Rotor Review Fall 2019 #146

SAR Insurance and the No-Pickup List

By LCDR Tom Phillips, USN (Ret.)

It was a dark and moonless night,

No, really. Somewhere at sea off the coast of southern California. The Constellation Battle Group was putting the finishing touches on workups prior to deployment for what would prove to be it’s last Vietnam War cruise.

“CRASH ON THE FLIGHT DECK! CRASH ON THE FLIGHT DECK! . . PLANE IN THE WATER, PORT SIDE! MEN IN THE WA- TER PORT SIDE! . . . . . . NOW LAUNCH THE ALERT SAR HELO!”

The HS-6 Ready Room boiled over into pandemonium. Only seconds before, there had been boredom. The duty alert crew and assorted other off-duty pilots and aircrew lounging in the chairs, and mechs sprawling on the deck, holding down the prime locations, waiting for the last recovery of the night to end so the late evening movie could begin. With the ready room being located on the O-3 level just under the flight deck, all the way forward on the angle by the water stops for the waist catapults, there could be no hope of showing a movie until flight ops ended, and the noise ceased.

The chilling crash alarm, punctuated by the dreaded call of the Air Boss on the 5-MC, galvanized everyone into motion at once, triggering the adrenaline rush in the alert crew and the launch crew that only the real thing can produce. There ain’t NOTHING like

the real thing! The results, which Mack Sennet’s Keystone Cops would have appreciated, were predictable: flight deck crew racing for the door, pulling on their flight deck cranials. . . . the duty crew propelled to their feet, slinging on their LPA-SV-2's and looking around for their helmet bags. . . mechs milling about, pushing the projector out of the aisle, pushing for the exit, trying to get out of the way, and failing. . . everyone staring in awe at the Ready Room PLAT monitor. Over the din of the crash alarm came the roar of jet engines which would not go away.

The PLAT camera up on the bridge was recording an unbelievable sight. Twin pillars of white flame, pointing up in the air at a 45-degree angle, from the engines of an F-4 which WAS HANGING OVER THE PORT SIDE OF THE SHIP. The PLAT image was quickly confirmed by the flight deck launch crew pouring back through the hatch leading in from the catwalk under the overhang of the angle deck. They ran full into the face of the alert crew trying to crowd through the light trap and out the hatch in the opposite direction.

“The ladder’s blocked! A Phantom is hanging over the side with the engines in burner! The crew has ejected!”

Another Mack Sennet scene for an instant, quickly sorting itself out, as the cooler heads pushed through the melee and sprinted down the passageway leading to the interior of the ship and to the hated Circular Zebra fitting (a vertical manhole in the bulkhead about waist high) connecting our little world out under the angle with the heart of the ship. Men bent double in a classic hurdler’s form to most rapidly slip through the fitting, barking shins and scraping backs on the knife edges of the hatch in their haste. Once through the Zebra fitting bottleneck, they raced athwartships to the starboard side, up the ladder to the island, and out to the flight deck, to the alert helo, folded up, nose to the island in the helo-hummer pack.

Those of us not involved in the launch took turns at the door, peering cautiously along the gallery under the deck edge at the roaring fighter plane, hands over ears, and mouths agape trying to counter the terrible din. The plane was poised nose-down, hanging

over the side of the ship, held precariously by one landing gear lodged in the catwalk. First one, then the other engine flamed out as the afterburner consumed the remaining fuel, mercifully ending the ungodly roar. From our vantage point, we couldn’t see that the fighter was really held by the arresting gear cross deck pendant pulled out to its limit and still attached to the tail hook.

The fighter had landed in a left drift and left of centerline, engaged the arresting wire with the hook, and continued right over the side. As the plane rolled left and nosed over the edge, the crew ejected. The RIO’s seat went first, as advertised. The fighter was at about 30 degrees nose down and 45 degrees left wing down when the seat fired. He got separation and a chute, and maybe a swing or two before water entry. The pilot was not so lucky. His seat firing last, the plane was already at 70 to 80 degrees wing down and about the same nose down when he went out, skipping across the water a couple of time while still in the seat, and finally separating from the seat while perhaps submerged; he doesn’t remember. Nor does he remember anything else pertaining to his rescue that night.

The plane guard helo, (Indian Gal 710), piloted by Lieutenant “Pete” Peterson, and LT(jg) Terry Huff, was quickly on the scene from starboard delta. What they saw was about as vertigo-inducing as anyone could conjure in his most dreaded SAR rescue nightmare. First, the profound blackness of a moonless overcast night far at sea. Landlubbers can only try to imagine the total absence of light. It is impossible to duplicate outdoors ashore. A windowless basement at night comes close, but absent is awareness of the vast emptiness of the sea. Then, the absolute contrast of stark white from the afterburners, lighting up the flight deck and a little sea surface right around the ship, providing no useful illumination but only serving to intensify the darkness of the night itself. The white light from the afterburners obliterates the carefully cultivated night adaptation

for the helicopter crew as they swing around the stern of the carrier and into the SAR area.

Dozens of flashlights undulate in the gentle swells, cast over the side by the flight deck personnel to mark the area as they realize people are in the water. They carpet the wake of the ship for a mile in an uneven highway of tiny firefly specks. Then the afterburner flames out, plunging the now nightblind helicopter crew into blackness. Finally, searchlights snap on from the plane guard destroyer nudging into the carpet of flashlights. Well-intentioned sailors sweep the searchlights right and left, looking for signs of the downed airmen. Their beams are lost in the darkness. There is no wind and the sea is flat except for the huge lazy swells, originating from some distant storm, well beyond range to have any other influence on the proceedings except to provide the complete overcast responsible for the darkness. It’s the kind of sea that causes Doppler navigation radars to spend most of their time in “memory” unable to get a useable return from the smooth water. Without the Doppler, the automatic hover equipment of the SH-3 has no reference, and the helicopter cannot perform its unique technological miracle, maintaining a stable hover without any visual cue for the pilots. Pete Peterson had previously reported that his Doppler is inoperative in the smooth sea. . . . too late, unfortunately, to launch a replacement before the scheduled night recovery time, which will wait for no man. The ship decided to go ahead without delaying the recovery, after all, there is the backup alert helo, the plane guard destroyer, and what are the chances. . . . .

Off to the side of the carpet of flashlights is a single strobe light. No sign of a second light. No radio call on Guard. No beeper. There’s no wind and the ship is coasting to a stop a mile from the scene, trying to secure the fighter hanging over the side, and clear the deck to launch the alert helo. The alert launch is not going quickly enough. The extended arresting gear cross-deck pendant, under tension

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holding the fighter from falling over the side, is blocking the movement of aircraft. No time to wait. There is one man to be rescued for sure. Go for him!

Pete conducts a no-horizon, no-Doppler, manual approach to the strobe, using all the skill and experience the crew can muster. The approach to the strobe is a little long in the absence of the normal headwind, with the helicopter achieving a serviceable hover about 75 yards beyond the man in the water. “Survivor’s in sight, five o’clock, seventy-five yards.” reports AWC Gary Davey, the first crewman.

“Roger, you have verbal control. Terry, switch on the flood and hover lights" said LT Peterson.

LT Peterson and Chief Davey were the nucleus of a seasoned crew. LTJG Huff had been flying with them for a couple of weeks during the ORE now in progress. They had been racking up a lot of time together and had been practicing for just such a scenario as they now faced. With the notoriously poor performance of the APN-130 Doppler Navigation Radar in low sea states, Pete had been exercising his crew in no-Doppler verbal control on day flights, and on recent night hops when the moon had been full and the Doppler had been working to provide backup. They had used the flood and hover lights effectively, when there had been a dim horizon to help. They had confidence that they could accomplish a night no-Doppler pickup in an emergency.

When the lights flicked on. . . instant white-out! The recirculating vortex of rotor wash droplets reflects the light back into the pilot’s faces, and there isn’t enough wind to move the rotor wash away from the helicopter. The helicopter is immersed in a cloud of spray. The pilots are unable to see the water.

“Cut the lights!. That’s not going to work tonight! Chief, you’ve got it.”

So much for that technique. Usable with some horizon and a little wind, but no good tonight.

“Roger, easy back . . . easy back. . . five o’clock, seventy yards . . “

The pilots are on the gauges, their only reference for flight, the words of Chief Davey. The hover indicator bars are dead, crossing at the center of the hover indicator gauge, falsely indicating a stable hover, mocking the pilots. The urge to glance outside at the seductive and deadly miscue of the rotor wash radiating out from under the helicopter is strong.

A searchlight sweeps by the cockpit. They seem to be trying to illuminate the water under the helicopter. Trying to help, but the moving shadows, and the blanche of light on the instrument panel, and the constantly changing reflection off the plexiglas cockpit windows does nothing but harm. Vertigo City!

“Boss, secure the g’*#&@*m searchlights! They’re not helping anything and they are giving us vertigo!”

“Roger 710, we’ll get right on it, but it’ll take a minute.” replies the Air Boss. “Easy back . . . Six o’clock, forty yards. . . watch your altitude. . . You’re a little low. . . easy back, drifting left. . . :

Chief Davey calmly keeps the verbal control flowing in a slow, regular cadence. Direction, bearing, distance, pause, direction, bearing, distance, pause. A low growl, slow, careful enunciation. NATOPS standard phraseology, no extraneous words, no creative excursions. Sticking with proven procedures to ensure the words are clear, the meaning unmistakable. No inflection. Nothing to transmit tension, agitation, excitement, or panic. Soothing. Chief Davey’s technique is proven over the countless hours as the best method to get through the ICS noise, occasional distortion, and the interference of external radio calls. With his technique, J.O.’s believed that Chief Davey could tell a pilot that his flight suit was on fire, without alarming him. “We’re low, watch altitude. Stop back. Steady, steady, steady.”

The voice is still calm, but hours of practice as a crew allows the slight inflection difference and cadence change to transmit a clear message to the pilot. The helicopter is wavering a little too

unsteadily, corrections are diverging, and increasing in magnitude ever so slightly, heading for trouble. Catch it now is the admonishment, unstated, but clear to Pete. Vertigo is reaching out, with one cold clammy fist in the pit of the stomach, twisting, and the other’s hot fingers digging into the temples from inside behind the eyebrows. “Roger Chief, we’ve got it now.” replies Pete to the Chief’s subliminal message. “Terry, forget the throttles, take the collective, keep us at forty feet no matter what happens. If an engine fails, the throttles won’t make any difference, we’ll go into the water anyhow with these light winds so forget them. O.K. Chief, you’ve still got it.”

“Roger, Sir, easy back . . easy right . . . Four o’clock, thirty yards, altitude is good. . .”

This unusual technique of splitting the control, practiced under better conditions, works better than the flood and hover lights gambit.

“Indian Gal 710, Tower, we’re having some delay with the launch of your playmate because of the foul deck. Do you need anything we can provide? Over.”

“Boss, I’ve got my hands full right now, don’t call me, I’ll call you. Out.” On the ICS, Pete mutters, “Dammit, forgot to switch off the mixers before the approach. Get the mixers, Terry.”

To his everlasting credit, the Air Boss, a Commander and a man in a position of huge power, instantly realizes his mistake, and takes immediate action to make sure no one else makes it too. “Ninety-nine, War Chief Tower, switch button six alternate, now. Will advise SAR progress. War Chief out.”

Every Constellation aircraft airborne gets the message. No talking on Tower frequency until the SAR is complete.

“Stop back. . . easy right, survivor in sight three o’clock, twenty yards. . . easy right. . . swimmer ready. . . . permission to lower the swimmer.” “Roger, lower the swimmer.” “Roger, easy right. . . two thirty. . . fifteen yards. . . drifting back a little. . . stop back, easy right. . . easy forward,

ten yards. . . Stop forward, easy right, looking good. . . Swimmer going down . . . Easy right, three o’clock, five yards. . . swimmer half way down. . . five yards . . . five yards, easy right. . . Three yards, one yard . . . stop right, on top, steady, steady, steady.”

“Swimmer in the water . . . Swimmer O.K. . . . steady, steady, steady . . .”

“Mr. Pete, he’s swimming AWAY from the survivor. Steady, steady, steady.”

“What? O.K. Stay on top of this guy, Chief. Gibson’s a SAR swimmer, and he has his float gear. We’ll get him later.”

Pete flashes the flood and hover lights, the signal to recall Gibson, the swimmer. . . To no avail. He swims out of sight.

Just what was going on with Airman Gibson, anyway? As Gibson was descending on the hoist, he caught a reflection off something out in the dark. Not sure what it was, and unable to talk with the helicopter to explain this unusual situation, he took the initiative himself. Seeing immediately that the RIO was apparently unhurt, he swam off in the direction that the reflection had been seen, rather than risk losing the bearing while tending to the RIO first. Out in the black, beyond the range of vision of the men in the helicopter, he found the missing pilot, unconscious, injured; a broken arm and broken leg, and held only partially clear of the water by a half inflated and slowly deflating LPA.

The RIO hooked himself up to the rescue hook without incident and was hoisted safely. As the RIO was being brought into the cabin, Gibson, some 75 yards away, pops his day-night flare, marking his position and indicating his readiness for pickup. The hover over to his position and pickup was relatively easy within the context of the conditions for THIS night. After all, everything is relative. The whole rescue had taken just 17 minutes from plane in the catwalk to survivors on the flight deck.

The No Pickup List

There is an aviation tradition in the Navy, which is certainly politically incorrect in this day and age. It is that an aviator who, in a time of life-threatening need at sea, avails himself of the services of one of the fleet’s angels, be it HS helicopter, LAMPS helicopter, or VERTREP helicopter, obligates himself to provide to the pilot and rescue swimmer of said angel, a fifth of the alcoholic spirits of their choice. This is a healthy tradition, and, in these times of improving safety, does not potentially threaten the health of fleet angels as much as it has in times past when the mishap rate was such that an active career helicopter pilot, honor bound to drink the health of the life he saved, with the savee’s own liquor, could seriously damage his liver and become a burden to the health care system in later years.

In the case described above, the RIO, who shall remain nameless, declared that HIS ejection seat had worked perfectly, HIS chute had deployed in time, HIS LPA had inflated properly, HIS strobe had flashed correctly, etc, etc, and that all the helicopter did was give him a ride back to the ship! He had no intention of buying anyone any liquor.

The RIO’s refusal to acknowledge the rescue, not only of himself, but of his pilot who would not be alive today had it not been for the rescue helicopter crew, became a cause celebre within HS-6. We took our rescue business seriously, and as helicopter pilots, we took justifiable pride in the fact that part of our mission was to SAVE lives directly, not just to bomb, strafe, or torpedo the enemy. It has always been a strong facet of the helicopter community which sets us apart from most of the rest of carrier aviation.

Never mind that the RIO had a point about being merely picked up versus being rescued. Let’s face it, the vast majority of “rescues” are merely pickups. Very few are actual saves in extremis, as much as we would like to classify them as such.

Heresy you say? Easy now. This heresy is backed up by studies from

the Naval Safety Center which has statistical proof that the time for the helicopter to arrive overhead, is not a determining factor in the probability of rescue. In other words, we usually make pickups of survivors who have saved themselves for us to “rescue.” Of course, a timely rescue preempts all manner of unknown dangers from ever happening out there in the deep blue sea. AND there are just enough rescues in extremis to make the word rescue fit, even if statistically insignificant (except to the rescuee). The RIO’s pilot was certainly one of the few.

To continue, shortly after the “rescue”, several of us fleet angels were assembled in the dirty shirt locker, enjoying some auto-dog and sliders at mid-rats. We were in the informal wardroom up forward where aviators and flight deck personnel, in “dirty shirts” could eat without the requirement to “dress up” or use good manners like the snipes, chops, docs, and various other “shoes” and captive airedales doing their disassociated ship’s company tour. We were dining on soft ice cream from the automatic dispenser, and on hamburgers during the midnight meal.

Who should walk in but the RIO of the above incident.

“There he is.” said one of us, pointing him out to the others, so there would be no mistaking him.

“That guy’s on my no-pickup list,” growled one of our number, whose identity is, sadly, lost to posterity.

“What’s that about a no pickup list?” asked a Corsair pilot nearby. We fleet angels looked at each other for a moment and shared complete and unspoken understanding of the serendipity which was unfolding.

“There’s no such thing as a no pickup list.” one of us declared slowly and perhaps a little too loudly. Too quickly, though, for the satisfaction of the A-7 pilot who had asked.

“Yeah? What were you guys just saying about a no pickup list then?” Other restricted aviators nearby stopped

their conversation and shamelessly eavesdropped.

“Nothing,” two of us protested together.

“Never heard of such a thing,” declared another jet jock.

“That’s because there isn’t any such thing,” we assured them, quite truthfully. Alas, sometimes the truth will not be heard, no matter how earnestly it is proclaimed. We tried our very BEST to convince those guys that there is no such thing as a no pickup list, but the more we protested its non-existence, the LESS we were believed. Finally, we left the restricted aviators to themselves, and retired in silence.

The next day, I was approached by an old college acquaintance of mine, who was in the A-6 squadron.

“Tom,” he inquired, after beating around the bush with a hail fellow well met salutation, a solicitous inquiry into my health, and the observation that he hadn’t seen me in a while, and that was certainly going to change, and how was I anyway? “What’s this about a no pickup list?” “No such thing,” I assured him with all sincerity.

“Come on, we’re old classmates, tell me about it. Who’s on it, anyway, LT RIO for sure, anybody else? How do they get on it?”

“There’s no such thing shipmate. You’re in no danger of being on it. . if there was such a thing, which there isn’t. You’ve never crossed a helo pilot before, so don’t worry about it. Listen, gotta run, don’t worry about it, ole bud.”

I hurried to the ready room to fill in my fellow Raunchy Redskins about this interesting encounter. That day, and over the next few, there were similar conversations between acquaintances around the air wing and various Redskins. One of us was approached by a J.O. from the electric A-6 squadron with a fifth of Jack Daniels (sealed properly, from the squadron’s admin ashore stock, no doubt). We were to consider it a demonstration of support for the great traditions of aviation, which they were proud to uphold, and

please accept their apologies for the fighter RIO. Before long, we had collected fifths from J.O. groups representing every squadron in the air wing, including the fighter squadron in question.

Pocket Check List

That was not enough for that squadron’s C.O., who visited our ready room and formally presented a fifth of Pinch, in velvet bag, on behalf of his squadron, his entire squadron. A cut above the ordinary stuff. How interesting.

Soon after though, it all came to an end with a visit from CAG. He entered the ready room to address the J.O.’s and came right to the point.

“Guys, you’ve had your fun. Its all been pretty funny and I’ve really enjoyed it. But it’s time to knock it off. Some of the tailhook J.O.’s are really believing this stuff about a no pickup list and it’s starting to affect their morale. The senior officers have reassured them that there’s no such thing as a no pickup list and that it’s all a con. But some of the J.O.’s still aren’t buying it. So knock off all this no pickup list stuff and tell them the truth.”

We protested our innocence, and tried to tell him that we never told anybody that there was such a list. To no avail. He reiterated his direction to us and turned to go, venturing over his shoulder as he stepped through the door,

“There’s no such thing as a no pickup list and the J.O.s have to be convinced of it, right?” “Right CAG,” we chorused. He gave us a confident smile. We smiled back. His smile turned into a funny, quizzical grin as he disappeared through the door.

SAR Insurance

Shortly afterwards, there appeared very official looking forms for SAR Insurance from Calumet Casualty and Life, (copies of which have not survived. possibly because of the dim view taken by CAG and his staff). Small stacks found their way to every ready room. The form featured varying levels of coverage beginning with the basic coverage (Day-VFR), more comprehensive coverage (Night-VFR), and premium coverage (Night-IFR). Special coverage consisted of night-no Doppler. Payment was in multiples of fifths of spirits - in advance. Additional installments being paid during every port of call. The amount of installments depended on the level of coverage the insured wished to retain. Successful SAR, said the fine print, was underwritten and guaranteed to conscientious premium payers and subject to automatic cancellation should the insured find himself on the no pickup list.

We were visited by CAG again…..We had a good cruise, never lacking for good spirits and good camaraderie, but drinks at the bar are not good SAR insurance. The real premiums are paid by the angels every time one more simulated rescue is practiced on a dark night in starboard delta, when the crew expands its performance envelope just a little more, with just one more simulation of adverse conditions under proper training conditions, when it would be a lot less hassle to take a few more laps around delta at a comfortable safe altitude instead.

Author's Note

The RIO bought Pete a beer at happy hour in the Cubi O-Club later in the cruise. Must have cost him ten whole cents, maybe fifteen. A class act to the end. We never had occasion to pick him up again. Good thing for him, because, if there was such a thing as a no pickup list, he’d be on it. But, of course, there is no such thing as a No Pickup List.

Rotor Review #146 Fall‘19