This story appeared in Green’s Magazine Volume XIV, Number 4
Milk Run
Copyright Tom Smith 1986
“Major, wake up. We’re
about thirty minutes out.”
Major Jim Tobias opened
his eyes and yawned. He had not been in deep sleep. He stretched his lanky
six-foot-two-inch frame, then slowly eased out of the flight deck bunk.
After a sip of bitter,
six-hour-old coffee from the thermos in the flight deck, he slipped into the
pilot’s seat of the Air Force C-130E transport.
Jim adjusted his seat
belt and shoulder harness, then slid the seat forward to the position he
favored for landings and takeoffs. The total darkness outside the aircraft was
occasionally punctuated with slashes of lightning ahead and below their
altitude. The instruments were lighted with a dim red glow to enhance night
vision, too dim for Major Tobias. He leaned forward and adjusted the instrument
lights to a brighter setting. He remembered his glasses tucked away in his
flight bag – the glasses the flight surgeon had ordered him to wear, especially
at night, for depth perception. He was not comfortable wearing the glasses and
the glare they created bothered him. He would do without them for this landing.
Jim only know began to
realize how tired he was. The brief nap had not relieved him of the fuzziness
he felt – the result of too many Martinis at Chuck’s of Waikiki the evening
before. Why he had sat there with the young co-pilot and navigator, rolling
dice and matching drinks, he did not know. Stupid! There was some façade he had
to maintain, he, the old pro of the group, the leader. In his younger, fighter
pilot days, flying the F-100s and 102s, he could have out-drunk them, out-flown
them, out-anything they wanted to challenge him on, but the younger days were gone
and so was his body’s ability to recover rapidly from the effects of alcohol.
At forty-four, Jim was
the oldest of the flight crew members. The only one close to him in years was
Technical Sergeant Fred Blackmeir, the flight engineer. Slats Haney, the
co-pilot was a kid, maybe twenty-three or –four, as was his navigator, John
Grogan. The two enlisted loadmasters, Jim Dooley and Ron Garten, riding back
with the cargo, were also youngsters.
As a young fighter
pilot, Jim Tobias had been a highly regarded and often evaluated as
head-and-shoulders above his contemporaries. Had his eyesight not started to
fail he would have continued in fighters. By now he would certainly have been a
lieutenant-colonel. Without the keen eyesight required of fighter pilots he was
transferred to multi-engine transports and assigned to the Military Airlift
Command.
Gone now were the career
goals he had set early in his Air Force life – command of a fighter wing – bird
colonel, and maybe ever a star on his collar before retiring. Now, with only
two years to go to retirement, and no prognosis for advancement in rank, Major
Tobias had one final goal in aviation: to survive. He would be careful. He
would continue to do his job, fly his missions, train and monitor his crew. He
still maintained that sense of duty, but he would do these ever so carefully
and ever so cautiously.
“What’s the weather at
Wake?” Jim asked the co-pilot over the intercom.
“Twenty-five hundred
broken to overcast; thunderstorms in the area…occasional moderate to heavy rain
showers.”
“Okay, Slats. Typical
Wake evening.”
Slats! What a name for a
fuzzy-cheeked second lieutenant with no more than five-hundred flying hours.
This nickname belonged to some death-dealing jet fighter jock screaming from
the skies with guns and rockets blazing, not to some wet-behind the ears
co-pilot on a Military Airlift Command C-130 milk run.
“Okay, Slats. I’ve got
it. Look over the Wake Island approach plate. I’ll want you to call my headings
and altitudes on the approach.”
Jim took over control of
the aircraft. He began to plan his approach to Wake Island. In a few minutes he
would disengage the auto pilot and fly the approach manually. A lot of younger
pilots preferred to fly the approach on auto pilot. Jim preferred the feel of
the aircraft. In fact, it was about the only enjoyment left in this kind of
flying.
“What the hell are we
doing at twenty-two thousand? I thought we were cleared at eighteen?” Although
he had scanned the flight instruments several times since he had taken control
of the aircraft, it was the first time he had taken notice of the altitude.
“Air traffic control put
us here about an hour ago, sir – some kind of conflict with a Pan Am flight.”
“Damn it! Now I suppose
they will leave us up here until we’re over station. Get us a clearance down.”
The co-pilot keyed the
microphone and transmitted. “Wake, Wake, this is MAC 37195. Flight level two-two,
estimating Wake at four nine. Request descent and approach clearance…over.”
The fire warning light
on the number two engine flickered and went out.
“Hey, Blackmeir, did you
see that?” Jim turned to see if the flight engineer had heard him.
The radio interrupted.
“MAC 37195 is cleared to Wake Island VORTAC to hold northeast at five
thousand…report flight level one eight, ten thousand feet and entering holding.
Expected approach time is five-five. Expect further clearance as traffic
permits…over.”
“Did you copy the
clearance, sir?”
“Yeah, I got it. Did you
see the number two fire warning light flicker…or am I imaging things?”
“Yes, sir… just a
second. I need to read back our clearance to Wake.”
Jim eased the four
engine throttles to the flight idle position. He placed his left hand on the
control yoke and flicked off the auto-pilot with his right hand. He could sense
the aircraft slowing. The ever-present sound of the air rushing by the flight
compartment lowered its pitch. Jim flicked the elevator trim tab on the yoke
three quick times to compensate for the change in airspeed. He waited, watching
the airspeed indicator slowly unwind. At one hundred eighty knots he eased the
nose over to maintain the descent airspeed.
The flight engineer slipped into the jump seat between the pilot and
co-pilot seats.
“Blackmeir, did you see
the fire warning light on number two flicker?”
“No sir, I didn’t. It
did flicker several times earlier, while you were resting. The co-pilot told
me.”
The co-pilot spoke. “It
did come on several times in rapid succession. It was dim but I could
definitely see it.”
“Well why in the hell didn’t
someone call me? You know damn well I want to know when something like that
happens.”
“Sir, you were asleep,”
Blackmeir replied. “I hated to wake you up. I’m sure it’s just moisture in the
system. I had the same thing happen last month on this same plane…on a flight
into Danang. Nothing came of it. I wrote it up but no one could find anything
wrong.”
“Okay. But understand
me. When something like this happens again I want to know right away, whether
I’m sleeping, eating or sitting on the crapper. Got it?”
The airspeed had
increased to one hundred-ninety knots. Jim eased back on the yoke to slow the
aircraft to one-eighty. Lightning flashed across the sky ahead. The aircraft
shuddered as it entered the tops of the towering cumulus clouds.
“When we get this bird
on the ground, Balckmeir, I want you to check it over top to bottom before we
go up again, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jim put his full
attention to flying the aircraft. The turbulence increased. He reached overhead
and turned on the Fasten Seat Belt light as a warning to the two loadmasters in
the cargo department.
“Slats, go over the
descent check list with Blackmeir. Looks like I’m going to have my hands full
for a few minutes.”
The plane lurched more
violently. Rain pounded the skin of the aircraft. Eerie Saint Elmo’s Fire
danced on the windscreen. The lightning was closer. Jim could hear the co-pilot
and flight engineer conducting the descent check list. He kept his full
attention on flying the aircraft. They had flown into a large cumulonimbus
cell. The plane groaned and twisted and shuddered. Jim fought the controls to
keep the wings level and some semblance of a descent. He should have detected
the cell on the weather radar but the screen was so cluttered with return it
was impossible to see individual cells. The lightning was blinding. Jim turned
up the white instrument lights. To hell with the red lights and night vision,
he needed to see the instruments clearly.
The altimeter continued
to decrease. Nineteen thousand…eighteen thousand. “Report flight level one
eight, Slats…and report moderate to severe turbulence.”
“Wake, MATS 3719 is out
of flight level one eight, experiencing moderate to severe turbulence.” His
voice had lost some of the professional coolness exhibited in earlier
transmissions.
“MAC 37195, this is
Wake. Roger. Report ten thousand.”
“Goddamn it! Now it’s on
again,” Jim shouted. The number two fire warning light is on again! Any other
indications?”
“Yes, sir,” Blackmeir
answered. “Now we’ve got a nacelle overheat light, a turbine inlet temperature
light and a high oil temperature light – all of them”
“Okay, let’s shut her
down before the damn thing starts burning,” Jim called out the engine shutdown
check-list from memory.
“Fire Emergency Control
Handle, number two.”
“Pulled,” answered the
co-pilot as he reached forward pulling the handle.
“Engine Condition Lever,
number two.”
“Feather,” replied the
co-pilot as he moved the lever full back to the feather position.
“Fire extinguisher,
number two.”
“Wait a minute, goddamn
it,” screamed the flight engineer. “Number one feathered…two’s still turning.”
Jim focused on the
engine control panel. The number one condition lever was in the feather
position. Number two was still in the run position. “Damn it! You feathered the
wrong engine. Take a look…see what you did. You feathered the wrong damn
engine.”
“Yes, sir.” The co-pilot
swallowed hard. “Sorry, I…”
“Hold everything,” Jim yelled. “Stop.” He wrestled the aircraft to a
wings level position and slowed the descent. “Okay, now…let’s get this right or
we are going to drop this big son-of-a-bitch right into the Pacific Ocean.
Co-pilot, don’t touch anything else…hear me? Tell Wake we have a mayday and
require immediate landing. “Blackmeir, put number two engine condition lever to
feather. Shoot the fire extinguisher to number two and secure it.”
“Mayday…mayday…mayday.
This is MAC 37195. We’ve secured the number two engine…possible fire…”
The aircraft commander
interrupted. “We’ve secured the number two and the number one engines. We will
attempt a re-start on number one. I want immediate approach and landing
clearance…now!”
Blackmeir continued
feathering and securing the number two engine. “Number two is secured, Major.
What are we going to do with number one?”
With his attention fixed
on the engine instrument panel, Jim had let the descent nearly to level out.
The airspeed had dropped to one hundred fifty knots and he was drifting left of
the VORTAC instrument approach course. Fly the airplane…fly the airplane, Jim
told himself…above all else, fly the damned airplane! Let the crew handle the
emergency. That’s what is supposed to happen in an emergency. But the young
co-pilot had already screwed things up badly. He would have to count mainly on
the flight engineer for assistance.
Jim took a deep breath.
“Okay, Blackmeir, let’s get a restart on number one. Do it by the checklist,
step by step. Do it right.”
Jim quickly reviewed the
VORTAC instrument approach plate clipped to the yoke of the aircraft: headings,
altitudes, checkpoints. Although he was familiar with the Wake approach, the
quick review restored his confidence.
“MAC 37195, this is
Wake…roger your mayday. You are cleared immediately from your present position
to the Wake Island airport. Advise when inbound from procedure turn. Break. All
aircraft in the vicinity of Wake Island, we have an emergency in progress.
Contact Wake on one-two-five-point five for further instructions.”
They were dropping out
of the clouds now. The turbulence, except for an occasional bump, subsided. Jim
could see the lights of Wake Island below them – even see the runway lights.
This wouldn’t be too bad after all. He would pay close attention to his
flying…right on airspeed…right on altitude. The outbound leg of the approach
would be like flying into an ink well with no horizon or outside visual
reference, but he was a competent instrument pilot and had experienced numerous
emergencies during his eighteen years of flying. This was simply one more…keep
cool…fly the aircraft. He would laugh one day with his pilot friends over a dry
Martini as he related this particular incident.
The C-130 crossed over
Wake Island VORTAC at twenty-eight hundred feet – a little higher than normal,
but Jim could compensate for the extra altitude on the outbound leg of the
approach.
“Is number one back on
yet, Blackmeir?”
“No, sir. I think we
lost it!”
“What do you mean, lost
it? Isn’t it turning?”
“It came out of feather,
sir…but I think it de-coupled.”
“You mean that it is
just wind milling out there?”
The de-coupled propeller created a
tremendous drag on the aircraft. Especially on an outboard engine. Now he could
feel it. The plane was yawing to the left. It took his full strength to hold it
straight. Jim shouted to the co-pilot. “Get on the rudder with me. Give me hard
right rudder!”
Jim struggled desperately to control
the aircraft. The co-pilot’s panic rendered him useless. Jim banked sharply to
the right, making an early procedure turn. At least he wasn’t turning into two
dead engines. The altitude was approaching one thousand feet. Jim shoved the
number three and four throttles to full power. The altitude dropped to eight
hundred feet. He could see Wake Island ahead…the runway lights now were clearly
visible.
“Blackmeir, we won’t be able to
lower the gear with one and two out. We’ll belly in. Yell at me if I get below
one fifty on airspeed. Co-pilot, tell Wake we’re coming in gear up – and we
can’t make a go-around.”
The co-pilot did not respond.
“Never mind! Blackmeir, alert the loadmasters
over the PA for a crash landing.”
Jim tried desperately to hold five
hundred feet of altitude but the airspeed dropped to one hundred forty knots.
“Sir,” Blackmeir cried out. “One
forty!”
“Yeah…damn it. I can’t hold altitude
and maintain airspeed.”
The yaw became more violent. It took
all the strength that Jim could muster to hold the nose straight. They were
drifting to the left of the runway, about a mile ahead of them.
Jim could do no more. He had applied
all the flying skills he possessed. Coaxed every foot of altitude, every knot
of flying speed he could.
“Not now…damn it…not now!” He pushed
the right rudder as hard as he could. His leg quivered and numbed. With all the
remaining strength in his body he tried to raise the left wing with the control
yoke.
One hundred thirty knots.
One hundred twenty knots.
Three hundred feet of altitude.
One hundred ten knots.
The aircraft shuddered. The right
rudder pedal lost its pressure…the nose came up abruptly, then pitched down and
rolled left,
Jim felt the impact. Glass and
debris pushed against him…then cold water…crushing cold water,
Suddenly it was warm…and quiet…and
the crushing ceased. There was a deep sense of release and relief.
……………….
AIR FORCE ACCIDENT REPORT 03-66
NARRATIVE:
A Military Airlift Command C-130E aircraft, serial number 137195, enroute from
Hickam Air Force Base, Hawaii, to Wake Island crashed on approach to Wake
Island Airport in thirty feet of water approximately one quarter of a mile from
the approach end of the east runway. Investigation revealed that the number two
engine had suffered fire damage and was secured at the time of impact. The
number one engine was operating but the propeller decoupled from the engine at
time of impact. Engines three and four were operating properly as well as all
other systems at time of impact. The aircraft impacted the water in a nose low
left wing down attitude with the left wing tip making initial water contact.
The left wing separated from the aircraft and the fuselage fractured at station
240. The aircraft exploded shortly after impact and sank in thirty feet of
water. All six crewmembers suffered fatal injuries.
It is the unanimous opinion of the
Accident Investigation Board that the primary cause of the accident was pilot
error and poor airmanship displayed on the part of the aircraft commander.
Major James T. Tobias, USAF, deceased.
