BEALE AIR FORCE BASE, Calif. -- For the past 55 years U-2 Dragon Lady crews have soared high above the earth collecting intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance information to aid in the fight against enemy forces. Throughout the years, even with the advances in technology, the mission remained the same.

Over time, several changes in the aircraft and protective equipment have evolved to help the U-2 and its pilots better perform their mission. Training to become a U-2 pilot has also evolved from "learn on the fly" to a detailed training course requiring approximately nine months to complete.

In the late 1950s, when the first U-2 pilot trainees were becoming familiar with the aircraft, there were no instructors, no two-seater trainer aircraft, no ejection seats, no full pressure suits, no full-scale base at which to train and no technical manuals or history for reference.

In 1957, there was simply a dried up lake in Nevada called Groom Lake with a bare-bones training ground the pilots referred to as "The Ranch".

The U-2 had no operational testing done by the Air Force before its pilots graced the cockpit. The pilots tested the aircraft while learning its movements and capabilities. The shiny, silver, short-nosed structure far differed from the flat, black, long-nosed platform of today. Pilots also wore a silver, skin-tight partial pressure suit to protect them at high altitudes, which was also new to the Air Force.

The U-2 was a low-budget aircraft even for the 1950s, said retired Lt. Col. Tony Bevacqua, one of the first U-2 pilots. The plane wasn't given the best instruments or equipment available at the time, and it wasn't until later in the program that the cockpit was upgraded to give U-2 pilots what they need to perform the mission as easily as possible.

The aircraft was flown to Groom Lake in pieces and then assembled and flown by a Lockheed test pilot. Upon the Lockheed pilot's approval of the assembly, the aircraft was handed over to the Air Force and training began.

Colonel Bevacqua recalled his time at Groom Lake and how he was completely focused on learning a brand new style of flying.

"There wasn't anything to do except fly and get the training," Colonel Bevacqua said. "It was pretty boring really, unless we were learning the new system."

The beginning of the U-2's history was highly classified. Pilots were interviewed by members of the Central Intelligence Agency and when accepted were off on an adventure they knew little to nothing about.

"All I knew was that I was going to Connecticut for a pressure suit fitting and then to Wright-Patterson (Air Force Base, Ohio,) for altitude chamber training and a further fitting," Colonel Bevacqua said. "I was told I would be flying to March AFB (Calif.,) and meet a guy there who would take me the rest of the way."

Upon arrival at Groom Lake, they were thrust into training and performed numerous touch and go flights as they adjusted to the handling characteristics of the U-2. Within a week of training, pilots performed their first high-flights in the partial pressure suit.

"The partial suit was fitted and acted like a girdle," Colonel Bevacqua said. "It was skin tight throughout and when you lost pressurization, the external hoses would enlarge and tighten the suit more. It did its job by preventing your blood from boiling, but it was very uncomfortable."

The first pilots arrived at Groom Lake and completed their entire training in less than three weeks. They flew to Laughlin Air Force Base, Texas where they became operational pilots and instructor pilots for the second class.

"Everything back then was pushing the envelope to get somewhere where human beings weren't designed to go," said Maj. Mark Ferstl, a U-2 student pilot at the 1st Reconnaissance Squadron. "They didn't have a lot to go on, but in some ways the lack of knowledge and experience may have been a motivator."

In today's training, pilots are interviewed first, which includes several interview flights at low altitude to see how a pilot handles the aircraft. Once accepted into the program, they fly T-38 Talons for three months and learn survival skills before even sitting in a U-2 cockpit again.

Part of their survival training includes several training sessions in the high-altitude flight chamber at the 9th Physiological Support Squadron. Major Ferstl said it's a big confidence booster once the training is complete and pilots are comfortable in the suit.

"The full pressure suit has not failed anybody at altitude," he said. "The people at suit training want to prove to you that the suit is going to save your life, and they do that. They take you up to altitude in the chamber, and it's a great confidence builder."

Major Ferstl said it was hard to imagine how the first pilots went through training not knowing if the pressure suit was going to save them.

"Knowing what I know now, I probably wouldn't fly in a partial pressure suit," he said. "Those guys were the pioneers, pushing the envelope, and they've forged the way for us."

Once they are comfortable in the pressure suit and qualified to fly the T-38, pilots then fly two-seater U-2s at low altitudes with an instructor pilot. By flying in two-seater aircraft, pilots learn the characteristics of the U-2, and instructors can test them on different aspects of flight.

"The instructors are phenomenal," Major Ferstl said. "We've got the best instructor pilots and they are very understanding and professional. They've all been where we are and are amazing pilots and instructors."

Once their low sortie flights are completed, student pilots will take off on a high flight with an instructor. Once the instructors deem them qualified, students will perform solo flights at low altitudes, then complete several solo high flights before graduating the program. Student pilots will fly 20 U-2 sorties before graduating the program and deploying for the first time.

"The training does a great job giving you a well-rounded experience," Major Ferstl said. "I fully expect what I learned here will get me through my first few deployments, but you can always learn more."

The U-2 training program has evolved during the past five decades. State-of-the-art equipment is now available to student pilots and more time is spent on their training to ensure they're capable of piloting such a unique aircraft.

When the program first started, its secrecy and unfamiliarity provided challenges to pilots like Colonel Bevacqua who paved the way for today's newest U-2 pilots.

With the advancements in technology and a full history book to learn from, today's U-2 pilots, such as Major Ferstl, are trained by experienced instructors, on the best available equipment, to become more capable of delivering high-altitude intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance data.

http://www.af.mil/news/story.asp?id=123220436

My small, related, piece of that could be called "Five Years (and maybe five flights) with the Partial Pressure Suit."

When my first fighter-interceptor squadron, the 13th FIS,[*] moved from Sioux City, IA, and single-seat F-86Ls to the new Glasgow AFB, MT, to get our two-seat two engine F-101Bs in the summer of 1959, we were also to be equipped with partial-pressure suits. Clearly, the expectation was that our Voodoos (and F-106s, that were also to populate ADC's bases along our northern border) would need to fly high as well as fast to intercept Soviet bombers attacking from over the North Pole.

[*] No relation to the 13th TFS; our 13th FIS was the direct descendant of the original pre-WWII 13th Pursuit Squadron.

After a few happy months of unrestricted learning what the Mighty Voodoo could do (plus what we'd better not do), the powers-that-be ordained that no flying should take place from 50,000 ft up unless our crews were pressure-suited (in case normal cabin pressurization was lost, or we lost the canopy itself. In the first half of 1960, groups of us made two trips west to Fairchild AFB, WA, the first to get measured for our partial-pressure suits, the second to wear them for altitude chamber rides. Whatever lectures and practice we got there constituted the sum of our training for P-suited flying and high-altitude emergencies.

Our P-suits were skin-tight over most of our body (though necessarily loose at the crotch), with sleeves down to our hands and legs down to our ankles, covering the light cotton long-johns we wore to avoid chafing from the suit; our gloves, socks and boots took care of our extremities. The full helmet (with O2 mask) screwed into the suit's neck. It had two plastic faces: the fixed clear one with heated wires (which glowed at night), and a pull-down tinted visor for sunlight; the clear one also had a responsive "gold" coating designed to react instantly to any bright light, as from a nuclear explosion, so we'd avoid flash-blindness. (I don't recall any actual such exposure or visor reaction.)

Finally, into the chamber. Our first "ride" was the standard one, in our regular flight suits and helmets, and up to 40- or 45,000 feet, with stops on the ways up and down to get us used to our individual hypoxia symptoms and to practice reattaching our masks accordingly. Then the pressure-suit ride(s) to test both the suits (for leaks) and ourselves, up to 65,000 ft. I remember but two specific events:

1. On our first "climb-out," passing 25,000 ft or so, our Maintenance Officer, Capt Al Renko, an old guy (in his late-30s at least), began experiencing terrible pain. The operators in the chamber couldn't help him, so the control operators had to bring us down again and he was carried out. It appeared he was having a heart attack, but later we learned it was a kidney stone (which clearly had not signed on for a ride into a near-vacuum); whichever, he was taken off flight status, and we never saw him again.

2. We had been reminded to watch the coke bottle full of water that was placed in a corner, as liquids (like our blood) would boil at 63,000 ft. Sure enough, bubbles began to rise at an increasingly furious pace as we approached and passed 63 grand. At the same time, I became aware of how cold my crotch had become another sign of the decrease in pressure as altitude increased. Good heavens, I thought, am I going to freeze my balls off? And then what? . . . We started back down from 65,000 ft, with a hypoxia check along the way and finally an uneventful exit from the chamber. As we changed out of our p-suits for our regular flight suits, I made my own personal inspection . . . and found to my relief that everything was still working, and showing no ill effects.

As for our P-suit flights, they took a lot of energy. First, getting into the underwear and suits, then the pre-breathing of O2 and getting ridden out to our aircraft, getting strapped into the cockpit, and having the helmet screwed on and our P-suit hoses attached to the aircraft capstans to hook us up to the bird's pressurization system. Once all was ready, our inability to turn our heads very far to either side meant that we'd have to operate any switches behind us by feel only.

Our restricted peripheral vision also meant we'd have to be extra careful of other airborne traffic. When adding power for run-up and then takeoff, our suit pressurization would become noticeable: the squeezing effect all over the body gave the effect of experiencing only half-a-G while seated on the ground (and in flight), instead of the normal 1-G. The result was a slight sense of unreality and a reminder that "seat-of-the-pants" flying had to yield to instrument flight (and/or horizon and other attitude cross-checks when day/VFR) to maintain the desired flight path. We really weren't "nosing over," and regaining "1-G" would actually put us in an increasing climb; meanwhile the feeling of "unreality" and sense-deprivation persisted.

Additional night-flying anomalies included reflections of light onto our face shield, and, as noted, the glow of the heating wires embedded in our regular visors. All told, we were flying "all- weather" missions and intercepts, regardless of our real environment. Moreover, I don't recall flying any formation in a P- suit; the aircraft "feel" and our sense of stability were strange enough without taxing ourselves with over- or under-controlled corrections and the increased risk of collision.

After landing and divesting ourselves of the suits and sweat-drenched underwear, we were basically worn out for the rest of the day (or night). IMO, one partial-pressure suit flight was as tiring as three normal ones, and enough was enough.

I don't remember how many P-suit flights we needed per year to maintain "currency" maybe one or two. When transferred (in mid-1963) to the 98th FIS (newly moved up from Dover AFB, DE, to Suffolk County AB out on Long Island, NY), I had my P-suit with me as part of my regular flight gear. I flew one or two more pressure-suit flights, and then ADC retired the suits at least for us One-O- Wonders and Scope Wizards; I don't know about the F-106 units. The suits were expensive to acquire and maintain as well as taxing to wear, and by then I believe the threat was no longer projected to be coming in at very high altitude.

So, with regular high flying restricted to 49,000 ft (with a single drop tank and use of one A/B to sustain supersonic flight, if needed), we could "simulate" high/fast targets adequately for ourselves. If we were lucky enough to have a real high flyer as target, such as a big-wing B-57D or (once, at Suffolk Co) a British Vulcan the RAF's most advanced V-bomber both of which could operate at 60,000 ft or so, we'd go supersonic at 35-36 grand, climb to 45, accelerate to 1.45 mach (1.25 with tanks), and "snap-up" from 45 thou'. Exceeding 49,000 ft was permitted for the few seconds it would take to complete such an intercept, roll over and away, and be safely below any situation where we'd risk loss of consciousness. The B-57D relied on a radar range-gate stealer for his defense: if the system could keep breaking our radar's lock-on, we'd have to convert to a stern attack and probably switch weapons from nuclear rocket to IR missile and a manual fire. The Vulcan was different: when the pilot could see (or was told) when we were starting "up the hill," he simply made a tight 360-degree turn which ruined our firing solution and then proceeded on his way while our Voodoo flopped over to lower altitude to gain speed and maneuverability and then enter a tail chase in pursuit. By then, however, he was about out of our airspace, we were getting too low on gas to chase him all the way, and so we had to log an "MI" ("missed intercept") against what had looked like a sitting duck.

Those were among the days of flying, fun and frolic . . . when our nation at least had a dedicated air defense force (both flying and ground-based) . . . before it was petered away, Active force, Air Guard and all, by the end of the Cold War, there to non-exist until 9/11 revealed our nation's vulnerability.

Cheers, and a tear
Jonathan Myer
Baron/Cagey 82 & Covey 75

P.S. When I took our grandchildren to the Udvar-Hazy Air & Space Museum earlier this summer, my brief Q&A with a guide earned me the title (from another visitor) of "relic." I'm a bit more pleased to be described by the U-2 author (even by default) as "Pioneer." As it was, our early days as #5 squadron to get our '101 interceptors at the then-bare and isolated Glasgow AFB had many parallels with the first U-2 flyers at Groom Lake a couple of years before.