked and chocked in the pit, engine still running. One of the enlisted men climbed up to the cockpit, and over the engine noise he began to yell at me. He relayed to me that I was to get this aircraft fixed. Then I was to return to the FMLP pattern for the required number of FMLPs. Heaven forbid that I should be short one of those stupid FMLPs! With me in the cockpit, the engine running, wheels chocked, and the wings folded, an electrician's mate crawled up the side of the aircraft and began looking for solutions to my electrical problem in the bottom of the cockpit. He was literally on his head between my legs wrestling with the stick, cursing, and reaching for the fuses/circuit breakers. Several times he nearly kicked me in the
face as he struggled for the proper position. I imagine from a distance he rather looked as if he were being eaten by the cockpit with only his gyrating legs sticking out. After about 10 minutes of having this mechanic in my tiny cockpit with his butt in my face, he was able to restore partial electrical power to my aircraft by resetting some circuit breakers. I now had my radio, and five cockpit instrument lights i.e. attitude gyro, altimeter, vertical speed indicator, airspeed indicator, and clock.
Now that I had a working radio, I called the O.D. (Officer of the Day) LTJG Bob Gerhardt on our squadron frequency. I told him what had happened and that I was going home as soon as I could park this poor excuse for an airplane. Not so! The O.D. informed me that I had not fulfilled my requirement for the five remaining "bounces". No! I argued that I was tired, it was nearly midnight, and I was through. Mentally, I was already on my way home to my wife, Fran, and my son, Scott. However, the O.D. had spoken with the Operations Officer and I had to get those "bounces". However, he conceded that I could wait for another aircraft to return from the FMLP pattern in about an hour. I cursed under my breath that the Navy "sucked." I questioned my sanity for ever joining the NROTC in college. But I knew that if it were not for the NROTC scholarship I received at the University of North Carolina I would have been unable to attend college, and thus, I would probably be working in
some filling station in my hometown of Myrtle Beach, S.C. Eventually, I gave in -- disobeying a direct order was not going to help my career. I told the O.D. that I would take this aircraft and get the five bounces; I didn't want to wait; I wanted to get this over with. I thought, "If the electrical failure occurs again, I can handle it." After all, I did get this sick puppy back on the ground safely the last time, didn't I?
As I taxied out to runway 24, I was in a hurry, pissed off that all this had happened to me, and thought about the fact that we only had a few days left before we would ship out for the Far East -- I should be home snuggled against my wife, Fran, asleep, or better yet... Anyway, I'd be home soon... Real soon!
The distance from the fuel pits to the takeoff end of runway 24 at Miramar normally takes about 2 minutes. I probably cut that time tin half. As I approached the "hold short" area, the tower called to ask if I was on frequency and was I ready for an immediate takeoff. I re plied, "Yes!" out of habit. Hell, I was ready to get this all over with. My habit pattern was to do the takeoff checklist at this point. The tower called back with a clearance to make an immediate takeoff because there was an aircraft on final two miles out. I added some power, began closing the canopy, and looked down to the takeoff check list. Damn lights! I couldn't see a thing! I struggled with the canopy...the wind was getting caught under it and I had to really get up in the seat to get some leverage. It locked! I added some more power. I tried to remember what was on the checklist. Normally, I would read the little takeoff checklist placard located on the lower right hand side of the instrument
panel; but without lights, I couldn't. I had better stop and get my flashlight out. No...it was too late! I was on the runway now! That aircraft on short final would be landing soon.
I added more power and desperately tried to remember the takeoff check list. I'm doing 80 knots now. I brought the power up to 100%. Oh yes! Canopy closed and locked. Check. Wing up. Check. Scan the instruments...they looked o.k. 100 knots speed and increasing rapidly. Oh, what the hell! I did that checklist about 30 minutes earlier on the previous flight. What could have changed? 120 knots...I had better start flying the plane. I'll worry about that check list later.
At 130 knots, I relaxed the forward pressure I had held on the stick to keep the nose from bouncing during the take off roll. But before I could put any back pressure on the stick for rotation, the plane leaped into the air with the nose rising rapidly. Using the trim button on the stick, I put in nose down trim and lots of nose down stick. I stopped the nose at about 15 degrees nose up and began lowering it to about 7-8 degrees above the horizon. The whole aircraft was buffeting. What's the hell is wrong? Jesus! I might have to get out of this thing! I know that damn Martin Baker seat will break my back. At the very least it will crush a vertebra. For the second time in less than an hour my pucker factor was approaching the 90% range. Two emergencies in a row! I'm less than l00' into the air and things aren't getting any better. University City is straight ahead...lot's of homes...better turn to the right...Jesus! I put in a little right aileron and the aircraft did a
snap roll! I'm inverted! I can't eject! Left rudder and left aileron! I'm coming back to the left too fast! I overshoot wings level badly. I flew better that this on my first flying lesson in a Piper Cherokee. What the hell is going on? After a couple of oscillations I finally settled down to some semblance of wings level flight. "Miramar tower, this is NJ207. I have some serious control problems. I may have to get out." Boy! I was surprised how calm I sounded! I thought I was pretty dammed cool, considering that inverted business seconds ago. But then this wasn't my fault! And, besides, should I elect to eject, the Navy could well afford to buy another airplane cheaper than replace me. We, as Naval aviators, had been told since pre-flight in Pensacola, Florida, that it was cheaper for the Navy to buy another aircraft than to train another pilot. The reply from the tower was like someone stabbed me with an icicle. "Roger, NJ207, your wings are folded." Calm...matter of
fact. I shivered. Hoping I had misunderstood him, I answered, "My what is what?" There went cool, calm, and radio discipline, out the window...no call sign, no addressee, just panic. I looked into the rear view mirrors only to see the wing tip position lights sticking straight up into the air above the wing fold area. They must have folded up during the takeoff roll. Surely I had unfolded the wings. After all, I always unfold the wings...it's on the takeoff checklist! Just a flash of a thought raced through my mind; I tried to do the takeoff checklist, but those stupid lights were out! By now I doing 180 knots, and I eased off on the power. Nothing felt right, and the plane was still buffeting. I took my left hand from the throttle and reached down to take control of the stick; with my right hand I reached back on the far right console only to find the wing-fold handle sticking straight up, not stowed flush with the console as it should have been. "****!" I yelled to no
one.
Now I knew it was my fault that those wings were folded. I glanced into the rear view mirrors again. The wing tip position lights were now canted inward as the wings had continued to fold under the tremendous airloads. I later found out that the arm connecting the hydraulic cylinder to the wing fold mechanism had broken under the airloads allowing the wingtips to almost lay down upon the top of the main wing further reducing its lifting capability. The F8E had a 35' wing span and a fuselage about 6' wide. I had folded 12' (about 6' on each side), and now that 12' of folded wings was lying on top the remaining wing. I wondered what was keeping her in the air.
I asked for and received permission to turn right to avoid University City. I had not done so well on my first attempt without permission. This time I used more rudder and less aileron and managed to hit no more than 45 degrees of roll. My mind began to race...everything was in slow motion. I began recalling an article in APPROACH magazine in which Naval Aviation news was published each month. A featured article each month was Grandpa Pettibone who highlighted some Naval aviator's screw-up, what caused it, what was done about it, and what should have been done about it. The adrenaline was really pumping at this moment, and I was recalling verbatim an article written months earlier on some pilot who had taken off with his wings folded in an F8E. I remembered thinking "God, how could a guy do that?" Now I knew. I was recalling what Grandpa Pettibone had said. "Jumping Jehoshaphat! If them wings are folded and you're still flying, don't mess with 'em!" At that moment, those
words of advice were ringing in my ears.
About that time, George came up on tower frequency, and asked "Ron. This is George. How are you doing?" My answer was short and sweet, "It's still flying." He replied, "That a good sign." And we went on to discuss pattern speed (about 180 knots), approach speed (about 170 knots), and threshold speed (about 160 knots). Of course, everything depended on whether the plane continued to fly and if the aircraft felt like it wanted to stall at the lower airspeeds. Unspoken, but understood, was the old DFW (Don't F--- with) theory (If something's working o.k., don't turn a knob or flip a switch, just leave everything alone). We also discussed lowering the hook to assist in stopping the aircraft because of the faster approach speeds; additionally, I had the possibility of losing hydraulics due to possible damage to the wing fold mechanism. I didn't want to lower the hook because the extra expense of grinding down a hook point on the concrete runway might turn this incident into
an accident (Cost of repairs in an incident determined if it was to be upgraded to accident status). George reminded me that if I rolled off the side or the end of the runway, that it wasn't going to look good in the headwork department. I reluctantly agreed that I had already screwed up enough. I put down the hook. I didn't tell George, but I figured he was giving me good advice. Besides, letting him help me with the thinking relieved my stress load. During this affair, it had occurred to me that I had violated one of my cardinal rules never to remain with an aircraft that wasn't flying or was in serious trouble. Also it dawned on me that it had become a challenge to bring back the airplane in one piece since my DELTA
SIERRA (DUMB S--T to you non-pilots) headwork had caused this little incident that would be known within 24 hours by the entire Naval Aviation community. I was really concentrating on the flying characteristics of this aircraft as I slowed it down. I was reminding myself that if I had to get out, I would try to get the A/C upright before pulling the curtain on the ejection seat. At low altitude the seat (with me in it) could hit the ground before the automatic seat/man separation and parachute deployment could occur. The pucker factor was still with me.
Although the aircraft continued to buffet continuously, the approach was rather uneventful. The F8 had an especially long fuselage; that was the reason the wing was designed to go up and down thus bringing the fuselage closer to horizontal (less cocked up), for visibility, during landing ops. Due to the folded wing tips, the wing was effectively shortened by 12 feet, thus producing less lift. This forced me to hold the nose higher than normal during approach. This, combined with the long fuselage, made me think there was a good chance I would hit tail first if I didn't work out a plan. I decided to make a power on landing and just before touchdown, push the stick forward to bring the nose down and thus reduce the chance that the tail would hit first. If I could do this just inches above the ground, I would not give the aircraft a chance to set up an excessive sink rate. It worked! I felt relieved. After touchdown, I rolled into the arresting gear where the hook worked as
advertised. It caught the wire and the aircraft came quickly to a stop. The flight had taken only 7 minutes.
Field personnel came out and disengaged the hook from the arresting cable. I taxied to the ramp area and parked the aircraft where every one of the pilots and enlisted men who were not busy in the FMLP operations were waiting to find out if the wings had folded by themselves or if I had screwed up. They all had that look on their face that said "I'm glad it wasn't me!" The O.D. told me that he had called the Skipper (Commanding Officer, CDR. Paul Gilchrist) and he, the Skipper, wanted me to call him. The O.D. had called him the m oment he heard from the tower that I was in trouble and might have to eject. I felt betrayed and scared. I knew the Skipper would find out; hell, the Skipper found out everything! That was part of his job. But this soon...I wasn't prepared. I dialed the Skipper's number and he picked up on the first ring. "Skipper, this is Ron Lambe." He asked quickly and calmly, "Are you alright?" "Yes Sir," I replied. "And how is my airplane?" he continued.
"Well Sir, I got it back on the ground o.k., but the piano hinge on the top of the wing fold is bent and the arm on the wing fold mechanism is broken. Otherwise, she looks o.k." I answered trying my best not to make it sound any worse than it was. I braced myself for a good dose of ass-chewing; I was pretty new in the squadron and didn't really know the Skipper that well. My pucker factor was high...real high. But the Skipper surprised me by telling me to call my wife and tell her I was through flying for the night and I was on my way home. The call was just in case someone (i.e. news media) had heard what had happened and called my house looking for a story. Man, this guy was sharp; I wouldn't have thought of that. And then he said, "Ron, I'm glad you are alright. You just go home and get some sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning. Can you be in my office at 0800?" "Yes Sir," I answered. I then went to the locker room and changed from my flight suit into my kaki
uniform. I called Fran as I was instructed, keeping it simple, and headed home. She had been asleep and I could tell that she was puzzled that I had called since I would not call her under normal circumstances.
As I drove home to Poway located just 5 miles north of NAS Miramar, I began to recount what had happened and how lucky I had been. When I arrived home, I awakened my wife and told her everything that had occurred on my flight. As all good wives do, she listened intently and sympathetically although it was now about "Oh dark thirty." I was plenty wired and wasn't sleepy. I stared at the ceiling until about 0400 before I finally allowed sleep to rescue me from the worry of having to see the Skipper in the morning. Morning came quickly. Too quickly! I awoke with a start when the alarm went off at 0700. I took a quick shower while Fran fixed me a bite to eat. I didn't eat much though; I was antsy. I was out the door about 0740 for the 10 minute drive to Miramar. I did n't want to be late! Fran gave me a kiss and wished me luck. Scott was only three years old; he hugged me goodbye, and I wished I could trade places with him.
I knocked on the Skipper's door promptly at 0800. "LT. JG Lambe reporting as ordered," I announced. The skipper was waiting for me. "Come in, Ron," he answered. I marched in smartly in Military fashion and stood at attention in front of his desk staring out into space. Calmly he said, "sit down, Ron." In front and to the right of his desk, I sat in the good old military issue chair, steel frame with a torn, cheap leather seat.
"Get any sleep?" he asked.
"No Sir. I was kinda wound up."
"You want to tell me how this happened?"
He listened intently to my every word as I told him the sequence of events that led to my screw-up.
"Did you learn anything from last night's incident?
"Yes, Sir."
"And what was that?"
"I learned that you never take off without doing the takeoff checklist."
"Ron, what happened to you last night has happened before and it will happen again. (He was right; it did.) You were lucky this time, but you may not be so lucky again. You have learned a very valuable lesson that will serve you well in the future. You really got out cheap. And I'm really glad you're o.k. You are o.k. aren't you?
"Yes Sir."
"Good. That's all.".."Oh, Ron!"
"Yes, Sir."
"Do you feel like flying?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Then talk to the O.D. and see if he can spare an aircraft for you to fly."
"Yes, Sir"
I saluted, did an about face, and walked smartly out of his office; dumfounded. He was supposed to chew my ass out, wasn't he? Or was he? I thought to myself, "The Skipper is really an alright guy. I hope I can repay him for the decent treatment and the good advice by being a good officer while under his command." I did, in fact, do my best and didn't screw up again until that incident after being sick with the Hong Kong flu...but that's another story. CDR Gilchrist turned out to be the best skipper I had while I was in the Navy. After three months into the cruise, the Skipper was due for a change of orders; he was relieved by CDR. Harry Blake. CDR. Gilchrist went on to the pentagon, was promoted to the rank of Captain, made CAG (Commander Air Group), and a few years later he made Admiral. He really was... a great guy. By the way, CDR Harry Blake, about 11 months later, was the next, and last (that I know of) Naval aviator to takeoff the F-8 with the wings folded. And I
never let him forget it either!
As a footnote, I saw and spoke with Admiral Gilchrist near his home in California in about 1978. He had already written his books "Feet Wet" and "Crusader: Last of the Gunfighters"; He autographed my "Crusader...". I had already written this account of my experience. When I met with him, I let him read this account. He thanked me for the nice words I had written about him, and asked if he might keep the copy that he had read. I told him "Of course". Then I asked him, "Skipper, why didn't you chew my ass out for making such a stupid error?" He replied, "Ron, it would have served no good purpose. After your harrowing experience, you were the most careful, and the safest pilot, I had in my squadron."
You know, you just can't teach leadership like that
As part of NATOPS (NAVAL AVIATION TECHNICAL OPERATENG PROCEDURES), we were required to get a minimum number of FMLPs of which I needed five (5) more. Sometimes, we referred to these FMLPs as "bounces" because we landed, added full power, and leaped back into the air resembling a bounce. We were briefed by the LSO (Landing signal Officer). Each of the squadrons had one aviator who had been to LSO school. Our LSO was Lt. George Hise. George was sharp and a laidback kind of guy. After he lost his brother, Jim, a fellow VF-53 pilot on the previous cruise, he didn't see the need to waste any part of his life being worried about anything. During his briefing, he stressed the need for a tight pattern, and a close adherence to assigned pattern altitude. He also emphasized proper spacing so that the maximum number of FMLPs could be accomplished in the minimum amount of time.
Around 2000 we manned our aircraft, the F8E Crusader; of course, it was dark. That was the whole point of this flight, wneeded night FMLPs. Some squadrons would schedule their night FMLPs right after 1800, which according to the Navy rules at the time, would qualify as a night landing. However, we referred to those night landings when it was not totally dark, as "pinkies". Preflight and taxi out were uneventful. I was not the first pilot to get airborne, so as I sat in the cockpit awaiting takeoff, I was watching the lights of the aircraft making the FMLPs to get an idea of the interval between the aircraft and where my place in the pattern might be.
Like most of my fellow pilots, I was going to be as aggressive as possible with my technique entering the FMLP pattern. I thought it through quickly, I would leave the gear down and the wing up as I picked up about 170 knots after takeoff. Remember, this aircraft was the F8E with a wing that was raised and lowered at the leading edge and hinged at the trailing edge where it was attached to the fuselage (the flaps and slats deployed automatically when the wing was raised). I envisioned an aggressive pull up to about 30 degrees nose up while rolling the aircraft to about 60-75 degrees of roll so I could stop the rapid climb at pattern altitude. I knew that no one would see my performance this late at night, but I would have the satisfaction of knowing I had been very aggressive with the aircraft and yet safely performed the maneuver. I was cleared for takeoff. I began my takeoff roll with basic engine thrust (without afterburner) because of the light load of fuel. Just
after rotation at 131 knots, I began the planned steep climbing turn to join my fellow pilots in the downwind pattern. At approximately 150' above the ground, I experienced a total electrical failure. There was not one single light illuminated in the cockpit. As per the NATOPS emergency procedures, I found the RAT (Ram Air Turbine) handle and pulled it. This released a small propeller driven generator designed to give basic lighting and electrical power to the instruments and radio. As I waited for the RAT to come up to speed and thus begin supplying electrical power, I began recovering from the unusual attitude I was in at the time electrical failure occurred. Remember that I had been performing a "Sierra Hotel" (**** Hot - a term common among Naval Aviators) maneuver. For the next few seconds I was real busy trying to get some bearings from the outside world because I could see nothing in the cockpit... Nothing! I was in total darkness. Not a single light ever appeared.
I kept thinking, "That RAT should be up to speed by now!" I later found out that the generator was ok, but I had blown some fuses - cause unknown. I had my flashlight, but I was using both hands to fly. I was so preoccupied with getting the aircraft under control and not getting too slow, I found myself fast and about to run up the tailpipe of the F8E ahead of me. As I pulled off power and swung wide to avoid a midair collision, I thought -- "what better substitute for my instruments than that aircraft. I'll fly his wing right down to touchdown." In normal situations a pilot would never join on another aircraft without letting the other pilot know. Then the lead pilot would make all his maneuvers and decisions allowing for the wingman, but this situation was not normal! Once the decision was made, my pucker factor decreased to about 20% (based on the premise that with a 100% pucker factor, a pilot could bite a "doughnut" out of his seat cushion with his anus).
I rendezvoused with the F8E just as the pilot began his turn off the "180" (The "180" was the position about 1 mile abeam the intended landing point headed in the opposite direction from the active runway heading). As he turned his aircraft away from me, it made my job of rendezvousing (undiscovered) easier because the pilot was looking at the runway so as to adjust his turn to rollout in the "groove". The groove was an imaginary point short of the runway where the centerline and a 3 degree glideslope were one and the same. I wanted to rendezvous undetected and remain undetected because the discovery of an aircraft only 10 to 20 feet away might cause the unsuspecting pilot to perform some violent maneuver thinking that he was about to have a midair collision. I was careful to rendezvous from below and to the right...opposite from where the other pilot had his attention focused. I was also careful not to get too close because, with experience, a pilot can tell when the
airflow over his aircraft is being disturbed by another aircraft flying too closely.
As he made our approach, I was desperately trying to watch his aircraft with one eye and watch the runway with the other. I wanted to be sure that the pilot was heading where I wanted to go, and more importantly, he was not flying below the glidepath where I might hit the ground before him since I was flying behind and below his aircraft. Finally, about 1/2 mile from the runway I saw the "ball" and knew that, so far, all was well. The "ball" of course was the bright ball of light on the fresnel lens that gives carrier pilots their glideslope reference during approaches to the carriers. I was feeling more comfortable now because I could see the runway, the ball, and my unsuspecting leader. This meant I could safely land my airplane and not hit anyone else since the next aircraft would be at least a mile behind us. My landing was uneventful and I rolled all the way to the end of the 8000' runway. I set the parking brake and waited for someone to come get me in a " Follow
Me" truck so I would be under the positive control of the tower while crossing the parallel and active runway. (The "follow me truck" always had direct radio communications with the tower.) I later found out that the LSO had called the tower and notified the controller that a "dark aircraft" had landed.
I waited for what seemed like an eternity, but no one came. There was not one single flashing red light on the entire airfield. I figured no one knew I was there. I was becoming worried that if the next aircraft that landed came to a full stop, he might roll to the end and hit my aircraft since we normally did not use a taxi or landing light, and my aircraft was unlit due to the electrical failure. The more I thought about it, the more I thought "I'm a sitting duck." I thought the Commanding Officer would, at the very least, accuse me of using poor headwork should I sit there and get hit. So, I made the decision to cross the parallel (and active) runway without clearance from the tower.
I watched the aircraft land on the active runway for a few minutes so I could get a feel for the traffic rhythm. Then I bolted across the runway just behind an aircraft on landing rollout, and no one knew, or cared, at that point because I had successfully made it.
But I was having a difficult time taxiing the plane; the nose gear steering relied on electrical power through a switch on the stick; it controlled the hydraulic piston that turned the nose gear in unison with the rudder pedals. Using differential braking, I began my taxi to the fuel pits since normal procedure was to refuel the aircraft on the taxi in and before we parked the aircraft. It was a known fact that a full fuel tank was much less a fire hazard than one not full due to a lack of air/fumes in the tank. The standard procedure was to fold the wings so that the aircraft would fit into the narrow lanes between the different fueling stations. Another reason for folding the wings during refueling was that a pressure relief or vent valve (located in the wing fold area) could be checked by verifying that air was escaping through the vent during refueling.
Of course, I arrived at the fuel pits unannounced and unexpected. The fueling personnel had some difficulty directing my aircraft which, without lights, they could not see very well. But finally, after some squinting and misdirection, I was parked and chocked in the pit, engine still running. One of the enlisted men climbed up to the cockpit, and over the engine noise he began to yell at me. He relayed to me that I was to get this aircraft fixed. Then I was to return to the FMLP pattern for the required number of FMLPs. Heaven forbid that I should be short one of those stupid FMLPs! With me in the cockpit, the engine running, wheels chocked, and the wings folded, an electrician's mate crawled up the side of the aircraft and began looking for solutions to my electrical problem in the bottom of the cockpit. He was literally on his head between my legs wrestling with the stick, cursing, and reaching for the fuses/circuit breakers. Several times he nearly kicked me in the
face as he struggled for the proper position. I imagine from a distance he rather looked as if he were being eaten by the cockpit with only his gyrating legs sticking out. After about 10 minutes of having this mechanic in my tiny cockpit with his butt in my face, he was able to restore partial electrical power to my aircraft by resetting some circuit breakers. I now had my radio, and five cockpit instrument lights i.e. attitude gyro, altimeter, vertical speed indicator, airspeed indicator, and clock.
Now that I had a working radio, I called the O.D. (Officer of the Day) LTJG Bob Gerhardt on our squadron frequency. I told him what had happened and that I was going home as soon as I could park this poor excuse for an airplane. Not so! The O.D. informed me that I had not fulfilled my requirement for the five remaining "bounces". No! I argued that I was tired, it was nearly midnight, and I was through. Mentally, I was already on my way home to my wife, Fran, and my son, Scott. However, the O.D. had spoken with the Operations Officer and I had to get those "bounces". However, he conceded that I could wait for another aircraft to return from the FMLP pattern in about an hour. I cursed under my breath that the Navy "sucked." I questioned my sanity for ever joining the NROTC in college. But I knew that if it were not for the NROTC scholarship I received at the University of North Carolina I would have been unable to attend college, and thus, I would probably be working in
some filling station in my hometown of Myrtle Beach, S.C. Eventually, I gave in -- disobeying a direct order was not going to help my career. I told the O.D. that I would take this aircraft and get the five bounces; I didn't want to wait; I wanted to get this over with. I thought, "If the electrical failure occurs again, I can handle it." After all, I did get this sick puppy back on the ground safely the last time, didn't I?
As I taxied out to runway 24, I was in a hurry, pissed off that all this had happened to me, and thought about the fact that we only had a few days left before we would ship out for the Far East -- I should be home snuggled against my wife, Fran, asleep, or better yet... Anyway, I'd be home soon... Real soon!
The distance from the fuel pits to the takeoff end of runway 24 at Miramar normally takes about 2 minutes. I probably cut that time tin half. As I approached the "hold short" area, the tower called to ask if I was on frequency and was I ready for an immediate takeoff. I re plied, "Yes!" out of habit. Hell, I was ready to get this all over with. My habit pattern was to do the takeoff checklist at this point. The tower called back with a clearance to make an immediate takeoff because there was an aircraft on final two miles out. I added some power, began closing the canopy, and looked down to the takeoff check list. Damn lights! I couldn't see a thing! I struggled with the canopy...the wind was getting caught under it and I had to really get up in the seat to get some leverage. It locked! I added some more power. I tried to remember what was on the checklist. Normally, I would read the little takeoff checklist placard located on the lower right hand side of the instrument
panel; but without lights, I couldn't. I had better stop and get my flashlight out. No...it was too late! I was on the runway now! That aircraft on short final would be landing soon.
I added more power and desperately tried to remember the takeoff check list. I'm doing 80 knots now. I brought the power up to 100%. Oh yes! Canopy closed and locked. Check. Wing up. Check. Scan the instruments...they looked o.k. 100 knots speed and increasing rapidly. Oh, what the hell! I did that checklist about 30 minutes earlier on the previous flight. What could have changed? 120 knots...I had better start flying the plane. I'll worry about that check list later.
At 130 knots, I relaxed the forward pressure I had held on the stick to keep the nose from bouncing during the take off roll. But before I could put any back pressure on the stick for rotation, the plane leaped into the air with the nose rising rapidly. Using the trim button on the stick, I put in nose down trim and lots of nose down stick. I stopped the nose at about 15 degrees nose up and began lowering it to about 7-8 degrees above the horizon. The whole aircraft was buffeting. What's the hell is wrong? Jesus! I might have to get out of this thing! I know that damn Martin Baker seat will break my back. At the very least it will crush a vertebra. For the second time in less than an hour my pucker factor was approaching the 90% range. Two emergencies in a row! I'm less than l00' into the air and things aren't getting any better. University City is straight ahead...lot's of homes...better turn to the right...Jesus! I put in a little right aileron and the aircraft did a
snap roll! I'm inverted! I can't eject! Left rudder and left aileron! I'm coming back to the left too fast! I overshoot wings level badly. I flew better that this on my first flying lesson in a Piper Cherokee. What the hell is going on? After a couple of oscillations I finally settled down to some semblance of wings level flight. "Miramar tower, this is NJ207. I have some serious control problems. I may have to get out." Boy! I was surprised how calm I sounded! I thought I was pretty dammed cool, considering that inverted business seconds ago. But then this wasn't my fault! And, besides, should I elect to eject, the Navy could well afford to buy another airplane cheaper than replace me. We, as Naval aviators, had been told since pre-flight in Pensacola, Florida, that it was cheaper for the Navy to buy another aircraft than to train another pilot. The reply from the tower was like someone stabbed me with an icicle. "Roger, NJ207, your wings are folded." Calm...matter of
fact. I shivered. Hoping I had misunderstood him, I answered, "My what is what?" There went cool, calm, and radio discipline, out the window...no call sign, no addressee, just panic. I looked into the rear view mirrors only to see the wing tip position lights sticking straight up into the air above the wing fold area. They must have folded up during the takeoff roll. Surely I had unfolded the wings. After all, I always unfold the wings...it's on the takeoff checklist! Just a flash of a thought raced through my mind; I tried to do the takeoff checklist, but those stupid lights were out! By now I doing 180 knots, and I eased off on the power. Nothing felt right, and the plane was still buffeting. I took my left hand from the throttle and reached down to take control of the stick; with my right hand I reached back on the far right console only to find the wing-fold handle sticking straight up, not stowed flush with the console as it should have been. "****!" I yelled to no
one.
Now I knew it was my fault that those wings were folded. I glanced into the rear view mirrors again. The wing tip position lights were now canted inward as the wings had continued to fold under the tremendous airloads. I later found out that the arm connecting the hydraulic cylinder to the wing fold mechanism had broken under the airloads allowing the wingtips to almost lay down upon the top of the main wing further reducing its lifting capability. The F8E had a 35' wing span and a fuselage about 6' wide. I had folded 12' (about 6' on each side), and now that 12' of folded wings was lying on top the remaining wing. I wondered what was keeping her in the air.
I asked for and received permission to turn right to avoid University City. I had not done so well on my first attempt without permission. This time I used more rudder and less aileron and managed to hit no more than 45 degrees of roll. My mind began to race...everything was in slow motion. I began recalling an article in APPROACH magazine in which Naval Aviation news was published each month. A featured article each month was Grandpa Pettibone who highlighted some Naval aviator's screw-up, what caused it, what was done about it, and what should have been done about it. The adrenaline was really pumping at this moment, and I was recalling verbatim an article written months earlier on some pilot who had taken off with his wings folded in an F8E. I remembered thinking "God, how could a guy do that?" Now I knew. I was recalling what Grandpa Pettibone had said. "Jumping Jehoshaphat! If them wings are folded and you're still flying, don't mess with 'em!" At that moment, those
words of advice were ringing in my ears.
About that time, George came up on tower frequency, and asked "Ron. This is George. How are you doing?" My answer was short and sweet, "It's still flying." He replied, "That a good sign." And we went on to discuss pattern speed (about 180 knots), approach speed (about 170 knots), and threshold speed (about 160 knots). Of course, everything depended on whether the plane continued to fly and if the aircraft felt like it wanted to stall at the lower airspeeds. Unspoken, but understood, was the old DFW (Don't F--- with) theory (If something's working o.k., don't turn a knob or flip a switch, just leave everything alone). We also discussed lowering the hook to assist in stopping the aircraft because of the faster approach speeds; additionally, I had the possibility of losing hydraulics due to possible damage to the wing fold mechanism. I didn't want to lower the hook because the extra expense of grinding down a hook point on the concrete runway might turn this incident into
an accident (Cost of repairs in an incident determined if it was to be upgraded to accident status). George reminded me that if I rolled off the side or the end of the runway, that it wasn't going to look good in the headwork department. I reluctantly agreed that I had already screwed up enough. I put down the hook. I didn't tell George, but I figured he was giving me good advice. Besides, letting him help me with the thinking relieved my stress load. During this affair, it had occurred to me that I had violated one of my cardinal rules never to remain with an aircraft that wasn't flying or was in serious trouble. Also it dawned on me that it had become a challenge to bring back the airplane in one piece since my DELTA
SIERRA (DUMB S--T to you non-pilots) headwork had caused this little incident that would be known within 24 hours by the entire Naval Aviation community. I was really concentrating on the flying characteristics of this aircraft as I slowed it down. I was reminding myself that if I had to get out, I would try to get the A/C upright before pulling the curtain on the ejection seat. At low altitude the seat (with me in it) could hit the ground before the automatic seat/man separation and parachute deployment could occur. The pucker factor was still with me.
Although the aircraft continued to buffet continuously, the approach was rather uneventful. The F8 had an especially long fuselage; that was the reason the wing was designed to go up and down thus bringing the fuselage closer to horizontal (less cocked up), for visibility, during landing ops. Due to the folded wing tips, the wing was effectively shortened by 12 feet, thus producing less lift. This forced me to hold the nose higher than normal during approach. This, combined with the long fuselage, made me think there was a good chance I would hit tail first if I didn't work out a plan. I decided to make a power on landing and just before touchdown, push the stick forward to bring the nose down and thus reduce the chance that the tail would hit first. If I could do this just inches above the ground, I would not give the aircraft a chance to set up an excessive sink rate. It worked! I felt relieved. After touchdown, I rolled into the arresting gear where the hook worked as
advertised. It caught the wire and the aircraft came quickly to a stop. The flight had taken only 7 minutes.
Field personnel came out and disengaged the hook from the arresting cable. I taxied to the ramp area and parked the aircraft where every one of the pilots and enlisted men who were not busy in the FMLP operations were waiting to find out if the wings had folded by themselves or if I had screwed up. They all had that look on their face that said "I'm glad it wasn't me!" The O.D. told me that he had called the Skipper (Commanding Officer, CDR. Paul Gilchrist) and he, the Skipper, wanted me to call him. The O.D. had called him the m oment he heard from the tower that I was in trouble and might have to eject. I felt betrayed and scared. I knew the Skipper would find out; hell, the Skipper found out everything! That was part of his job. But this soon...I wasn't prepared. I dialed the Skipper's number and he picked up on the first ring. "Skipper, this is Ron Lambe." He asked quickly and calmly, "Are you alright?" "Yes Sir," I replied. "And how is my airplane?" he continued.
"Well Sir, I got it back on the ground o.k., but the piano hinge on the top of the wing fold is bent and the arm on the wing fold mechanism is broken. Otherwise, she looks o.k." I answered trying my best not to make it sound any worse than it was. I braced myself for a good dose of ass-chewing; I was pretty new in the squadron and didn't really know the Skipper that well. My pucker factor was high...real high. But the Skipper surprised me by telling me to call my wife and tell her I was through flying for the night and I was on my way home. The call was just in case someone (i.e. news media) had heard what had happened and called my house looking for a story. Man, this guy was sharp; I wouldn't have thought of that. And then he said, "Ron, I'm glad you are alright. You just go home and get some sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning. Can you be in my office at 0800?" "Yes Sir," I answered. I then went to the locker room and changed from my flight suit into my kaki
uniform. I called Fran as I was instructed, keeping it simple, and headed home. She had been asleep and I could tell that she was puzzled that I had called since I would not call her under normal circumstances.
As I drove home to Poway located just 5 miles north of NAS Miramar, I began to recount what had happened and how lucky I had been. When I arrived home, I awakened my wife and told her everything that had occurred on my flight. As all good wives do, she listened intently and sympathetically although it was now about "Oh dark thirty." I was plenty wired and wasn't sleepy. I stared at the ceiling until about 0400 before I finally allowed sleep to rescue me from the worry of having to see the Skipper in the morning. Morning came quickly. Too quickly! I awoke with a start when the alarm went off at 0700. I took a quick shower while Fran fixed me a bite to eat. I didn't eat much though; I was antsy. I was out the door about 0740 for the 10 minute drive to Miramar. I did n't want to be late! Fran gave me a kiss and wished me luck. Scott was only three years old; he hugged me goodbye, and I wished I could trade places with him.
I knocked on the Skipper's door promptly at 0800. "LT. JG Lambe reporting as ordered," I announced. The skipper was waiting for me. "Come in, Ron," he answered. I marched in smartly in Military fashion and stood at attention in front of his desk staring out into space. Calmly he said, "sit down, Ron." In front and to the right of his desk, I sat in the good old military issue chair, steel frame with a torn, cheap leather seat.
"Get any sleep?" he asked.
"No Sir. I was kinda wound up."
"You want to tell me how this happened?"
He listened intently to my every word as I told him the sequence of events that led to my screw-up.
"Did you learn anything from last night's incident?
"Yes, Sir."
"And what was that?"
"I learned that you never take off without doing the takeoff checklist."
"Ron, what happened to you last night has happened before and it will happen again. (He was right; it did.) You were lucky this time, but you may not be so lucky again. You have learned a very valuable lesson that will serve you well in the future. You really got out cheap. And I'm really glad you're o.k. You are o.k. aren't you?
"Yes Sir."
"Good. That's all.".."Oh, Ron!"
"Yes, Sir."
"Do you feel like flying?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Then talk to the O.D. and see if he can spare an aircraft for you to fly."
"Yes, Sir"
I saluted, did an about face, and walked smartly out of his office; dumfounded. He was supposed to chew my ass out, wasn't he? Or was he? I thought to myself, "The Skipper is really an alright guy. I hope I can repay him for the decent treatment and the good advice by being a good officer while under his command." I did, in fact, do my best and didn't screw up again until that incident after being sick with the Hong Kong flu...but that's another story. CDR Gilchrist turned out to be the best skipper I had while I was in the Navy. After three months into the cruise, the Skipper was due for a change of orders; he was relieved by CDR. Harry Blake. CDR. Gilchrist went on to the pentagon, was promoted to the rank of Captain, made CAG (Commander Air Group), and a few years later he made Admiral. He really was... a great guy. By the way, CDR Harry Blake, about 11 months later, was the next, and last (that I know of) Naval aviator to takeoff the F-8 with the wings folded. And I
never let him forget it either!
As a footnote, I saw and spoke with Admiral Gilchrist near his home in California in about 1978. He had already written his books "Feet Wet" and "Crusader: Last of the Gunfighters"; He autographed my "Crusader...". I had already written this account of my experience. When I met with him, I let him read this account. He thanked me for the nice words I had written about him, and asked if he might keep the copy that he had read. I told him "Of course". Then I asked him, "Skipper, why didn't you chew my ass out for making such a stupid error?" He replied, "Ron, it would have served no good purpose. After your harrowing experience, you were the most careful, and the safest pilot, I had in my squadron."
You know, you just can't teach leadership like that
) story is farfetched ... no one is going to "make" someone go back up with a sh!tty aircraft @ night after a complete electical failure -- certainly not the same bird. "I now had my radio, and five cockpit instrument lights i.e. attitude gyro, altimeter, vertical speed indicator, airspeed indicator, and clock....".... No exterior lights ??? And you're going to go back into the pattern??? I don't think so .... 
