Night Carrier Qual

The F3 Demon this pilot flew for carquals was noted for its slow engine
response in a landing pattern. For a number of reasons, it was not in the
fleet very long. I think this guy's description of the first night launch
and landing represents many Naval Aviators' experiences.
Denny
The fun thing is though that many of us LOVED night landings, it was the
night cat-shots that would make you pucker.. Rudy

PUCKER FACTOR

G. Warren Hall

Six night landings in the F3B "Demon" during my Carrier Qualification
phase are still as vivid in my memory as the 10 day landings are hazy.

As I climbed into the Demon that first time, my concept of a "black
night" darkened a hundred -
or even a thousand-fold. A carrier deck
illuminated only by red lights qualifies as one of the darkest places
in or out of the world. The darkness was oppressive.

Until then, the nights around Key West, Fla., had seemed dark, alright,
but they didn't compare with the near-total, frightening blackness of
the USS Lexington's mildly pitching deck that night. That kind of
darkness was the bogeyman from the proverbial dark closet of my youth,
the monster lurking behind the rustling tree beside the dark road and
the center of the rock-lined
well, with its black water 50 ft. below. It was
all my fears come true at once.

Even the familiar glow of the cockpit's red instrument lights provided
little consolation. Every nightmarish story about the dangers of night
carrier operations raced through my mind, reverberating with
increasing,
terrifying intensity. Back when I'd dreamed of
becoming a naval aviator, I had failed to imagine the stark reality of
what faced me at this moment. The basic Cro-Magnon response of fight
or flee took on a new meaning. I was
experiencing "fright and flight"
simultaneously. I was scared to death - and willing to admit it.

I tried to push the night's blackness to the back of my mind and set
about preparing for my first
night catapult launch. Still, the inky
blackness continued to flood my consciousness. A quite private
conversation with GOD - Lord if this is the end, may I please come to
be with You? - was my final consolation.

I followed the waving, ghostly, yellow wands skillfully manipulated by
the deck taxi director, my mind slowly responding to the task at
hand. Once I was positioned on the catapult,
the wands extinguished. Again, total blackness; not a single light in
front of me. The seat of my pants registered a light heave of the
deck,
but my eyes perceived no motion whatsoever. The
world I knew no longer existed. I imagined how a sailor during
Columbus's time must have felt, given the era's "flat-Earth theory," as
he sailed slowly toward a nonexistent black horizon, thinking his tiny
ship might fall off the Earth's edge at any moment and dump him into
the black abyss beyond.

The catapult officer's green wand flashed to life, rapidly twirling in
a small diameter circular motion. With calculated reluctance, I pushed
the throttle full forward, carefully checked each instrument as the
J-71 engine slowly spooled up to 100% rpm., hesitated a moment and
selected full afterburner.

Make sure everything is perfect, before you touch that navigation light
switch, I cautioned. Unfortunately, everything looks okay , I decided.
I pressed my head hard against the headrest, took a deep breath and
flipped the switch to "on." The catapult officer's green wand made a
vertical-circle slice, touched the
deck and disappeared into the black. In an
eternity of less than a second, the catapult's enormous,
steam-generated force pinned me against the seat, accelerating the
Demon into that black nothingness.

My full attention and trust were focused on the red glow of a dimly lit
black-and-gray attitude indicator mounted in the center of the
instrument
panel. My life depended on its flawless
performance. My internal accelerometer judged the acceleration along
the catapult as normal, while my brain admonished in slow rhythm: Fly
those instruments, fly those instruments. When acceleration ceased, I
rotated the nose 10 deg.
up, tried to hold the wings level and without looking reached for the
landing gear handle and flipped it up.

As the altimeter climbed slowly through 300 ft., I deselected
afterburner and started a gentle
left turn downwind. My heart was racing. The
intimidating blackness went unnoticed, for the moment, as my eyes never
wavered from the comfortable familiarity of tiny, round
instruments behaving quite normally. Only after
leveling off at 600 ft. on downwind did I dare risk a glance to my
left, hoping to catch sight of the carrier. No such luck.

"Fly the instruments. Check your heading. Come
left another 15 deg. Fly the instruments," I
intoned, creating my own airborne litany of guidance. Incredibly, it
was even blacker out
here than it was on the ship. I sneaked another
peek outside. A red light on the Lexington's mast was barely visible,
but I had no idea how far away it was or in what direction it was
steaming. The "Fox Corpen" (the ship's course)
was only a notation on my kneepad. Up here, it
was impossible to judge distance. Again my
brain cautioned: Fly those instruments believe those instruments.

With welcome relief, a voice in the headset interrupted my singular
concentration. "Alpha Delta 107, turn left, heading 175 deg.; perform
your landing checks, over." The ship's radar
controller sounded calm and professional. I relaxed in micro-degree,
slowed the aircraft, extended its landing gear, checked the fuel and
dropped the hook. Three tiny green lights
assured me the gear was down, and the lack of a red light in the hook
handle confirmed it has extended.

"Alpha Delta 107, turn left, heading 060; say your fuel state, over."
the radar controller continued.

"Alpha Delta 107, 4,200 lb.," I answered, trying to match his calm.
With my heart pounding faster than the airplane was flying, I didn't
fool anyone - especially myself.

"Alpha Delta 107, come further left, heading 330 deg. The ship will be
1 mi. at your twelve o'clock, over."

"Alpha Delta 107, roger." As I rolled out on heading, I sneaked
another peek straight
ahead. He was right; there was a small white
light out there, with an even smaller red light suspended above it.
Unfortunately, the lights
had no shape, not direction and no motion. They
were merely two small pinpricks of light in a black, black sphere of
intimidating nothingness. I now believed in the light at the end of
the tunnel, but I never expected it to be so small or so far away.

I don't have enough fuel to fly that far! I thought. I modified my
normal instrument scan to include an occasional peek over the nose,
trying to reassure myself that the light at the end of
the tunnel really was still there. Fortunately, it was.

"Alpha Delta 107, half mile; call the ball," the radar controller
ordered. I acknowledged, took my eyes off the instruments, and tried
to make sense of the tiny pattern of lights
ahead. Green datum lights of the landing mirror
where clearly distinguishable, but there was no definition to the
runway lights. I focused my attention on the mirror and guessed on the
lineup. As the yellow "meatball" appeared
between the two lines of green lights, I eased the power back and the
ball abruptly disappeared, going low.

"Power! Power!" I made my own LSO (Landing System Officer) call. As
the meatball reappeared, I let it ride a little high and
radioed, "Alpha Delta 107, ball; 4,000 lb." The
familiar and friendly voice of the VF-101 LSO answered. He didn't have
to ask whether my hook was down; the steady angle-of-attack indexer
lights relayed that
information. "One-zero-seven, you're a little
high; start it down. Your lineup is good," he stated.

Small consolation. I liked the "little high"
part, but my lineup wasn't at all
obvious. Gradually, the centerline lights
separated into individual points, but provided little additional
information. I was surprised at how slowly I seemed to be gaining on
the
ship. The landing area didn't seem to be getting any bigger.

LSO: "A little power now; hold what you've got." In the last few
hundred feet, the runway lights exploded in one rapidly expanding
motion
and accelerated toward my airplane. I was lined
up slightly right but it all happened so fast, it was impossible to
correct in such a short time. The meatball slid rapidly left and high
as
the F3 slammed onto the deck. I felt that
lovely, firm, hard tug as the arresting wire dragged the Demon to a
stop, while the engine responded to my demand for full power.

I had made my first night carrier landing. It
was exhilarating, but terrifying, too. It had
all happened so fast! I was powerless to know what I had done, right
or wrong, but there was little time for reflection. The flight deck
director's yellow wands impatiently signaled me to raise the hook and
start a right turn from the
arresting gear. If my heart had been racing
after the catapult launch, that was only a slow trot compared to what
it was doing now - even tempered by the relief of being safely
aboard. I still had to do this five more
times. There was no doubt night carrier landings were not going to be
my favorite thing!

The radio interrupted my thoughts. "Alpha Delta
107, turn your lights off," a stern voice commanded. Ooops! I did.

We all use term "pucker factor," but I can't think of a situation where
the term is more appropriate than during a night carrier
landing. Pucker factor is not a simple term;
it's a combination of many elements. The margins for error in any
carrier landing are small, and an accumulation of small mistakes can
easily and quickly create a situation from which recovery is high unto
impossible.

The information available to a pilot at night is dramatically less than
during the day, too. A naval aviator always makes an instrument
approach to a visual landing on the carrier's tiny landing
strip, which seems even smaller at night. After
all, it's only three short rows of lights that show little relative
motion - until you're almost on top of them.

Pucker factor is knowing you're betting your life on a nearly perfect
performance - but with less-than-perfect information, in a harsh
environment, with anxiety at its peak, and when you don't feel
comfortable because you don't fly enough at night to feel comfortable
or proficient. On top of all that you're scared to death. That' pucker
factor.

G. Warren Hall is a NASA test pilot and a Fellow of the Society of
Experimental Test Pilots. After graduating from college, he joined the
U.S. Navy and flew F3B Demon and F-4B Phantom II fighters, logging more
than 300 carrier landing. Hall has flown more than 65 different
aircraft types, including the X-14B, XV-15, X-22A, AD-1, Swing Wing and
three versions of the
unique Rotor Systems Research Aircraft. He
completed 28 years of military service as the commander of a California
Air National Guard Rescue Group, retiring at the rank of full colonel.
Hall also has written 73 technical reports.