Leaping Off: The Tortured Path to Flight

Primix Publishing

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© 2021 G Alan Dugard. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by Primix Publishing 12/06/2021

ISBN: 978-1-955177-57-3(sc)

ISBN: 978-1-955177-58-0(e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021924238

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Contents

Prologue

Air Force Pilot Training

The Process

Lackland AFB /Preflight

Primary Pilot Training - Malden Missouri

The Windy Second Flight

The Debriefing

The Cord is Cut

The Terrible Tango 6

A T-6 Special Event—My Solo

Dugan’s Big Day

Check Rides

The Navigation Lesson

Instrument Flying

The Mysteries of Night

Night Cross-Country

The Last Days

The Final Check

Home

Laredo AFB

The Terrible T-28

The Academic World

T-28 Solo

Formation Flight

More Instrument

The Airplane

Going on to the T-33

Academics

The Last T-28 Solo

The Jet Experience

The Altitude Chamber Ride

The T-33

T-33 Checkout

The Evening Break

Initial Solo

Little Things

Back to Solo Flight

The Brooklyn Dodgers

Ground School

Formation Flying

Herr Meinig

Night Flying

Night Navigation

The Night Launch

The Christmas Break

The Last Normal Weeks

Instrument Flight

The Cross-Country Navigation Leg

The Final Days

The Final Check-Ride

The Assignment

Graduation

Epilogue

This book is dedicated to Clyde M. Pinkerton (Pinky) and Class 56-H.

Prologue

There is a factor used in military parlance called the pipeline and it concerns the path to many skills, one of those being the path to gaining United States Air Force Silver Wings, known as becoming an Air Force Pilot. It has been modified from early days of flight. Wilbur Wright had his own method! World War I pilots were literally thrown into the fray, but as bigger and more powerful aircraft evolved between and during the two world wars it became necessary to create a system that would prepare future pilots for those aircraft. Billy Mitchell had convinced the naysayers that aircraft had a place in warfare and therefore men would have to be trained to fly various types of aircraft. The preparation wasn’t honed to the finest degree, but it did sustain the need for manning the newer reciprocal aircraft that were being placed on the line. With the onset of World War II pilot training became a series of programs that of necessity took physically qualified men and gave them the bare necessities to fly. They counted on the large numbers pushed through abbreviated training in a wide pipeline to adequately sustain the need in the various theaters, European and Pacific, to fly the many aircraft that were designed and built through the end of that conflict. Newly minted pilots were then rushed to locations to aid in combating the Axis forces that were encountered throughout the world. Aircraft losses during the second world war were enormous, many because the pilots had to be rushed though, a training program that was programmed to sustain that pipeline at a very high level, due to the losses being recorded on both fronts. There was an abrupt end to the training of pilots to enter the Army Air Corps when the war ended in 1945. There was no great need for pilots as the onslaught of the war left a vacuum when the fighting ended. The need for pilots was not a priority and the pipeline closed or at least dwindled to a dribble. However, a factor evolved that awakened those leaders who had created the Army Air Corps. They could now see the need to continue a program that would accommodate the need for pilots to fly the revolutionary Jet aircraft that were now being developed. It was determined this new era of flight would require a more demanding training program for this peace time, yet evolving period was going to be needed. It began with the Army Air Corps, being made into a separate service, the United States Air Force. Initial efforts were implemented to use surviving and experienced World War II pilots who had left the service to initiate this newly designed rigorous training program. Strict physical parameters were established to be used in the selection of the future trainees. The long program would begin with a pre-flight portion where physical and mental aptitude would be tested. An intense personal physical would be administered, with very restrictive limitations applied. Successful completion of this month-long screening process would be followed by the first segment of flight training. This Primary phase would use former military, experienced, now civilian pilots to introduce individuals to flying in reciprocal engine aircraft; once completed the trainee would qualify to step up to Basic training and jet aircraft. The Basic phase would be their first encounter with instructors who were Air Force pilots. This vanguard of instructors would consist of the most qualified individuals who had successfully completed training in the new jet aircraft. For the Primary graduates, gravitating to and successfully completing the Basic flight training phase would qualify them as pilots; they then would be awarded their wings. As new pilots they would be sent to Advanced lead-in training, an additional two to three months, to qualify in a specific aircraft. The final total time would be eighteen months from the beginning of pre-flight to combat-ready status before the new pilot would qualify to fly an on-line aircraft.

Pipeline levels would vary based on the need to replenish the attrition of pilots in the inventory. These numbers would be programmed as aircraft are developed, combined with the current need due to hostilities and the estimated loss of pilots.

Air Force Pilot Training

The incident haunted me! After years of anticipation and over six months of flight training in all propeller-driven training aircraft, I had reached a point that I was unsure if I really wanted to continue on the path to achieve my silver wings, one already full of moments to remember, to be a United States Air Force pilot. The step up to flying jet aircraft seemed like a mountain to climb, especially after witnessing the crash of a student and instructor on their return from a training mission. Another accident! It had happened only two days after a solo student fatality on a night training flight. Supposedly that student, one close to graduation, experienced vertigo and slammed into a closed outdoor theater close to the base. This day was a clear cloudless late September morning in Laredo Texas, no wind and a mild temperature, perfect flying weather. I was a brown bar lieutenant and was exiting the flight planning center, parachute over my shoulder with my mentor, Lieutenant Doug Anson, a tall, lanky, dark haired Air Force instructor pilot. We were discussing my about-to-be last solo mission in the T-28, a reciprocal engine aircraft I really hadn’t enjoyed much on my continuation into the second phase of Air Force pilot training, a phase called Basic. It happened suddenly, as the T-33 jet training aircraft, returning from a training mission, on board a student pilot and his instructor, entered the overhead traffic pattern to finish off their flight. As all pilots do, we glanced up to see where the sound was coming from. The aircraft, an afore mentioned T-33 was on initial, an entry position preparing for landing and executed by a pitch-out, a forty-five-degree bank turn to enter a downwind leg. It was a standard abrupt left turn that stopped everyone in their tracks as the unforgettable happened; the left wing tip tank, bolted free, only to strike the aircraft’s vertical stabilizer, jamming it and placing the aircraft in a skid to the right, veering wildly away from the traffic pattern. The aircraft was rapidly losing altitude. All viewing this mishap knew that to eject safely via the ejection seat you needed 1000 feet above ground for a safe escape. (It was four years later when zero-zero capability ejection systems were developed). They easily passed that safe escape altitude in the initial moment as we watched. From the ground, student pilots and instructor’s eyes were glued on the effort to now control this out of control missile. At first it appeared control of the aircraft was gained as it slipped sideways, the nose of the aircraft trying to go in a sane direction, fighting the obvious rudder displacement, but then it was apparent that a lack of airspeed and now altitude made it a losing battle. It appeared they were trying to put it down in the desert south of the base, but responses to attain control seemed futile. Slowly the two pilots and the wounded bird were thrust into a death spiral and crashed in the South Texas desert and were consumed in flames. A towering cloud of black smoke filled the distant sky. Stunned, the now assembled groups of pilots were frozen, mesmerized by the latent, but the now apparent sound of the exploding aircraft and now unable to take their eyes off the lazy fireball at it rose far across the runway that the aircraft so futilely attempted to reach. Suddenly they were aware of the new sound, one of crash, fire engines racing across the ramp, followed by a couple of official Air Force vehicles and the always present ambulance. The group of pilots slowly turned to reenter the flight ready room. Words spilled out! No chance, What happened, I can’t believe what I just saw. Poor bastards! Expletives punctuated the scene from the group as they were trying to tell those still in the planning area what they saw. It was apparent there would be no more flying today. The silent, stunned student turned to Doug and was told to put his chute away. They re-entered the flight operations room. Doug’s other two students of Shotgun Flight, George Fong and Dick Clark were still at the flight table, who were awaiting Doug’s return after he had finished seeing the young, blond- haired student pilot off on his solo mission. They had heard the muted explosion, but their response to it was one of wonder, not curious enough to wander outside to see what happened.

Seeing the group, of pilots re-enter they were now very aware that there was something terrible that had occurred and were stunned to hear what tragically had taken place while they sat at the training table. Doug was not a very animated person and he became silent about the accident, but the young student was now effusive in trying to relate to the two of them what he saw. Finally, Doug tried to bring them back to reality and capped off the discussion by talking about tomorrow’s routine schedule. Fact of the matter was that flying would commence tomorrow where it left off today. Flying training simply was not to be interrupted for an extended period for an aircraft accident! The now fearful student would be taking his delayed, last solo flight in the T-28 tomorrow along with Dick Clark, who would also complete his last T-28 solo flight in the second half of the morning period. It turned out that George Fong would be getting an evaluation ride with another instructor, as his last training flight with Doug was a failing effort and if this flight tomorrow is no better, he would face elimination from the program. Pink slips (a name given to the form given to a student for an unqualified ride) at this stage of training are rare, but not out of the question. A roommate to me, Bob Duggan has an instructor named Helmut Meinig, whose call-sign was Dead Eye (the students called him Herr) a former Luftwaffe pilot at 19, who threatens his students constantly, but has not given Bob a pink slip despite many warnings. Bob is a ham-handed student, so intelligent that simple, logical flying procedures are lost in the maze of his thoughts. During primary Bob was led by fellow students into the flight pattern when he was taking his final check-ride before graduation. He could not decipher the 45-degree entry into the downwind leg, preparing for landing, therefore I, as his roommate, on a solo flight waited to hear Bob’s request to enter the pattern. His call sign would give him away, but his gruff voice was very distinguishable and easy to identify. I had been tailing Bob’s aircraft, sped up and pulled in front of his yellow flying machine, cutting him off and led him on a 45-degree entry to the pattern. Despite being heavy on the controls, Bob was a good pilot and an interesting roommate for this 5"6-inch tall Loyola University ROTC graduate. Bob was a big guy who had rowed on one of the University of Washington competitive crew, strong and true to his size, a mild-mannered man. He often talked about his girlfriend, Martie, but didn’t seem to be very serious about her.

The next day dawned as a hot, muggy, August day. The A flight student pilots of the 3640th Pilot Training Squadron formed in military ranks outside of their barracks at 0700 hours and then marched to the flight line. Conversation was light, mostly concerning what their mission was today. There was some mention of yesterday’s accident; however, the most salient item to be learned was that those who saw the crash seemed to not want to talk about it. However, it was disclosed that the student involved was a West Point graduate and a member of the class that was a week away from getting their wings. It was the third fatality in that class. The present class, my class was 56-H, was finishing the T-28 phase and to date has been accident free, in fact there were zero reportable incidents, something not mentioned by anyone, as to do so was thought to have a cascading effect and would jinx the group. The 56-H newly commissioned lieutenants and Aviation Cadets, hoping to make it through pilot training and the Av-cads being commissioned as officers, had initially reported at the end of December at Lackland AFB, in San Antonio for their pre-flight processing and training. It was a first step in filling the shrinking pipe-line for the Air Force pilot force.

The Process

Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC)

Entering college during the Korean War kept me from being drafted as I was a 1A type of young male. I didn’t enter to avoid the draft as I was given a scholarship to play baseball, otherwise I would have joined the military and had talked about doing so until the baseball offer was given to me. Upon registering for classes I was told that all freshmen and sophomores had to take Air Science and be a member of the Air Force ROTC. I didn’t mind as I had always admired military men and their uniforms and wanted to fly, but never had so much as taken a ride in an aircraft of any kind. I had worked for a friend of mine’s father, who rebuilt old Bi-wing type aircraft and converted them into crop dusters. On one occasion he bought an AT-6 trainer from a Marine who had updated the instrument panel and he was going clean it up and sell it to a foreign country as a trainer type aircraft. He was in the business of refurbishing aircraft and then selling them to eager buyers. He flew it into the local area, Hawthorne Airport, and I went over to the airport to pick him up. I was told I could sit in the cockpit and see what it looked like. He had leaned in the cockpit with his smelly cigar in his mouth and pointed out the newer instruments. I was very impressed, even though I knew it was an old model of a WW II trainer. That was as close as I ever got into the air. At any rate the AFROTC was a boondoggle as I took an easy course in Air Science and had to march in uniform one day a week. I did learn how to march and how to salute and was very pleased when the entire corps would march in review every Wednesday. It was very impressive, as almost the entire male student body were in their brown uniforms, marching to marshal music, snapping eyes right as they passed by active duty staff on the reviewing stand. At the end of your sophomore year you could opt out, but I chose to stay. Entering my junior year, I became a flight leader and as now members of the senior portion of the corps, we were actually given a small stipend for participation in the corps. It was not a burden to wear a uniform and march one day a week and the junior/senior classes were interesting and an easy good grade, just show up. At the end of your junior year you were told you had to go to a summer camp. It would be three weeks long and it was to and acclimate you to the military way, and hone your military skills, such as getting comfortable with weapons such as a 38 or a 45 pistol and even a M-1 carbine rifle. In addition, you could take part in intense military regimens, long marching hikes in military boots, close order drill, climbing steep walls and ropes, and take part in military functions, hosted by barbaric drill instructors. It was capped off with an all-male party as a graduation benefit. I had taken the trip to George AFB in the California desert. It was mid-July and as I left the June type gloom of Southern California, I thought it would be nice to see the sun again and once clear of the mountain range I was immediately impressed at the rising heat in my un-air-conditioned car. Getting to the gate of this Air Force base, I flashed my orders (Yes, we were given military orders to report on a given day, before a certain time) at the gate guard and he directed me to the housing /barracks I was to report to. Reporting in I saw a group of my classmates, some of my baseball team-members, but there was also a huge group of others from schools such as University of Utah, Brigham Young University and UCLA. We were given a barracks to report to and assigned wire strung cots by alphabetical order. All sizes and shapes lined up to receive bedding for our multi-bed barracks housing units. We also were given shorts, tee shirts and a set of military fatigues, plus socks and boots. The time was interesting to say the least.

Once assembled we were briefed on the routines that would be followed and introduced to our DIs (drill instructors), young looking enlisted individuals, sharply attired and standing in a brace and nodding their head when their name was called. We would start at 0600 hours tomorrow and were to be dressed in our fatigues. We were awakened and fell out in the same order as our bed-given names. We were welcomed by our DIs and warm morning air and told we would march to the mess-hall for breakfast. After breakfast, our days began with drill every morning, followed by a wide variety of things to familiarize us with military life. We spent a few afternoons on the firing range, which was the most interesting and least demanding of our brief military exposure. We were introduced to the various firing arms, the 38 and 45 handguns and the M-1 rifle. All of us were warned to be careful on the firing range on the use of the weapons on the stand in front of us. Not the actual firing of the gun, but that it would be very hot, due to the 90 + temperatures of every sun-shining day we were there. We were cautioned to cover the gun with the cleaning rag on each stand. We were also taught how to safely handle our weapons and fire them. I really enjoyed that part of the training and qualified as an expert in the 38, my choice of a weapon. To say it was a torrid three weeks is an understatement as we lived in non-air-conditioned barracks, however the desert nights were surprisingly cool and sleeping was not a problem. The real difficulty were the days. They started out pleasant, but by 1000 hours the rising temperature was hard to ignore. By 1300 it was more than hot. It was like a fire standing on the firing-line or, taking part in some wild physical activity. There were no clouds and the humidity was very low, (they called it dry heat, but you couldn’t prove it by my drenched fatigues). You looked for shade, but it was hard to find and you prayed for the setting of the sun. Food was good and I was introduced to SOS for breakfast, toast covered with creamed chipped beef, it actually grew on you and was a staple whether you liked it or not. Just days before we were set to leave, the entire corps was scheduled for an induction (yes, they intended to make us enter the military after graduation; we had signed an innocent piece of paper) physical. We were split into groups, each starting one phase then going to another. I don’t believe I had ever had a complete (I mean complete) physical in my life, but I never had a serious problem with my health, so wasn’t concerned. I progressed from the spread your cheeks line to a doctor checking my lungs, heart, getting my blood pressure taken by a technician and then sent to a dental line, being told by a dentist I would lose my wisdom teeth when I came on active duty and finally went to a line checking mobility and vision. You had to display a range of motion, reaching to the ceiling and extending your arms and legs to show you could manipulate them freely. The vision line checked your depth perception using strings to pull two raised sticks until they stood even in a box a distance of 10-15 feet and then looked at a set of cascading letters to check whether you had the vision necessary to enter the military and qualify for pilot training. I had no trouble with them as I ended up seeing at the 20-15 range and was the first to pull the sticks together on the depth perception test. I was then pushed to a line to check my color perception. I was shown a book that had pages with a number with different small circles arranged in a large circle, one large circle per page. I was supposed to pick out the number hidden in the mélange of different colored circles. The technician tried three pages before I saw a number, those behind me were seeing numbers on every page. The technician actually traced a complete number with his finger on one page. I thought I saw something, but I gave him the wrong answer. They then gave me what they called a Yarn test. A gagle of different pieces of yarn in a box. I was told to pull out a series of colored pieces of yarn. I was able to pull out all the designated colors they asked for. It was easy, but despite that on my physical papers I was termed color deficient. It would disqualify me from flight training! I was incredulous as I had no trouble seeing items of different colors; I could tell a red from a green light, in my opinion there was absolutely nothing wrong with my discernment of color.

Leaving at the end of our camp time I made the decision I would not stay in the Air Force ROTC as there didn’t seem to be a reason to do so. If I couldn’t fly, what else could I do in the military? I had courses I needed to take for graduation and not taking Air Science would allow me an easier senior year in college. During registration for my senior year for some reason I took a writing course that was not required for graduation instead of the Air Science course designated for seniors and settled in as a non-ROTC student. Being 1A on my draft card, I knew, as long as I stayed in school, I would be able to graduate and not be drafted. After two days in the writing course I felt I had been ambushed as the work for that one course would dominate the first semester of my senior year. I was really looking for a way out, when one of the sergeants I had become friendly with in the ROTC unit over three years saw me walking across campus and called out to me. I stopped and we exchanged hellos. He asked me why I had dropped out of the program and I told him I flunked the color-blind test and no longer could go to pilot training. He said why don’t you come over to the office and let’s talk. When we walked into the ROTC building, he sat me down and pulled out the same book I had seen during my physical. He showed me a couple of the green and yellow number mixes and I could easily make out the required number involved. He showed me the reds and blues mixtures and I couldn’t make out the number. He convinced me that with practice I would pass that test. I’m not sure it was his words or the opportunity to re-enroll and take Air Science and drop the now burdensome writing class that convinced me to make the change, but it was a way to save my senior year class load. Everything was predicated on me retaking a physical and passing all phases in order to be commissioned and go to pilot training, otherwise I would not get that chance. I was happy with the choice I made but was unsure how I would pick out the mystery numbers on those charts. By chance my family intervened as my sister, Colleen was a nurse, working in a medical building in Los Angeles and upon hearing of my plight in one of our family suppers, offered to go to an optometrist office in the building and talk to a friend there. The next weekend she produced out of her large purse one of the books with the puzzling hidden colors and told me to study the pages and see if constant surveying of the numbers would help my identification of the proper number. The answers to each circle puzzle were on the back of the page. I proceeded to go over the individual pages, especially the ones I could not discern and after close examination I discovered a key, using the location of a pattern in each circle that would give me the answer. A number 97 had two dark blue circles bunched together in the lower, right corner of the page. Other tough numbers to distinguish had similar identifying patterns, giving me clues to the number I could not see. I was convinced I could pass the test with this information. I told the sergeant who urged me to come back to the unit that I wanted to take another physical, as I was convinced I could pass the color blind test now. He pulled out his copy of the phantom book (called the Ishihara test) and flipped to the difficult red-blue numbers and I gave him all the right answers. He said he would schedule a physical for me at the earliest possible time. It would take some time to get scheduled as that was the way things were. Finally, in an early second semester day I was told by my favorite sergeant I was scheduled to go to March AFB and take an induction physical for pilot training. It was a nice day in February with instructions to report to the base and go to the base hospital for my physical. I was to fast, eating nothing from midnight till I reported. I was to be there by 1000 hours. I was given directions to the base, but I already knew the way as I had spent summer weeks with a friends family in Riverside at their orange orchard. I had trouble sleeping the night before and had no trouble being in my car by 0630 and started to Riverside. I arrived at the main gate at 0900, with an hour to go, but showed my orders to the guard at the gate and he directed me down the main road on the base and arrived at the hospital with a lot of time to spare. I went to the main desk and was told to go into a section of the hospital where the physical would be administered. It was still early, but an airman called my name and brought me into a room and started the paperwork with me, once finished with the many pages of questions I returned it to the same individual who led me to a scale and wrote down my weight on one of the pages he had and did the same for my height. I was ushered into a room by a three-stripe airman, who took me into yet another room and checked my depth perception, range of motion my vision and pulled out the dreaded puzzle book. It was larger than the one I had used and studied. Instead of one combination per page, this had four per page. I instantly panicked, but saw they were the same ones