I recently attended a reunion of the pilots with whom I learned to fly A-7s…This story is about an ejection that happened to my classmate Ltjg Greg “X” Hale during our carrier qualification landings on the USS Lexington (CVT-16).

In the late 1970s, the training pipeline for Navy carrier jet pilots required successful completion of carrier landings three times before you were finally assigned to an operational squadron. First:  at the end of Basic Jet training in the T-2C Buckeye; second:  at the end of Advanced Jet training in the TA‑4J Skyhawk; and finally, in your assigned carrier-based fleet aircraft (like the A-7E shown doing a “hook-up” touch-and-go).

If you didn’t master this skill, you couldn’t fly for the Navy. Nor could you switch to another flight training pipeline to fly either helicopters or fixed-wing turboprops like the E-2C Hawkeye Airborne Early Warning aircraft. The only exception was the very rare case of developing a physical limitation that prevented you from flying with an ejection seat but did not otherwise inhibit your flying.

If that seems harsh, bear in mind that the risks and costs of failure are very high. Even if the pilot does everything perfectly, there is a long list of mistakes beyond the pilot’s control that could still cause a crash and loss of the aircraft and its pilot. This is a story about one of those mistakes – one that almost cost a new A-7 driver his life.

My class of 16 was training to fly the A-7E Corsair II. Our training squadron for the six-month syllabus was the VA-174 “Hellrazors” – the East Coast A‑7 Fleet Replacement Squadron (based at Cecil Field Naval Air Station in Jacksonville, Florida). The squadron CO was Capt. Naughton, an attack pilot and former Vietnam POW. The “Hellrazors” job was to ensure we were ready to join an operational East Coast A-7 squadron assigned to one of the half dozen or so Carrier Air Wings – one Air Wing per aircraft carrier. Each Air Wing at the time had two A-7 squadrons.

My classmates and I weren’t thinking much about international politics. It was peacetime. The biggest problem on the horizon was the post-Shah Iranian revolution and the American hostages, but President Reagan had been elected in November, so everyone was hopeful of an imminent change in the status quo.

We were learning to fly the A-7, a jet that had been operational since the mid-1960s. We knew it was getting long in the tooth, but to us it was a major upgrade from the training jets we’d been flying. Sure, it was underpowered and less nimble than the Skyhawk, but its armament, inertial navigation system, moving map display, Heads-up Display, and weapons delivery computers made you feel like you were flying a seriously lethal aircraft compared to those jet trainers.

It was an effective tool for “breaking things” in the right hands – the enemy’s things, ideally! With the proper training, you could accurately deliver a wide range of unguided (“dumb”) bombs on targets that were visible to the naked eye. It wasn’t designed for attacks at night or in bad weather (like the A-6 Intruder), but its range, payload, and delivery accuracy made it a good replacement for the Skyhawk.

By late November 1980, my class had completed all but our carrier-qualification phase. It was time to “hit the boat.” The USS Lexington (CV16) would provide the training. Its home port was Pensacola, FL, and the “Hellrazors” had sent a full detachment of instructors, my classmates, and maintenance folks to work temporarily from the Naval Air station there.

The venerable Lexington (“Blue Ghost”) was on its second recommissioning (hence my use of the term “venerable”). This most recent USS Lexington (CVT-16) was built as an Essex class aircraft carrier and completed in Feb. 1943 in the Fore River Shipyard in Quincy, MA. Originally to be named USS Cabot, the shipyard workers petitioned to change its name to Lexington when the original USS Lexington (CV-2) was sunk in the Battle of the Coral Sea in May 1942.

So, launched in 1943, the Lex served until 1947, when she was decommissioned and joined the National Defense Reserve Fleet at Bremerton, WA. She was pulled out of retirement and recommissioned one last time in 1955 with modifications that included a new angled flight deck and steam catapults to accommodate the newest jet aircraft. She served as an active Fleet carrier all over the world until 1969, when she was moved to Pensacola to spend the next 30 years as the primary training carrier for Naval aviators. The “Blue Ghost’s” final decommissioning was November 8, 1991. (This Wiki article describes her operational history from 1955 to 1969.)

The Lexington grossed about 27K tons compared to 60K tons for a Forrestal-class carrier like the USS Independence (CV-62) (my first ship). Its catapults were an older style that produced a more violent catapult launch than the next generation of catapults, especially for a jet like the A-7 that needed a 200-mph launch airspeed at the end of the catapult stroke! Though designed to handle all the current Navy carrier jets in 1955, by the ’80s, some of the newer fleet jets were too heavy. For example, it couldn’t handle the F-14 Tomcat due to its wingspan and weight.

The Corsair II was widely acknowledged as one of the more difficult planes to land on a carrier due to its underwhelming power and sluggish throttle response. By “sluggish,” I mean “slow to respond.” If you made too large a power correction at any point in the landing pattern, the engine might not respond quickly enough with your counter-correction to keep you from going too low or too high for a safe landing.

The weather wasn’t the greatest that day in the Gulf of Mexico, about 100 nautical miles south of Pensacola. The cloud cover was solid at about 1,000 feet and included a constant drizzle. The weather wasn’t good enough for student aviators flying the T2 Buckeye or TA-4 Skyhawk, so the only ones flying were the A-7s.

The seas were calm – no wind – so the Lex was making its own wind – steaming at close to 25 knots for sufficient “wind-over-the-deck” for safe landings. This produced a slight crosswind which added to the challenge of maintaining alignment on the landing area centerline during the final part of the approach.

With an overcast, the process was to launch off the catapult into the landing pattern (600-feet AGL) with hooks and landing gear down. Then you’d go around and around getting your required landings and catapult shots, all while flying beneath the overcast. The Lexington couldn’t return to port until everyone was fully qualified, so there was always pressure to complete the operations.

The morning landings went smoothly. Our classmate Ltjg “Fast” Layne Smith had successfully completed his landings and been told to hot-swap with Ltjg Greg “X” Hale. Meanwhile, Ensign Pat Paris was en route from the beach to begin his landings.

“Fast” parked the jet and waited while the deck crew set the wheel chocks and chained the aircraft down to refuel it. “Fast” had SAFE’d the ejection seat and cleaned up the cockpit (switches, etc.) when ”X” arrived and signaled he was ready to mount up.

After “Fast” climbed down (and left the flight deck headed for the LSO platform where he would be monitoring the landings), “X” climbed into the seat and strapped in (two buckles at shoulders for parachute; two buckles at his waist connecting him to the seat) with help from the plane captain. This was a critical step.

“X” completed his post-start and prelaunch checklists, taxied to the catapult, and launched into the landing pattern. Ensign Pat Paris arrived in the pattern at the same time, so there were now two A‑7s flying the oval landing pattern. They’d been instructed to drop their hooks (tail hook extended) in anticipation that every landing would be a full-stop.

Meanwhile, the deck crew began replacing the #2 wire; the second from the stern. The portion of the arresting cable that crosses the landing area is called the cross-deck-cable (or pennant). These sections of cable must be replaced after so many “hits” by tail hooks. The deck was slippery from oil leaks, jet fuel, and rain. They were using a tow-tractor (used to move aircraft) to pull out and extend the arresting gear cable into a position where it could be replaced. The tow tractor was having trouble getting traction, so they asked the arresting gear operator to adjust the resistance to the lowest value. He did and they finally replaced the wire.

The LSOs adjust the visual glideslope indicator (“meatball”) so that a perfectly-flown landing causes the aircraft to touch down just in front of the 3^rd wire (from the stern). If all works properly, the tail hook picks up the #3 wire and the associated arresting gear engine slows the aircraft quickly to a stop.

On all carrier landings, the pilot goes to full throttle upon touchdown so that if the tail hook fails to catch a wire, the aircraft remains at flying speed and can resume flying at the end of the landing area. This missed trap is called a “Bolter,” and when one occurs, the LSO confirms it with a radio call to the pilot, “Bolter-bolter!”

“X” and Ensign Paris made several practice passes while the deck crew continued to struggle with the #2 wire. Each time “X” and Ensign Paris rolled into the groove, they were waved-off (flashing red lights = “don’t land!”). This happened several times until finally, just as “X” approached the 90 again (base leg in a civilian landing pattern), the LSO radioed, “At the 90, keep it coming. I think we can get you this time.”

“X” rolled into the groove. He was “flying the ball” to maintain his proper glideslope and confirmed that he now had green lights – cleared to land. He landed just shy of the #2 wire and went to full power on touchdown, as usual. The jet began to decelerate, but in less time than it takes to read this sentence, everything went south. The end of the landing area was coming up way too fast, and he still had almost 60 knots airspeed! Then the arresting gear reached its full extension with a violent jolt, and the bolt holding the tail hook to the A-7 broke, releasing the A‑7 to accelerate at full thrust down the flight deck.

“X” was thrown back into his seat with the sudden acceleration and quickly realized that:  1) he was going too fast to stop before the end of the flight deck, and 2) the A‑7 was too slow to get airborne when it left the flight deck. He was headed for a swim! His training took over. Without pausing, he immediately pulled the stick full back with his right hand – hoping this would help keep the nose up – and pulled the lower ejection handle with everything his left hand could muster. During the 0.4-second delay between the pull of the ejection handle and the firing of the seat rocket motor, he watched the edge of the flight deck pass under his nose and heard the Air Boss on the radio yelling “Eject! Eject!” “X” remembers thinking, “I already have!”

The A-7 ejection seat goes through the canopy. Two hard-points on the top of the seat fracture the plexiglass as the seat goes up the rails. The seat worked as advertised, including the parachute opening and seat falling clear. “X” was still facing the bow as the chute opened, and after two swings, he landed back on the flight deck as his jet hit the water. He landed on his feet but immediately fell backward onto to the wet steel deck, pulled by the wind-filled parachute which began dragging him towards the stern and side.

It was a rough drag down the flight deck. “X” was rolled over onto his stomach and saw the #4 cable coming at him. He grabbed for it but couldn’t quite hold it. Did I mention that these cables are greased? It was also wet. Then he hit the raised sheave on the #3 wire and was bounced into the air by the impact!

“X” saw that he was now headed for the old gun mount just forward of the LSO platform and more than a dozen feet below the flight deck level! The gun was long gone but the tub was all steel and hard, sharp edges – not the greatest landing spot!

The ship’s wake looked even less hospitable. If “X’s” parachute became entangled in the ship’s propellers, he was dead. So he rolled into a ball with his arms up over his face, aiming for the gun mount. Just then, his parachute caught the LSO blast shield. “X” dropped into the gun tub and slammed into the back wall hitting helmet-first, and passed out.

When “X’s” parachute caught on the LSO blast shield, the LSOs grabbed and collapsed it. “Fast” Layne Smith was the first one into the gun mount, where he found “X” face-down against the wall with blood everywhere. “Fast” rolled “X” onto his back and released the two parachute fittings. “X’s” helmet visor had shattered when he hit the wall. There was a gash on his eyebrow where the edge of the helmet had hit, and another on his nose from the visor. “Fast” carefully raised the remains of “X’s” helmet visor. Then “X” opened his eyes.

The first thing “X” remembers was being rolled over and squinting up into the sunlight and seeing it glint off “Fast’s” slightly balding pate and seeing “Fast’s” wide-eyed concern. With relief, he declared “Fast! – am I glad to see your ugly face!” Our LSO Lt. “Hogues” Hogan jumped down and asked “X” whether he was OK. “X” responded “Well, it feels like my arm’s broken, so I guess I won’t be qualifying today.”

The corpsman arrived and strapped “X” to a bodyboard for the trip to the sick bay. This wasn’t exactly how “X” had expected his day to go, but the LSOs assured him that he’d get another chance. The fault hadn’t been his. In fact, his hadn’t been “a bad landing.”

In Part 2, I cover “X’s” recovery and subsequent career along with those of “Fast” and our other classmate in the landing pattern, Ensign Pat Paris. Apparently, the Air Boss’s call to “Eject! Eject!” almost produced two ejections that day!

Published in Military