What Do They Raise In Arizona, Doc?

“That guy can really land the airplane.” 
 

Midway through the Navy initial flight training syllabus at NAS Whiting Field I was “that guy,” and about as cocky as a man can get. When I overheard the runway duty officer (RDO) on the radio complimenting my touch-and-goes at the outlying field in the Florida panhandle, the exhilaration of the flying phase of my student naval flight surgeon program reached its peak. To be singled out as an “ace” by the guys who do it for real, well…priceless.

Pride goeth...  I wrote that here last month. 

I’m older and wiser now than in the spring of 1992, when much of my world revolved around the next flight, the next takeoff, the next landing, the next debrief; and ultimately the first solo flight in that most fun airplane, the T-34C Mentor. For a recycled middle-aged ER doc, my life was hot stuff.

“Do one more and then head back,” said my on-wing flight instructor from the back seat. He hadn’t spoken much during the seven prior touch-and-go landings, and I’d almost forgotten that he was in the airplane; more like a sack of potatoes in the rear than a veteran pilot mentoring the s**t-hot doc pilot in the front seat.

The single engine turboprop aircraft accelerated under full power to traffic pattern altitude, whereupon I cranked it into a 45-degree angle of bank turn per the standard Navy racetrack landing pattern.

Diagram from www.tpub.com

 

In my head I recited the mnemonic for the landing procedure: Flop, chop, check, drop.

1) Flop. Roll into a steep bank 180 degree turn.

2) Chop. Retard the throttle to landing pattern power setting.

3) Check. Monitor the airspeed bleed-down into the safe zone for lowering the gear and flaps.

4) Drop. Extend the landing gear and deploy the flaps, further slowing the aircraft to pattern standards. 

I executed a precise roll-out at 180 degrees of turn, and completed the landing checklist on my downwind leg parallel to the runway. At the abeam point, I flopped into another steep bank turn and set the throttle for the final approach. Past the 90 degree point, losing exactly the right amount of altitude, I rolled out to straight and level flight to see the runway in front of me. Then it was a simple matter of controlling airspeed with pitch, and altitude with power until I arrived over the runway threshhold, chopped the remaining power, and allowed the airplane to settle gently onto the asphalt.

He shoots, he scores! Touchdown! Grand Slam! (So what if it’s a mixed metaphor? This is flying, man!)

As soon as the tires kissed the pavement, I pushed the throttle full forward, gently eased back the stick, and lifted the airplane back into the air.

“Nice job,” the instructor said. “Let’s go home.”

I continued on the upwind to departure altitude, and then started a turn back toward Whiting Field. The airplane didn’t accelerate like I’d expected, but it was late June — hot and humid. Just the density altitude, I thought. (Airplanes don’t perform well on a hot, humid day when the atmosphere is similar to thinner air at higher altitudes.) My self-aggrandizing cockiness ignored a deep inner voice: Might be density altitude effect in a normally aspirated piston-engine single like your old 172, but in a turboprop? Think again, Hot Shot.

I leveled off at the prescribed cruise altitude. To maintain the desired airspeed, the engine required more throttle than usual. I still thought it was density altitude. Like flying back in Arizona, density altitude can sure diminish an aircraft’s performance.

Then I heard the instructor’s voice in my headset. “Hey, Doc. Where are you from?”

“Arizona,” I said. He must be thinking about density altitude as well.

“What do they raise in Arizona, Doc?”

“Cattle,” I said in a proud voice. I came from a ranching family.

“Do they raise anything else in Arizona, Doc?”

I thought for a moment. “Crops,” I said. “Cotton, citrus, that sort of thing.”

“What else do they raise in Arizona, Doc?”

“We have copper mines,” I said. “Tourism is big.”

“Do they raise anything else?”

I was at a loss. “Pretty much it,” I said.

“How about the landing gear?”

I shifted my gaze to the landing gear handle. Sure enough, it perched in the “down and locked” position from landing. Chagrined, I jerked it up, and felt the landing gear raise. The aircraft performance zipped up as well. No longer flying “dirty,” and relieved of the excess drag from the extended landing gear, it purred along like a contented cat. We completed the return to Whiting Field in silence. That landing approach may have been less than perfect. 

There was no density altitude problem in the aircraft that day. Just a dense student naval flight surgeon who still had a lot to learn — about flying, and about life.

For Bob, Once More

I'm putting money on the table to support military families, and I hope my friends will join me.

A few years ago, the nation lost an outstanding naval officer and emergency physician to a tragic accident. I had huge respect for Commander Bob Goodwin as a professional colleague and friend. His dedication to freedom took him to Afghanistan in support of a dangerous mission in a hostile land. Not very long after his joyful return, when he was about to transfer to the 7th Fleet flagship, he died on one of our own nation's highways. Bob left behind a beautiful wife, two engaging young sons, loving parents and siblings, and an inspiring extended family.

Below is my original post on the day of Bob's funeral, just over two years ago.

On October 28, I will run the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, DC. To honor Bob's memory, I've established a donations webpage in support of Transition Assistance Program for Survivors (TAPS). This compassionate organization sets the high bar in service to families of deceased military members.

Please consider joining me in making a donation in Bob's memory, whatever you can afford to give.

Whether or not you choose to donate, please take a moment out of your life to reflect upon and honor the memory of all deceased military members, and the faithful families who mourn them.

Click Here to Donate

FOR BOB

Original post July 8, 2010

By now anyone who has ears with which to hear or eyes with which to read knows that Bob Goodwin was a model naval officer, a stellar emergency physician, an enviable family man, and an exceptional human being. His untimely death represents a tragedy of a magnitude that defies mere human ken. Today as he is laid to rest, we all mourn the loss of him in our own way, and for our own reasons.

CDR Bob Goodwin, MC, USN (Deceased)

I had so looked forward to welcoming Bob aboard the 7^th Fleet Flagship. 


I will miss working and collaborating with him as a fellow operational physician supporting our nation's forward deployed mission. Kathy and I both will miss Bob's and Bridget's friendship. We were eager to once again enjoy the Japan experience with their young family. We will miss sharing a part of their lives, and we will surely regret not watching Christopher and Paul grow up.


But Bob's life means so much more than the collegial friendship that this fellow naval officer and his spouse will miss. I cannot begin to fathom what Bob's wife and children are feeling today. Our hearts and prayers reach out to them. No words in any language suffice to express our emotions and thoughts as we vainly try to conjure up some sense in all this grief.


Considering all the lives that Bob touched, his patients, co-workers, students, friends, and family, we should stand in awe of this one man's tremendous impact on humanity. His was an exemplary life of service and love, truly a life to celebrate, even in death. 


The Navy describes itself as "a global force for good." Bob was truly such a force. We are fortunate to have had him with us, however temporarily.


So even as we mourn the loss of that good force that was Bob Goodwin, we also optimistically anticipate his continued impact after death. Perhaps he was taken from fellow mortals early in life so that his soul could be released to an even higher calling. And perhaps we who grieve his loss still have him in our lives, only in a different and more enduring way. Perhaps he has "slipped the surly bonds of earth" to protect his beloved family and honored friends and nation in a fashion that a mere human cannot do. In that we must believe, and for that blessing we must be grateful. Thus we have hope, and in that hope we can truly celebrate his life.


I'm a better man for having known you, Bob. Fair winds and following seas, Shipmate.

A Most Dangerous Place

Imagine taking a stroll on a busy urban freeway during rush hour, wearing nothing more than a soft padded vest and flimsy helmet -- and it's your job to see and avoid all the traffic.

A more dangerous environment challenges the sailors who work the flight deck of an aircraft carrier for launch and recovery of jets. During high tempo operations, these men and women put in long hours in a tense and risky environment. The threats to their lives come from all directions, not the least of which are the jet engines spooling up all over the deck. "Head on a swivel," they are told. Be on constant lookout, because your life could be in danger from even a split second distraction.

The event depicted in this video occurred about a year before I walked on board USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT as an air wing flight surgeon. It became a standard training video across the Navy, a chilling example of what can go wrong, and how quickly it can happen:

Man Sucked Into Jet Engine

Midway through our deployment, we suffered a more tragic flight deck mishap than the A-6 event. The A-6 sailor survived. Ours did not.

During day operations in the Red Sea, a sailor walked along the deck edge behind an F-14 Tomcat just as it spooled up its engines to taxi to the launch area. The jet blast blew the sailor off the flight deck for a 60-foot free-fall to the water's surface.

"Man Overboard, Man Overboard," sounded immediately over the carrier's 1MC system. The medical teams mustered in the flight deck battle dressing station and in the main medical department, ready to do the trauma resuscitation for which all had trained. It was not going to happen.

The rescue helicopter located the sailor floating atop the water. A rescue swimmer dropped into the water, to hoist the unmoving body up to the helo. The swimmer could not tell if the victim was dead or just unconscious. Something went wrong in the process, so the crewman in the helo grabbed the sailor's float coat by the back to pull him into the aircraft. The victim's arms lifted up, and his body slid right out of the float coat and back into the sea, where it immediately sank. The aircrewman was left with the empty float coat in his hand.

The body was never recovered. We believed the sailor died on first impact with the water. Nevertheless--

On the brighter side -- if there is such a side to accidental death --  this mishap resulted in a redesign of the standard float coat, which now includes groin straps to prevent a body from slipping out. Too late for our sailor, but quite possibly has saved other lives.

Not all who go into harm's way risk death from bullets, IEDs, or missiles. Data shows that in all conflicts we lose more warriors from accidental injury than enemy action. Those victims are just as much our American heroes, losing life without warning or apparent reason. God bless them all.

Not With Guns Alone

Melodic interlude at the end, but first...

The primary mission of the forward deployed naval force -- indeed any forward deployed force -- is to win the peace in world places where potential troublemakers might prey on weaker neighbors.

We picture power projection as military hardware: ships, airplanes, missiles, guns; and as warriors -- men and women prepared to fight for peace; and those who support them, such as doctors, lawyers, logisticians and chaplains.

While military might can deter aggression, that power alone will never win a lasting peace. Enduring peace and security are brokered by the men and women who win hearts and minds, one encounter at a time, over the long haul. Humanitarian missions such as Pacific Partnership earn media recognition for extending the hands of peace to people at risk of adopting terrorism or succumbing to totalitarian despots.

Less often hyped, but just as effective, are the professional musicians and singers who perform in fleet bands around the world. Sailors first, these dedicated artists also bring unique and varied musical talents to the cause of international peace. Music doth have charm, not only to soothe the most savage of beasts but also to touch the hearts and souls of diverse peoples. Music also motivates, and boosts the morale of entire armies and navies.

The Seventh Fleet Band plays a singular role in promoting international peace through music. These unsung American heroes work long and hard to perfect their art. They travel far and wide across the Western Pacific, sometimes under harsh conditions at short notice. Often they ride the flagship, not only to play their parts in its unique ambassadorial mission, but also to inspire the crew and staff on board.

Their repertoire extends well beyond martial music. Many Americans would gladly pay good money to hear these talented professionals perform. If I found myself overwhelmed or discouraged in my duties on the flagship, a chance to hear the band always buoyed me up.

As we move beyond another anniversary of the tragedy of 9/11, and we suffer the current world upheaval over despicable "art," I invite you to take a moment, sit back, relax, and enjoy the special talents of the 7th Fleet Band in the following clips:

Navy Friendship Day

Navy Friendship Day 2

7th Fleet Band with Yokosuka Symphony

Band in Fukuoka

Band in Cambodia

Check out their website as well.

A Lot of Terror

A little knowledge…

…can lead to a lot of terror.

I came to naval aviation as a flight surgeon, but I held two civilian pilot certificates in my wallet: Commercial Pilot and Certified Flight Instructor. I was (somewhat) aeronautically adapted before I first donned a Navy flight suit. Because I had a fair knowledge of aerodynamics, navigation, and pilot radio jargon, F-14 Tomcat frontseaters liked to fly with me. Often I had more total flight hours than the “nugget” RIOs fresh from Naval Flight Officer training, and I seemed more casual in the flight environment — not such an advantage, as we shall describe. I had also earned a NATOPS (i.e., official) qualification as a backseater in the Tomcat. As I earned my pilots’ trust, some would turn control of the ejection system over to me — not their usual practice with a doc as their backup.

During my first deployment as an air wing flight surgeon, I bagged flight hours whenever I could get them. I often got low stress routine night flights that the pilots needed for currency but were not all that challenging for the RIO. One such flight occurred on a dark and stormy night over the Adriatic Sea. As I manned up the jet on the flight deck, I had no inkling that it would be my last night flight — in a jet — of that deployment.

We launched at dusk, but after a few minutes we flew in darkness. In theory, an actual potential enemy was out there, albeit an 84 pound weakling.  Closer to the coastline, we flew in and out of clouds as the weather turned worse than forecast. I divided my time between looking out of the canopy to double check my pilot’s separation in the flight of four jets, and monitoring my radar screen looking for bogeys. To my disappointment, after an hour no bogey appeared. The bad guys must have known that I was up there in charge of the weapons system, and they dared not test my mettle. Yeah right, Doc.

The weather continued to go down as we returned to “Mother.” We were now fully enveloped in darkness, with no outside visual references. I backed up the pilot on the dials as he flew the instrument approach to the carrier. It appeared normal and routine.

Looking forward from the back seat of an F-14, all you see is the back of the pilot’s helmet. On a night approach, I often didn’t pick up the ship’s lights until we crossed the ramp. Kind of scary the first time, but by now I had gotten used to it. On landing, I looked out at the deck as the jet hit it and the pilot advanced the throttle to full power, and — instead of the familiar pull of the arresting wire we accelerated off the deck.

“Bolter, bolter.” The tailhook had missed the wire. First time I had ever seen the carrier’s lights disappear behind me after a landing approach.

I won’t get overly technical about the reason for the bolter because a) I don’t remember it all, and b) I never understood it in the first place. (That Little Knowledge dude creeps into play.) The problem involved the system that gives the pilot finer motor control over the stick in the landing sequence. If the system malfunctions, as this one had, the jet behaves like an SUV without power steering. That makes it difficult to nimbly drop the tailhook onto one of the arresting cables stretched across the flight deck.

We went around for another pass. My pilot flew a near-perfect approach to the ramp, and then —

“Bolter, bolter.” Off into the darkness again.

The F-14 squadron rep in the carrier’s tower got on the radio and recommended pulling four circuit breakers before the next pass.

“Yipes. That would be my job.”

Just a few of those circuit breakers

Most of the 200+ circuit breakers in the F-14 were housed in panels behind and on either side of the RIO. Those nuggets with low flight hours would know the exact location of each breaker, without looking. Understanding the basic layout, I had a pretty good idea, but I could not be certain. I could not risk pulling the wrong one. While I might be in control of the ejection system, I had no desire to activate it that night.

As the jet went around the pattern, I held a penlight in my mouth and opened up my F-14 pocket checklist to validate the location of each breaker — without enough time to complete my research before —

“Bolter, bolter.”

The pilot's usually calm, experienced voice became tense and edgy. “Doc, I really need you to pull those breakers on the next pass. We’re close to bingo.” Meaning we were getting low on fuel.

By the time we came around for the next pass, I had a veritable cheering section in the tower urging me to complete this simple (to them) task. I fumbled a bit, dropped the flashlight, retrieved it, contorted my body around to make eye contact with each circuit breaker, and somehow got 'er done by the time we rolled into  final approach. With help from the LSO, we made it down and trapped an “OK Three” wire. Yay!

As we taxied out of the landing zone, I pushed my heart from my mouth back into my chest. But my night’s ordeal had not concluded. As we walked off the flight deck into the carrier superstructure, the squadron duty officer came up to me. “Doc, CAG wants to see you in his office right away.”

Did I mention that was my last night Tomcat flight off this carrier?

* * *

These videos demonstrate the challenge (and sometimes terror) of landing aboard an aircraft carrier. The second shows night operations:

Carrier Landing Terror, Part 1 

Carrier Landing Terror, Part 2