Horological Meandering

REFUELING

Rotations to Europe, along with Temporary Duty Assignments to Alaska, required our pilots to fly long distances, far beyond the normal range of any fighter aircraft. When we were fitted with four external fuel tanks under our wings—our maximum load—and were airborne more than about two and a half hours, we would need to find a large flying gas station, a “refueling tanker.” 

These airplanes had only one purpose, to carry large amounts of fuel that they could transfer from their fuel tanks into ours. At that time all fighter-type aircraft used what is called the “probe-and-drogue” method of refueling. Basically, the receiving aircraft is equipped with a stainless steel pipe, one end of it going into the airplane’s fuel tank and the other end of it sticking out in front of the pilot somewhere. 

The probe on the F-104 was about four inches in diameter and seven feet long, coming out of the fuselage about two feet behind the left side of the cockpit and terminating maybe two feet ahead of the left, front cockpit window. The tip of the refueling probe was designed fit into the tanker aircraft’s “drogue.” When a pilot needed fuel, the tanker aircraft would reel out a large rubber hose with this drogue device at the end. The drogue was a basket-looking affair about three feet in diameter at the connection end, and it looked like the tanker was trailing an oversized badminton shuttlecock.

In order to make physical contact with the refueling drogue, the pilot slowly inched the plane forward until he was able to push the tip of the probe into the drogue. Once the probe made a solid connection, fuel was automatically pumped from the tanker through the hose and into the aircraft’s fuel tanks. The pilot knows immediately when the tanks are topped off because fuel vapors start streaming from the connection. As soon as that occurs, the pilot disconnects from the tanker by reducing the throttle a bit and backing away.

About twice a year Tactical Air Command would assign a tanker to fly near George AFB so that we could train new pilots on refueling techniques and give the pilots an opportunity to maintain their skills. The only time it is difficult to refuel is when the air is turbulent and the basket is dancing around. In such cases, it often takes three or four “stabs” before the pilot is able to make the connection.

Plugged in

When I first arrived at George AFB, the most current tanker was the KB-50, the last of the gasoline-powered, reciprocating-engine bombers. This was basically a redesigned B-29 Boeing “Super fortress,” the plane that dropped the atomic bombs at the end of WWII. In their quest to increase the maximum load with which a B-29 bomber could take off, SAC added two Curtis-Wright J-65 turbo-jet engines and gave it a new moniker, the B-50. These jet engines developed over seven thousand pounds of thrust each and were mounted just outboard of the number one and four propeller engines.

At some point Strategic Air Command started receiving jet-powered tankers, so they were kind enough to will Tactical Air Command their old KB-50s.  We found the jet engines on the KB-50 particularly useful when we needed more speed during the refueling process. 

The KB-50 could refuel three airplanes at one time, one off the tail and two off of the refueling pods mounted on the end of each wing. The maximum airspeed of the KB-50 was almost exactly half that of the F-104. Consequently, when we slowed to match their airspeed, we would be nearing our point of stall unless we extended takeoff flaps. Even then, as our aircraft became heavier with the added fuel, the stick shaker would start to activate, warning us of an impending stall. At that point we would transmit the command, “toboggan, toboggan!” This was an urgent request for the tanker’s commander to gradually start a 500-foot per minute descent in order to pick up an extra ten or fifteen knots. It normally took about five or six minutes to refuel a 104 when the tanks were reaching the empty mark.

KB-50 Refueling in progress

(this photo from the web)

The KB-50 tanker was eventually replaced by the faster jet-powered KC-135, the military version of the reliable Boeing 707. Although they only had one refueling station at the tail of the aircraft, the airplane flew at speeds more compatible with fighter aircraft. Instead of rendezvousing somewhere in the middle of the ocean, we would make the original rendezvous with the KC-135 tankers, and they would shepherd us all the way to our destination, and…they would even do the navigation for us so that we could “sit back and enjoy the flight.” Fuel was never more than a few yards away anytime we needed it. 

The only downside of flying with the tankers was that the best we ever had to eat in our cockpit were sack lunches with dry sandwiches and canned orange juice, while the tanker crews had hot meals on a tray. They would hold their trays up against their cockpit windows for us to see, then finish up their meal by shamelessly displaying a cup of steaming hot coffee. The only way we could get even was to cozy up really close to their wingtips and park there for a while. Since they never flew in anything approximating close formation, this made them quite nervous. They would make frantic signs out their cockpit windows to back off, but we just ignored them.

A MARATHON FLIGHT

Tactical Air Command wanted to know if it were possible to fly a single-seat fighter aircraft nonstop from the west coast of the United States, across the continent, across the Atlantic Ocean, all the way to Spain. What kind of unexpected problems might they encounter? What would be the physical condition of the pilots after sitting in one position for such an extended period of time? How long would it take them to recover and be mission ready? Unluckily, our squadron was chosen for the "experiment"  which while it was in service of the country, was a much less comfortable ride than Business Class in a Seven-Four-Seven! 

The “Powers-That-Be” wanted us to fly in daylight hours as much as possible, landing in Spain just before sunset. We would be launching close to midnight. The day of our departure we arrived on base at 11 a.m., were fed a high-bulk meal of steak and eggs, taken by bus to one of the BOQ barracks and put to bed with a sleeping pill administered by the Flight Surgeon. About 8 p.m. we were awakened, given another meal and then shifted to a briefing. Around midnight we took off, heading for our first rendezvous with a flight of KC-135 tankers west of Flagstaff, Arizona. 

Because the great circle route goes so far north, we were all fitted with water survival suits. Along with the emergency sea-survival pack we were sitting on, we were handed two sack lunches, two eight ounce cans of orange juice, some drinking water, an empty bottle in which to discharge our “waste products”, and a couple prescription amphetamines capable of boosting our energy level. Falling asleep while flying to Spain would obviously have fatal consequences, and they wanted us somewhat bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the next eleven hours. 

As I mentioned before, the F-104 is a small airplane and the cockpit matched the airplane. I was very fortunate to be relatively short—five feet nine inches—so easing myself into the plane was not a problem. Not so for big guys. For people six feet and over, or for those with a large girth, getting into the cockpit of the Zipper was like trying to squeeze into a tiny airline toilet!  Once you were strapped into the cockpit, there was not much moving around. One of the biggest challenges on the flight to Spain would be sitting in one position for such an extended period of time. It turned out to be eleven hours from the time we started engines to the time we would shut them down. Imagine sitting down to breakfast at 7 a.m. and staying in that chair without moving until dinner is served at 6 p.m.

Our link-up with the tankers over Flagstaff turned out to be dicey because there was "weather" in the area. When used in a sentence about flying, “weather” means the pilot should be concerned. In this case, a large cumulonimbus formation over the mountains near Flagstaff. A bumpy ride and lightning flashing all around us! We did manage to find the tankers, but refueling in the turbulent air at night was challenging. I found myself hooked up to the K-135 tanker with lightning all about and with a dangerous case of vertigo. I had the very real feeling I was in about a 45 degree right bank when my mind knew I was “straight and level”. Vertigo is something all pilots sooner or later experience when flying on instruments, and you just have to fight off what your senses are telling you. I had to believe the tanker pilot would not make such a steep turn with me hooked up and receiving fuel. 

Until we arrived over Maine a few hours later, we had a ratio of one tanker to four of our birds. Once over the Atlantic Seaboard, we met a new set of tankers with a ratio of two-to-one. We would be with them the rest of the way to Spain, so the tankers would need enough fuel for us as well as for themselves. Once we went feet wet over Maine, we did not see land until we coasted in over Southern Portugal. As far as we were concerned, it was a successful exercise—with one exception. 

No one wanted to use the poopy suit relief tube while seated in the cockpit. Unbeknownst to our Flight Surgeon, every pilot had purposely abstained from drinking any liquids, starting with breakfast the day of the departure. This was not some preconceived, cooperative plan hatched by the pilots; it turned out that we each came up with this strategy on our own. For whatever reason everybody kept it to himself. 

But one young Air Force Academy graduate had apparently taken this dehydration program more seriously than the rest. By the time he got to Spain, Tony’s arms and legs were all cramped up and he was totally immobile. Fortunately, he was flying in the only two-seater on this mission, so he was with another pilot. Had he been in a single-seater, he would have surely crashed somewhere along the route. 

Our flight surgeon explained that dehydration causes one’s body to go into an acidic condition, causing severe cramps. The more liquid in the body that is lost, the thicker the blood becomes and the harder the heart muscles work to pump the blood through the circulatory system. The person also loses his ability to think straight. They had to physically lift Tony out of the cockpit and take him to the hospital where he recovered shortly after receiving an intravenous drip. Lesson learned for all of us.

COLD WEATHER FLYING

Our trips to Fairbanks and Anchorage were both in the dead of winter because the military wants us to train in adverse conditions. Eielson AFB is outside Fairbanks, in the middle of Alaska so it can get extremely cold there. This is the closest major Air Force base to the old Soviet Union, and our first line of defense during the Cold War until the ICBM missile system was up and running. The winter we arrived at Eielson was what the locals called a “four-dog” winter. This was the number of Husky dogs it takes to lie on top of you in order to keep you from freezing to death outdoors. If it’s a mild winter, it’s a “one-dog winter.”

The first stop once we landed was a bus ride to a large warehouse where proper winter clothing was issued: lined boots with thick socks and felt pad inserts; long underwear of two types, one layered over the other; a really thick, padded, one-piece flying suit; and finally, a heavy-duty nylon jacket with rabbit hair lining the inside of the hood. When worn unzipped, the massive hood extended halfway down our backs. When zipped up, we were looking through a tunnel of rabbit hair extending about eight inches in front of our faces. This tunnel was only about nine inches in diameter, so there was no peripheral vision. When you walked, you had to keep swinging your head side-to-side in order not to bump into something, or to make sure nothing bumped into you. 

When it is minus sixty degrees you can stay warm, but it takes about twenty minutes to get dressed and it is layer after layer after layer. Place a room temperature soda pop can outside and it is ice cold in one minute; two more minutes and it is almost solid ice. Throw water in the air and it turns into ice crystals before it reaches the ground. And worst of all, when you reach for a doorknob, a big blue bolt of static electricity jumps out from the door when your hand is about three inches away. Zap! 

Standing guard in Alaska 

All maintenance was done outside in the arctic cold. I asked a SAC guy why they worked on the B-52s outside and he said if you took one inside, the sudden heat would cause the hydraulic seals to rupture and bleed fluid all over the floor. For every four mechanics working on a plane outside, there was one “Frostbite Control Officer” checking for frostbite on the extremities of the workers. When we would go out to fly, the crew chiefs would have a space heater shooting warm air into the cockpit, but more importantly, onto the engine. This was all part of the reason for being there, to gain valuable experience under Arctic conditions. The temperature during our stay ranged between 40 and 60 degrees below zero Fahrenheit.

This kind of frigid weather affects all sorts of machinery. Automobiles and other vehicles have to be kept warm when not running, otherwise they will not start. But internal combustion engines thrive in dense air. Minus 60-degree air is pretty dense and the J-79 engines loved it! More thrust is generated under such conditions, and we could feel it when we added power. Our favorite thing to do when we returned from a mission was to ask for a “low approach.” This maneuver involves all the elements of an approach and landing except the actual landing itself. Normally it is used when a pilot wants to practice multiple straight-in instrument approaches or overhead 360 landing patterns but without actually touching down on the runway. At about 200 feet above the ground the pilot abandons the landing by advancing the throttle forward, picking up the gear, and then retracting the flaps. As I said, low approaches are usually for practice purposes, but there it was for pure fun and entertainment, for us and for many on the base. 

The runway is just shy of three miles long. We would be doing about 160 knots (185mph) when we came over the runway threshold for our low approach. At that point we would inform the tower we were going around, but instead of using the “full military power,” we would light off all four stages of our afterburner. Since we had already consumed most of our fuel, the weight of the aircraft was equal to the thrust of the engine, around 16,000 pounds.

Hugging the runway, we could accelerate from 160 knots to 500 knots (575 mph) in 15,000 feet. At the far end of the runway we would pull back on the stick and go straight up, climbing vertically to 20,000 feet in less than a minute. Modern fighters with their powerful engines can do this routinely, but fifty years ago, for us and the tower personnel, it was quite a rush.

We had an interesting one-day exercise with the Marines at the Twenty-nine Palms Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center. The Marine base is about 70 miles due east of George, in the High Desert north of Palm Springs. The Marines had received some new Hawk missiles, meant to defend ground personnel from attacking airplanes. They wanted to find out how well the missile radar worked against incoming aircraft flying at cactus-top level. What they needed from us was about twenty sorties approaching their base at a low altitude during an eight-hour period, and they did not want to know in advance when we were coming and from what direction.

Now in the desert, steely-eyed aviator is ready to climb aboard his bird (Rolex on wrist) 

My friend Ellison decided he would fly down to Palm Springs and attack the base on a northerly heading. In order to mask his plane from the radar, he planned on flying up one of the many canyons in the mountain range that rises up out of the Coachella Valley. What he did not count on was a string of high-voltage power lines! You may have noticed from time-to-time the big orange balls they put on the high-voltage support wires, especially when they span a highway between two mountains. These are specifically meant to warn airplanes of their presence, and they work very well for slow-speed private aircraft. But if you are flying in a high-speed jet aircraft, the chances are you will not notice these warning devices until you are upon them.

Suddenly seeing balls, John made a split-second decision to go under them instead of over the top. His airplane had a refueling boom installed, and somehow the big power line support cable made first contact with the front of the boom, then the front window pane, and then miraculously, right over the top of F-104’s big T-tail. The proof of the pudding was the cable wrappings’ imprints on the hard metal tip of the refueling boom; you could easily see each individual strand. Although still in one piece, John’s front window pane was smashed and he could not see to land. Fortunately, another F-104 was returning to base about the time John arrived back, and he was able to make a formation landing on its wing. John was one lucky guy.

Thanks for reading. Please go on to Part 4 to visit Viet Nam

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