A Day in the Life of a US Navy Plane Captain

Back in the mid-to-late Seventies, I was an Aviation Machinist's Mate in Attack Squadron VA-46, the Clansmen.

In 1976 and 1977, I was a Plane Captain in the US Navy, aboard the USS John F. Kennedy on a Mediterranean deployment. At sea, you worked 12 hours on, 12 hours off 7 days a week at sea (I believe this is still the standard for all deployed vessels)

Plane Captains were the entry level job for most Airmen in the Navy. You went to a training squadron (mine was the VA-174 Hellrazors at Cecil Field, FL) where they taught you to be a Plane Captain. My CO while I was there was, of all people CDR John McCain. (I know!) After that, they send you to a squadron, where after you do your time in the mess hall or anywhere else they decide to stick you, you are assigned to the Line Division in your assigned squadron. Mine was VA-46 known as The Clansmen. I came from a squadron that was commanded by CDR. John McCain, and sent to the squadron McCain was in when he was on the flight deck of the USS Forrestal when that deadly fire occurred back in 1967. I should have probably been worried at this point.

VA-46 was an attack squadron flying A-7 Corsairs, and while I was there, we transitioned from the A-7B model to the A-7E. They had a Scottish theme, we had the MacDougal Tartan and Clan crest painted on the planes, and the pilots had the plaid MacDougal tartan Glengarry hats for ceremonial purposes (Change of Command, etc) and even had kilts and spats which I saw them wear on at least one occasion. (When me made a port call to Scotland in 1976, we were treated very nicely)

So, when you get to a squadron, you become a Plane Captain. This makes a lot of sense, because you learn about the entire plane. I was an Aviation Machinist's Mate, so I worked on the engines and buddy stores (D-704 for those of you who might remember them) but as a Plane Captain, you were mixed in with Aviation Ordinancemen, Aviation Structural Mechanics, and so on.

Even though you were at sea, the compartment for the Line Division was universally called by everyone, everywhere, the "Line Shack". You made a lot of your friends here for the next several years, and some of your enemies too. If you had problems with people, they might go away when the person leaves the Line Division and goes to another shop, and you become friendly with them later. Some, you just avoid. But your friends, especially those who end up in your same shop (Mine was "Powerplants") they are the guys you would go out on liberty with to drink Peroni in Naples or out to the Los Caracoles in Barcelona.

This narrative consists of a single launch cycle, which defines your existence as a Plane Captain. You do this sequence over and over, every day. If your plane was in the hangar, you worked with Plane Captains for other planes.

You had to be available at all times during your shift to "ride brakes" and sit in the cockpit ready to jump on the brakes if the plane broke free from the tractor. This has been known to be hazardous, if I recall correctly, there was a Plane Captain lost on a Pacific carrier as he rode brakes when a wave washed the plane over the side as it was spotted on the lowered elevator. Don't remember which ship.

You didn't sit there waiting with the plane all the time, but if a move of the plane was planned, you had to be in the cockpit. Sometimes, the "move" happened as you ran up to the plane...sometimes...it took hours, or...might never happen, so you might sit in the cockpit for hours twiddling your thumbs or have someone yelling at you as you climb in wondering where the hell you have been! Before climbing in, you had to run over to the wheel well on the main mount, grab an iron pipe, stick it in a pump, and pump it so you knew there was pressure in the hydraulic system to activate the brakes if needed. (If there were chronic hydraulic leaks, you had to pump it all the time to be sure)

When the plane was scheduled for a launch, you would go on deck, and do an inspection. You would check the cockpit, check the ejection seat (ensuring the safety pins were in, and the "head-knocker" (the last safety mechanism on the seat behind the pilot's head) was "down) and the condition of the cockpit was clean with all the important switches in the default off positions.

You would take fuel samples, using your TL knife blade to insert into a spring-loaded thing that would spit fuel from the wings and fuselage tanks into a glass mason jar (IIRC) and you would examine the fuel for water. You were responsible for removing magnetic plugs and checking for metal shards, and checking oil and hydraulic filters for a "popped" indicator that would signal a clogged oil, fuel, or hydraulic filter which needed to be changed. All the while you would look for any damage to any hydraulic or fuel lines caused by rubbing or actual physical damage. You would examine the plane with a well-rehearsed and rigid walk-around similar to what the pilots do, but more in-depth.

You took the red Naugahyde covers off of all the pitot tubes (I think perhaps two of them, meant to keep out the rain or snow) and place them in the red canvas bag you would later stow in the avionics bay with the open door.

You would check for hydraulic and oil leaks. You would check the condition of the tailhook for damage, and look in the tailpipe for any cracks in the metal or visible damage, oil, or fuel. All the time, you look for Dzus fasteners that might not be fully in, and either screw them in with your speed handle or replace them before the pilot arrived. I cannot remember for sure if I carried a speed handle as a Plane Captain)

Open all the external doors to the avionics bay, check for any indications of damage, and leave it open, because on the A-7 Corsair, that was where you stored your wing-locks, main-mount locks and all the safety pins. You would need that door open to put those things in when the plane was ready to launch. They were secured firmly in there so they wouldn't move around in flight...I recall all the pins with flags went into a red canvas bag when you removed them.

Check the canopy for cracks, and using special liquid for the purpose, would polish the plastic canopy and clean anything on there, then leave the steps open and the ladder down for the pilot.

Check the gun ports for the gatling gun for damage, and coming to the front of the plane, view the radome for damage.

Before proceeding into the air intake for the jet engine, you would make sure everyone around you was aware you were diving the intake, you would take your tool belt off, ensure your pockets were empty (they should be anyway) and you would climb up and crawl into the engine intake.

On the A-7, it was a long, yet comfortable crawl to the front of the engine because it was a big intake. You would look for any foreign objects or damage, and when you got to the engine, you would examine the seal all around the front of the engine where it met the airframe, to ensure it was undamaged and in place. I recall that you had to rotate the compressor blades with your hand and look for any damage. Then, backing out feet first, you would be damn sure something didn't fall off your person as you exited. Didn't want that knife or wallet (that you weren't carrying!) going into the engine when it started.

Additionally, if there were ordinance or drop tanks on the wings, you checked all of them for security. If it was a fuel tank, you would pop the fuel cap and visually verify the fuel level in it. If it was ordinance on the pylons, you would check the ejection racks (MER-Multiple Ejection Racks) or (TER-Triple Ejection Racks) for security and safety pin placement (The lack of which was the root cause of the fire aboard the USS Forrestal) and if there was ordinance, you visually checked it for security by trying to wiggle it, and you would visually verify each piece of ordinance either had a safety pin in it, or in the case of iron bombs, a wire that went through the little propeller on the fuse and back to the ejection rack, which kept the bomb from arming until it was dropped. (When the bomb dropped, the wire was pulled from the propeller, enabling it to spin and arm after it left the plane.)

When the pilot arrived, they would do their walk-around. Some pilots were extremely thorough and did their inspection with almost as much thoroughness as you did, and you knew they were a good pilot from simply watching this. One of our pilots, a Lt. Leenhouts (The leading naval aviator with carrier traps for some time at the end of his career, in which he was a CAPT or CDR when he retired) was stellar. He was good. Some other pilots were seemingly quite lax, doing the equivalent of kicking the tires. They depended on you 100% to do your job, and I found that a little concerning. If I were a pilot, I would "trust but verify". They weren't allowed to dive the intake...:)

Then the pilot would climb into the cockpit, and you would climb up after them and help them strap in and get settled in any way they asked of you. You removed the safety pins for the seat, showed them to the pilot who would visibly nod in approval (but they would leave the "headknocker" down until you handed the plane over to the Yellow Shirts, who would direct them to the catapult) and you would climb down, closing the foot-steps and folding the ladder and snapping the door to the ladder shut.

Finally, if there is no deck well close enough to your plane to drag an air hose from, a "Huffer" (a vehicle with a large hose for air to start the engine connected to a small special gas turbine in the vehicle to blow bleed air (from its own little turbine) through the hose to the plane, and its stream of hot jet exhaust would exit the huffer from the top of the vehicle. They were very careful not to park the huffer so that this hot exhaust would be under any ordinance or aircraft part it could damage) would drive up, and you would drag the hose over from the cart and hook it up to the plane using the specialized quick-release coupling on the hose. You checked the connection, then walked up to the front of the plane just off the port side of the plane (not directly in front) so both the pilot and the "Huffer" operator would see you clearly at the same time.

You made sure everyone was ready, got the attention of the pilot, and put two fingers (peace sign) in the air above your head, and pointed at the pilot saying with that signal "Are you ready to start the engine?" The pilot would positively signal you with a thumbs up, and pointing not at the pilot but at the fuselage of the plane, you would vigorously waggle your two fingers above your head. The Huffer operator, seeing the signal, would start up the Huffer.

When they did, the big, fat, reinforced cloth tube would fill and turn from flaccid to solid, and compressed air would flow through the hose into the side of the plane. A special pipe would take that forced aire and blow it directly into the turbine blades on the turbine, causing them to turn, and since the turbine was connected to the compressor blades at the front of the engine, they would start compressing the air, forcing it into the combustion cans. The pilot, seeing the RPM reach a certain point, would put the throttle to a point that fuel would begin flowing into the combustion cans right just forward of the turbine, and as the fuel begins flowing he immediately shoves the throttle to an indent on the side of the throttle body, and that causes a gigantic spark plug (the length of my forearm and hand, if I recall correctly. I remember this clearly because I got the crap knocked out of me because I took a shock from one when removing it because I forgot to short it out first and discharge the pent-up charge stored in a capacitor. Didn't follow the instructions!) to begin firing repeatedly.

Like a gas stove being lit by a match, the first combustion can lights off, and each adjacent combustion can lights off in sequence until they are all lit off. The pilot watches (and you watch as well) for indications of a wet start (clouds of raw fuel coming out the tailpipe because the fuel didn't ignite for some reason) that might turn into a hot start (giant ball of flame if that plume of raw fuel lights off) and you communicate with the pilot on this, giving special hand signals (as if he needs them, because he can see the instruments that you cannot) to inform him of what you see.

When the engine lights off and is self-sustaining, the pilot signals you to disconnect the Huffer hose, and you do so. The Huffer drives off to the next plane to start it up.

You position yourself and wait. The pilot is organizing himself, checking all his gauges, oil pressure, hydraulic pressure, etc. so you wait. As you wait, you look at the area around you, being aware of launches, your place in the launch, orienting yourself to the time and place, making sure you know where you and your plane are IN that process.

But you also closely monitor the aircraft at this time. As the pilot is settling in and you wait for his out of cockpit attention, you examine the plane looking for smoke, hydraulic fluid, oil, or fuel. If you see anything, you immediately summon a "White Shirt" (Troubleshooter) over to examine the issue, or if it is dramatic enough (like the proverbial "cow pissing on a flat rock") you issue the universal and urgent CUT signal to the pilot by repeatedly drawing the fingers of the hand across the throat. The faster and more vigorous the gesture conveys the urgency)

If there are no problems, you signal the pilot you are removing the safety pins and locks (using, if I recall correctly the universal hand motion guys use to convey sexual intercourse, but you simply make the OK sign with one hand, insert the forefinger from the other hand into the OK sign, then retract it once...not in and out as is usually done!) and you proceed to remove the main mount locks (two large pipe shaped iron-hinged clamps with a red flagged pin that goes through the side opposite the hinge to secure them, the wing locks (for the folding wings) and any non-ordinance red flags, you show them to the pilot, he gives you a thumbs up, and you place the flags with pins in the red canvas bag and there were special storage mounts for the main mount locks where you would wrap the lock around them, close the lock, and insert the pin to keep it in place. (I recall this was done at this time because now there was full hydraulic pressure. You didn't want to remove things like the wing locks, where if there was a pressure failure, they would just fold up, hitting the plane parked next to them. At least that is how I remember it 45 years later...:) Honestly, I don't remember if we put the wing locks in the avionics bay, or if we took them below with us. They were very big, awkward, and heavy. Can't remember!)

Once all the locks and pins were stored securely in the avionics bay, you closed the door, and with your TL knife, would insert the flat end of the blade into the notch on the rectangular fastener (there were, I think eight of the fasteners for that access door) and slam the palm of your hand against the handle of the TL knife to snap it closed.

Walking back to the front of the port side off the plane just to the side of the nose, you began your checks with the pilot.

You get their attention by holding up your hand, palm out, straight above your head, patiently signaling that you are requesting the pilot's attention. When he sees you, the first thing you would do is called the "wipeout" sign. This involved making sure nobody was standing next to the plane where they shouldn't be, then putting your fisted hand fully extended straight out in front of you, and make three or four wide cirlces as if you were stirring a caldron of bubbling hot soup. The pilot would mimic your motion by cycling his control stick in several big circles as you watched the control surfaces. The ailerons on the wings would go up and down, the UHTs (Elevators) would up and down, and you give the pilot a thumbs up signifying "Your control surfaces are all functional."

Then for the first of three signals delivered in quick succession, after making sure nobody was standing in the way, you would extend your hands in front of you together with your palms together and horizontal to the ground, and open them with a "V" sign, joined at the ball of your hand signaling "Open your flaps." as you watched the flaps open fully.

For the second signal, which had something to do with initializing some kind of gyroscope, you held your hands above your head as if you were holding a softball, then made a quick three stroke motion as if you were wiping it off or polishing it with both hands. They would turn on some component, check it, and then give you a thumbs up.

Third, there was one other signal in that sequence to lower the Ram Air Turbine (RAT). I don't remember exactly, but I think it was putting your fingers on the right side of your helmet, then extending that arm straight out to the side. The pilot would extend the RAT, you would give a thumbs up, and you would reverse the signal, bringing your fingers back to the side of your head after making sure nobody was standing near it. (I am having trouble remembering this, but I do remember the RAT was on the starboard side of the plane, so I suspect that I might have walked around to the starboard side and given the three signals. I would then see the starboard flap extend, and the RAT pop out of the side of the plane. After watching it get retracted, I would walk back to the port side of the plane, check the port flap, and give him the signal to close the flaps by doing the reverse gesture of opening the flaps by bringing the palms of the hands back together. Again, I am a bit hazy on that, but that is what I think we did) The pilot, after all tasks in that sequence would wait for your thumbs up before proceeding.

For the final check, you would signal them to drop the tailhook. You looked aft, made sure it was clear, and nobody was ducking under the plane (Men have been killed where someone was scooting under the plane when the tailhook came down and crushed them and fatally injured them, this was well known, and safety on this was carefully observed) The signal involved putting your left hand, palm down, straight out in front of you, making a thumbs up gesture with your right hand, and putting the tip of your thumb against the palm of your outstretched hand. You then pulled your thumb downwards in an arc away from your hand and the pilot would drop the tailhook.

There was a damper mechanism on the tailhook that the Green Shirts (The Airframes sailors in your squadron who handled hydraulics) would adjust. You wanted that damper adjusted so the tailhook would come down steadily, but...they didn't get it adjusted perfectly, or it went out of adjustment over time, so sometimes, instead of coming down nice and smoothly, it would come down with a shuddering, slow motion, shaking as it slowly descended to the steel flight deck. That was okay, generally. But sometimes, when they lowered the hook, it would come down blindingly hard and fast against the deck, sometimes even chipping the non-skid covering, and would land with a crack hard enough to hear even through your hearing protection and over the sound of the jet engine. This would not prevent the launch, but people would notice it and submit a five-part MAF form (Maintenance Action Form, the goldenrod copy to Maintenance, the green copy to the Airframes shop, the blue copy to somewhere else, and so on.

In any case, if the tailhook came down correctly, the Plane Captain would give a thumbs up to the pilot, then, making sure nobody was in the way to get maimed by a retracting hook, give the pilot the signal to raise the tailhook by extending the left hand straight in front of you, palm down, and bringing the fisted right hand with extended thumb around in a wide sweeping arc until the tip of the thumb met the palm of the extended hand. When the hook was up, it was followed by a thumb's up.

The last thing we would do is get the pilot's attention by holding our hand up, palm out, waiting patiently to catch their eye. When they acknowledged you had their attention (I recall they didn't always give you a thumbs up in all this but sometimes, just looking directly at you and nodding their helmets, visors lowered, was how they indicated they were ready for you)

When you had their attention, you would point directly at them with your left arm fully extended, and do a chopping motion on the back of your head with the knife edge of your right hand. This was the signal for the pilot to reach above their head, and retract or stow the "Head Knocker" which they would acknowledge with a thumbs up. At this point, the ejection seat was now fully armed. If they pulled the ejection handle now, either between their legs or above their head, two large spring-loaded hammers on top of the seat would extend upwards. When the rocket on the seat fired, the two extended hammers would demolish the canopy, and the pilot would be propelled upwards through the now disintegrated plexiglass canopy.

When you got the thumbs up once the head knocker was stowed, you delivered a snappy salute to the pilot, and I recall, as a courtesy, they would return the salute.

If there was any ordinance on board, the Red Shirts in your squadron would come around, do one final visual and physical check on the ordinance (like the one done by the Red Shirts who put it on the plane, you did during your preflight inspection, and the pilot did during their preflight inspection. If the pilot was carrying something like a Walleye (optically guided bomb) you would go over, stand directly in front of the optical seeker, and hold your hand up. Presumably, the pilot would lock the aimer on your hand, then when you put your hand to the side, the seeker should slew to keep track of your hand. (I don't remember this step perfectly, but I remember doing it as a Plane Captain...not the Red Shirts)

Anyway, nobody wanted to shoot a plane off a catapult with wiggly or loose ordinance or drop tanks. People could get killed, so there were lots of physical checks. At this point, the Red Shirts would remove all the arming pins from the ordinance (including the arming pins that prevented drop tanks or MER/TER racks from accidentally being ejected while the plane was on the ground.)

When all that was done, the very last direct thing you did was deliver a snappy salute to the pilot, and I recall, as a courtesy, the pilot would return the salute. (I don't remember if they always did, but...in my memory, it seems they did. I could be wrong.)

Then, we would stand around and wait for a Yellow Shirt (and the Blue Shirts who tailed them like remoras that latch onto a shark) to come over and take control of the plane. This could happen quickly, or might take fifteen minutes or more, as you stood around cooling your heels.

When there was a space in the queue towards the catapult, a Yellow Shirt (with the one or two ubiquitous Blue Shirts) would come over and signal the pilot. The Blue Shirts scurry to each main mount, and the Yellow Shirt would give the pilot the signal "Removing chocks" by placing both fisted hands above his head with the bottoms of each fist touching each other, thumbs extended directly out to the right and the left. When the Yellow Shirt took his two hands outwards away from each other, the Blue Shirts would dutifully remove the chocks from the wheels and get out of the way.

The Plane Captain would, at the same time, furiously take the six chains off (two on each main mount fore and aft, and two on the nose gear facing forward) by hitting the metal triangular lock release on the chain, extracting the hook on one end from the plane, and the other from the pad-eye on the deck. These chains we draped over our shoulders, three on each side, by hooking the two chains running down our back into the hook of the single chain running down our chest, the nexus of the three hooked chains sitting directly on our shoulders on each side.

These chains, six of them, weighed around 75 pounds total, so walking with them could be a little ungainly. (If you had twelve chain tie-downs for rough weather, I recall it was positively clumsy. There was also a 24 point tie down for really rough weather, and it was an all-hands operation where the Plane Captains would all chip in together, carrying all the chains and helping to secure them to the pad eyes in the deck.)

Once the Yellow Shirt saw the chocks were out, tie down chains were removed, and there was nobody standing where they shouldn't have been, the Yellow Shirt would hold up his hand, palm out, signifying "I need your attention to begin directing you." The pilot would acknowledge him, and the Yellow Shirt would gesture him to increase power and begin taxiing by holding his arms to each side with his fingertips touching together over the top of his head, then bringing them apart and back together repeatedly in unison to taxi straight ahead. If he wanted him to go left, he would point with one arm straight and motionless in the direction he wanted him to taxi the plane, while he would fold and unfold the other arm above his head repeatedly until he was pointing the plane in the appropriate direction, then would begin gesturing with both arms in unison above his head extending and retracting them. When he wanted the pilot to stop, he would bring together both clenched fists, thumb-side to thumb-side, directly above his head.

The Plane Captain, with all the chains (and I think the wing locks, one in each hand) would stand off to the side as the plane taxied up to just behind the Jet Blast Deflector (JBD), then we would get off the flight deck, into a catwalk, and be prepared (in case there was a problem and the plane could not launch) to follow the plane to a spot area and tie it back down and help the pilot out of the plane.

If the plane did launch, we went below, hanging our chains on the scupper near the catwalk (I think) and were free for some period of time, maybe an hour or more. We might go eat, play cards, write letters, shoot the breeze, do some training, or if we were inclined, help other Plane Captains do their jobs in any way you could. You knew when the plane was due back, so you had to make sure you were prepared and ready, waiting in the catwalk with your chains and wing locks for the plane to return.

You would hear the Air Boss in the island say over the flight deck speaker system "Corsair 307 inbound" in that loud, metallic voice they all seemed to have, and you got ready. When the plane landed, you went to where they were going to spot the plane, usually parallel to the waist cat or up on the bow, and as they taxied the plane all the way up to the bow on the port side, across the flight deck to the starboard side, then aft to the area where the flight deck widened, you stood waiting for the plane to arrive, usually side by side with a couple of chock-carrying Blue Shirts. Yellow Shirts directing the plane in team would hand the plane off to each other until it reached its destination.

The Yellow Shirt would position the aircraft where they wanted, then give the stop signal described above. When the plane was stopped, the Yellow Shirt gave the "Insert the chocks" signal, the reverse of the "Remove the chocks" signal by bringing the fisted hands with thumbs extended together until the thumbs touched directly above their head.

The ever-present, chock-carrying Blue Shirts would rush forward to insert the chocks, and the Plane Captain would put the wing-locks in place. We would then secure the plane to the flight deck with the six chains. As soon as we got the chains on, we would run over to the avionics bay on the port side, use our TL knife in the same way we secured those latches, by placing the flat end in the release part of the latch and slapping it with the ball of your hand. We did this in rapid succession, completing the task in about 5-10 seconds. The door would flap open (hinged on the bottom) and you would retrieve the canvas bags with the main mount safety clamps, the nose gear clamp, and the ejection seat pins.

Grabbing all these, we would clamp the two main-mount clamps onto the main struts, insert the nose gear pin and give the Yellow Shirt a thumbs up. He would signal the pilot to cut the engine by pointing at the plane and drawing his hand across his throat, and then go out to direct the next plane being taxied his way, the ever present Blue Shirts in tow behind him to get positioned where the next plane would be spotted.

We took our TL knife, using the same motion to release the stair panel, extended the stair, climbed up, and released in the same fashion the foot-step recesses for the pilot. The pilot would open the canopy, we would insert the safety pins for the ejection seat, and the pilot would hand us their bag (I recall they had some kind of olive sailcloth bag, about the size of two or three stacked videocassettes with stuff in it, maybe a manual, charts, or lunch...I don't remember!)

We climbed down with their bag, and they would climb down after us. We would hand them their bag, they would mouth an unheard (over the din of jet engines) "Thank you." and then they would walk away.

We would walk around the plane inspecting it, looking for any obvious issues, close the canopy, close the footsteps, retract the ladder, and close the avionics bay. We would know if the plane needed to be re-spotted, and if so we had to stick around to ride the brakes.

If the plane was scheduled to be fueled, we would be on hand, and the Purple Shirts would come out lugging a black hose behind them once the plane was spotted. If the canopy needed cleaning, we might do it then.

And we would wait. If the plane needed maintenance, you might need to be around to ride brakes if it was taken below to the hangar bay. Otherwise, you could head below and take a break.

When your planes weren't flying, you had to wash the planes. Since there is little water available at sea, you don't get to wash planes like you would a car. There is no water hose. You have cleaner in spray cans you have to spray on the plane, let it sit, then wipe it off with rags which were delivered to your shop in large bales perhaps three feet on each side held together with baling wire. Those damn bales had all kinds of cut up clothing items in them, and the material wasn't always any good for wiping off the cleaner. Some would just smear it. The stuff was awful, all chemicals, and you would breathe it in. So, if planes weren't flying you were laying on your back, spraying this stuff on the belly pan which was smeared with streaks of oil, hydraulic fluid and fuel, with dirt and grit all mixed in. On a windy flight deck, you would spray this stuff, the foam would blow into your face, eyes, and mouth. I hated it. But it was what you did.

If the plane was scheduled to fly another sortie, you would be told when it was expected to launch, so you get up on the deck early, and begin the process all over again. I cannot remember for sure, but I don't think it was uncommon to have your plane fly two or three sorties in a twelve-hour shift. Sometimes, another one at night. I don't know if that is accurate, it has been a long time, but that is what my memory tells me.

I like your thought process!

The A-4 was a fantastic plane. I never worked on it, but my best friend who went into the Navy with me got sent to VF-126 at Miramar, I think they were the "aggressor" squadron for the ACM training, and he worked on A-4's out there.

After being a Plane Captain, I had a few more jobs.

The next job for me was the guy who goes up to each plane and figures out the weight. I had to determine the fuel in the plane, how many fuel tanks were on it and how full they were, add up all the ordinance, total everything, and show that value on a small grease board to the pilot. The pilot would give you a thumbs up. I never made a mistake in this job, so I don't know what they would have done if I got the weight wrong!

Funny, I don't remember who I gave that number to. They needed it to calibrate the strength of the steam catapult so they wouldn't rip the nose gear off, or do a cold cat shot into the ocean.

Next, I went to work in the Powerplants shop. I was now a mechanic, a "Green Shirt". I was a good mechanic, and in short time, I became a QC Petty Officer. I didn't mind that either, because it was recognition by someone that I did good work.

I was very particular and anal about my safety wire work...:)

I did hate to see poor work, because I dislike sloppiness in anything mechanical.

I got turn qualified. It was that and/or being a tow driver ashore, and I was too clumsy to be a good driver, so I learned to operate the engines.

When we went to sea again, I was designated a "White Shirt" (You know what these shirts are, the is for people who might not) and I very much liked that job. It had responsibility, and you had to think on your feet and make decisions.

One of the things that has always made an impact on the military to me is the awesome responsibility it gives to very young people. I use my own experience to relate it. As a White Shirt (Flight Deck troubleshooter) in the squadron I was in, one of our planes was on the aft portion of the flight deck, one of the last to take off in what they called an alpha strike (like a maximum effort launch, everything that could fly would go...that kind of thing)

One of our planes had oil coming out of the belly, so I took off the wraparound panel (probably 30-60 Dzus fasteners, the kind that take a quarter turn to undo) so there were a lot. I took off the panel, and could see oil leaking at a decent rate from a fitting.

I figured it would take me just a couple of minutes to determine if the leak could be stopped...cut the safety wire, tighten the fitting, if it stopped, I could re-wire it, check the oil level, put the panel back on, and be good to go.

I started working, focusing on the work at hand (my head and upper torso inside the plane) when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked down to see a pair of khaki trousers being buffeted by the wind. It was a Chief Aviation Bosun’s mate, and he was one of the senior people on the flight deck.

I stood up and put my ear next to his mouth, and he yelled “CAN THE PLANE TAKE OFF?”

I yelled back “YES. I NEED TO FINISH SAFETY WIRING THIS FITTING AND PUTTING THE PANEL BACK ON...JUST ANOTHER TWO OR THREE MINUTES.”

He yelled “OK. LET ME KNOW WHEN IT IS GOOD TO GO. THE CAPTAIN NEEDS TO FINISH LAUNCHING SO HE CAN CHANGE COURSE.”

I didn’t give it another thought, got right back in, finished the job, and the plane taxied to the catapult, took off, and I went below.

It was only later that I thought of it: That entire carrier task force, the escorts, billions of dollars of equipment and probably 10,000 men were waiting for me to finish my job so they could change course and begin the next phase of operations.

All waiting on me, an average 20 year old guy.

What really struck me as I thought of it was...this is commonplace. We do this all the time. We load the young people in our military up with awesome responsibilities, and we expect them to perform. And they largely do almost ALL the time. When they don’t, people can get maimed or killed.

Then, on my last deployment, I was specially chosen and assigned to work with the Jet Engine manufacturer, Detroit Diesel Allison-Rolls Royce who made the TF-41 engine found in the A-7E model.

They were piloting a special project in conjunction with another A-7 squadron on the West coast. Before we went to sea, they rotated our birds through an AIMD somewhere down near Jacksonville, FL.

They were trying to determine if they could predict when the engine would fail on a single engine aircraft like our A-7s. I believe this stuff is all standard on all planes now, but back they, they had nothing. So they were trying to determine if there was any possibility for predictive information.

They installed a special wiring harness to get measurements from sensors they put all over and in the engines.

Various temperatures (such as EGT) vibration, RPM, throttle position, angle of attack, airspeed, altitude and such. We had a special indicator rack with "flags" on it, and a "tape" that could write the data from all the sensors and record it all for a single flight. The "tape" was a heavy metal cube maybe four inches on a side with a female connector on the bottom.

I had a bandolier made up that could carry eight tapes at a time, and it was my job to go to each plane when it landed, remove the tape, replace it with a new one, record in a log book exactly which flags on the panel may have been tripped, and reset them.

As I recall, we didn't have to notify anyone if any flags were tripped, but we did if certain flags were tripped.

I would take the tapes to a special office, and they had a guy from Detroit Diesel Allison-Rolls Royce who ran the program.

They had a Digital Equipment (DEC) PDP-11, and I could read these tapes into memory. I ran plotting programs, manually configuring Y-Axis ranges for specially shown parameters, and having the computer plot them against time on an X-Axis, so you could print them out on a huge plotting printer we had, and you could see the sensor flight profile for that sortie for that plane.

It really laid the groundwork for what I did later in life, but I really enjoyed it. If you are interested (you might find it interesting) you can read more here:

LINK: IECMS INFLIGHT ENGINE CONDITION MONITORING SYSTEM

I had to determine the fuel in the plane, how many fuel tanks were on it and how full they were, add up all the ordinance, total everything, and show that value on a small grease board to the pilot. The pilot would give you a thumbs up. I never made a mistake in this job, so I don’t know what they would have done if I got the weight wrong!

Funny, I don’t remember who I gave that number to. They needed it to calibrate the strength of the steam catapult so they wouldn’t rip the nose gear off, or do a cold cat shot into the ocean.
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First, I congratulate you on having a fantastic memory and a talent for writing! I’ve been reading this thread you started for a couple of hours! I finished active duty in 1962, and it is amazing to me how much detail I remember from that time as an 18-20 y/o. Those were the years I became a man, learned how to be responsible and a leader.
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Next, I want to respond regarding your comments above about the aircraft weight before launch.

I joined the USNR at 17, so drilled one weekend a month in a VP squadron at NAS Dallas. After graduation from HS and becoming 18, I was on active duty. Made high scores on battery tests and was offered any Navy school...but that would have required me to extend my active enlistment (which was only 2 years). Of course, as a new 18 y/o E-2 Airman App. with no real boot camp or other Navy training beyond correspondence courses, I just wanted to stick to the contract and then go home. I said no and was assigned to fill a billet as a Yeoman on CVA-42 (FDR), V-2 Division.

Joined ship in Brooklyn ship yard and was officed with Div. Chief and Cdr. Chief was Sr. CPO on ship and also Chief MAA. Ship went to sea 3 months later and times became much busier for us in Catapults.

During carrier quals near GITMO, I worked on flight deck during air operations. Started out running the boom to retrieve the bridal after each launch and throw it into the catwalk and diving in before the next launch. ...Quite scary at first to run hard down that boom that was only about 3-4 feet wide, 60 ft. above water with only small safety nets. I eventually worked at other Cat flight deck tasks during the trials (hooking up the bridal and holdback bar), but I also watched the deck edge operator carefully.

When trials/quals were completed, I was no longer required to work the flight deck unless we were short-handed. I spent time during flight operations with headphones on and standing by the cat console to watch the operator (E-5). After a few days he let me (E-3) operate the console while he watched. ***here’s where I finally get to addressing your comment at the top***

Over the headphone, the deck edge guy would start talking as soon as an aircraft was launched. ***He would tell be the next aircraft type and gross weight. I used my knee to begin filling the accumulator in the hangar bay with steam. I then looked at a chart on my console to see the total steam pressure needed for that weight.*** As the deck edge man sent progressive info on prep of next plane for launch, I would use a crank to move catapult to launch position, with final crank coming after the Cat Officer bent to a knee and pointed to the bow. I would then repeat building up the steam for next launch.

Thank you, octex for the compliment, and thanks for serving!

(by the way-I did a short stint on the FDR back in the Seventies when my squadron sent a detachment of planes on her-I honestly can’t remember much about it, but I do recall she was not in good shape at that time. IIRC, she was the first of the three Midway class to be decommissioned.)

So-you had that critical job that simply COULD NOT be screwed up. If you make a mistake there, hear the wrong thing, or let your latent dyslexia intrude and dial in “33,750” instead of “37,350”, the plane goes into the drink and a pilot dies.

Someone may calculate the wrong number. Someone may give you the wrong number. But if you don’t dial in the right number...I knew that the information had to end up in the hands of one of the 2nd Division guys like you who manually set the equipment, but I couldn’t remember how it got to you.

Did the pilot have his own weight calculation he did, written on his knee, and I was just a check for him to double-check against? Did the pilot tell someone over the radio what it was after checking with me? Or did I give that number to someone who would tell you and also verify it with the pilot before setting it? In recounting it, I recalled it was an important task that they didn’t give to the screw-ups. (and we all knew who those guys were)

You had it right, “those were the years I became a man, learned how to be responsible and a leader”.

I had an interesting thing happen to me a few years back. I went to some kind of corporate team building thing, and one of the exercises was to pull a coin out of your pocket, and look at the date on the coin. (I think this may have been around 2010 or something like that)

You were supposed to recall what happened in your life that year, and relate it to the group.

So I pulled a quarter out of my pocket. It had the date 1978 on it.

The two years, 1977-1978 were red-letter years for me.

I was not a screw up growing up, but it was hard for me. I was a terrible student, couldn’t do well in school for a variety of reasons, and I didn’t have a great deal of self-esteem or confidence. I was gawky, wore the black plastic glasses we referred to in the Navy as “BCD Glasses” (Birth Control Device Glasses) and...just had trouble being a kid. I just didn’t understand why growing up had to be so damn awkward and painful.

When I joined the Navy, I found out I wasn’t a total dumbass. There were guys who were dumber and less capable than me, and there were, of course, guys who were sharper and more capable than me.

But what I found in the military that I appreciated, was that if you were competent, responsible, and did things well, you didn’t stay in the same place doing the same job. Like water finding its level, you would get moved to jobs that were more demanding or which demanded more responsible and reliable people doing them.

For me, as I made that transition between jobs, always moving up while many people stayed in somewhat the same place, I came to realize that someone else was telling me how good they thought I was. It wasn’t me THINKING I was good. It was other people TELLING me I was good, and doing it by the most democratically based action possible, groups of people making decisions to move people around.

I gained confidence and at the end of my tour, I realized I wanted to continue where I had always wanted to go, to college, and into the sciences somewhere. (What is now called STEM). But I knew I couldn’t handle college for STEM, and certainly not the math part of it, something I went to summer school for several years for. And at this time in the Navy, when I made that decision to leave and go back to the civilian world, I had another one of those incidents in life where someone seems to be looking out for you. In this case, it was a teacher coming when the pupil was finally ready. I was working on that special project with the engine manufacturer, and the technical representative was a young guy of perhaps 30 years old. His name was Jerry Wouters of Detroit Diesel Allison, and we had a great working relationship and became very close. One day, he asked what I planned to do in life, and when It told him I wanted to go into science, but knew I could never master the necessary math, he perked up and said “I am teaching college level math courses to the other sailors on this ship during the deployment. Why don’t you sign up, and I can help you. I’ll tutor you.”

So I did. And I got a grade of B in that college level algebra course. You have no idea what that did for me. It made me realize that if I put my mind to something, even something I thought was impossible, I could do it. Over the years, I tried to find Jerry Wouters to thank him, with no success. And after the Internet came into our lives, I kept searching, and eventually found his name somewhere. I wrote him a long letter of gratitude for what he had done, but never heard back. He may have been deceased by that time, I don’t know. But I would like to think he got it, and knew how he had changed someone’s life. I could never have gone to college without his help.

When I was in high school, my parents were on me to go to college. They couldn’t afford it, but they would have gone to the ends of the earth to get me that money, even another mortgage on the house. But I knew I couldn’t go. In my mind at that time, a “D to C” student throughout my schooling, I would have flunked out.

I always revered and nearly hero-worshiped my dad, a 30 year navy officer, so I decided to enlist, and the night I told my best friend, as he looked through a car door at me with a freshly broken nose from playing hockey and asking me for a ride to the hospital, I told him I was joining the Navy. He said “F**k it! I’m going with you!” Best thing both of us ever did.

And when I told my parents, they were warmly accepting and approved. I think they knew, in their hearts, I was not college material.

So, some thirty years later, I am sitting in this corporate team building exercise, staring down at the date “1978” on this quarter and dwelling on what I did that year, and what it meant to me, as you said...

I grew up.

That was the year I realized the future for me wasn’t a black, unforeseeable hole. I was a man, I knew what I was, I knew that I was capable and could learn, and I was free to chart my own course in life and was up to the task of standing at the helm and doing just that.

So, as I was pondering this, I was jolted out of it as the person, who had been asking each person in turn what that year on the coin meant for them, I found myself unable to speak.

I was overcome with emotion thinking of that time in my life where I made that transition.

As you said, I had learned how to be a man, how to be responsible, and how to be a leader. And thinking of it choked me up and left me unable to speak.

I knew almost all the people there, and they were puzzled by it, and possibly, a little embarrassed because they had no idea. Some time later I would tell some of them individually just what had gone through my mind that day.

But I think you know. And I think most people who have gone into the military know. I didn’t have to die in combat to gain that awareness, and for that, I am grateful. But I did learn.

Yes...my buddy and I talk about that film, and just how effective it was, especially that last scene.

For the benefit of some on this thread who may never have seen it, most guys who were in military aviation back in the Seventies are likely familiar with “The Man From LOX”, a safety film on handling of liquid oxygen (LOX)

LINK TO TRAINING FILM: "The Man from LOX"

It was hokey, and they tried to make it amusing (I thought to catch your attention span) but later came to believe that they did it as a lighthearted contrast to the hideous ending, to make it more powerful.

The video shows a young gorky guy driving a LOX tractor around, and people are trying to sidetrack and distract him. (This is from memory) I remember they have his buddies trying to get him to leave the tractor to go party with them, his parents try to get him to come home, and his girlfriend tries to seduce him, but he grinds on saying something like “Well, that would be fun, but I have to make sure I take care of this LOX” as he drives onward towards his goal.

As the lighthearted, silly teaching film ends, without any warning, the camera skips to a video, looking down a guy lying on his back in a hospital bed.

He is alive, his breathing fighting with or against a respirator through a tracheotomy in his neck. His skin is charred black. his eyes are open, staring at the camera with white eyes rimmed by blood red borders.

Even someone with no medical training who views this video of guy immediately knows that his death is imminent within minutes, if not seconds.

I have no idea how long they show that segment. I cannot recall as I write this, whether it was for five seconds or less, or for a full minute But what I recall with absolute clarity was the fare and eyes of nearly every guy in that room watching: Eyes wide and mouth open.

Someone later told me they heard the guy had been working somewhere down in Texas or Florida, and it had been a hot, uncomfortable day, so to cool off, he put the venting nozzle from a LOX trailer down his coveralls to let it cool him off.

He then proceeded to walk away and light a cigarette, becoming engulfed in flames as he did so. I don’t know if that is true, but it seems plausible.

And nobody I knew ever messed around with LOX, so the film must have worked brilliantly.

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