Jud! You are on fire
Source : Chapter 7 in author Ron Knott's new book : ' SUPERSONIC<br>COWBOYS '
(sharing forty-five Crusader stories) " I Fell 15,000 Feet<br>And Lived " by Cliff Judkins [abridged]
CHAPTER<br>SEVEN
FELL 15,000 FEET AND LIVED<br>CLIFF<br>JUDKINS
"Jud, you’re<br>on fire, get out of there!"
Needless<br>to say that startling command got my attention. As you will read in<br>this report, this was just the beginning of my problems!
It had<br>all started in the brilliant sunlight 20,000 feet above the Pacific<br>Ocean as I nudged my F-8 Crusader jet into position behind the<br>lumbering, deep-bellied refueling plane. After a moment of jockeying<br>for position, I made the connection and matched my speed to that of the<br>slowpoke tanker. I made the graceful task of plugging into the trailing<br>fuel conduit so they could pump fuel into my tanks.
This<br>in-flight refueling process was necessary, and routine, because the F-8<br>could not hold enough fuel to fly from California to Hawaii. This<br>routine mission was labeled "Trans-Pac," meaning Flying Airplanes<br>across the Pacific. This had been going on for years.
Crusaders in-flight<br>refueling from a C-130 Tanker
Soon, after plugging-in to the<br>tanker, my fuel gauges stirred, showing that all was well. In my<br>cockpit, I was relaxed and confident. As I was looking around, I was<br>struck for an instant by the eeriness of the scene: here I was,<br>attached, like an unwanted child, by an umbilicus to a gargantuan<br>mother who was fleeing across the sky at 200 knots as though from some<br>unnamed danger. Far below us was a broken layer of clouds that filtered<br>the sun glare over the Pacific.
In<br>my earphones, I heard Major Van Campen, our flight leader, chatting<br>with Major D.K. Tooker who was on a Navy destroyer down below. Major<br>Tooker had ejected from his aircraft, the day before, in this same<br>area, when his Crusader flamed out mysteriously during the same type of<br>refueling exercise.
At<br>that time no one knew why his aircraft had flamed out. We all supposed<br>it had been some freak accident that sometimes happens with no<br>explanation. One thing we knew for sure, it was not pilot<br>error. This accident had to be some kind of mechanical malfunction, but<br>what? Our squadron had a perfect safety record and was very disturbed<br>because of the loss of an airplane the day before.
"Eleven<br>minutes to mandatory disconnect point," the tanker commander said.
checked my fuel gages again, everything appeared normal.
My<br>thoughts were, "In a few hours I knew we’d all be having dinner at the<br>Kaneohe Officers Club on Oahu, Hawaii. Then after a short rest, we’d<br>continue our 6,000-mile trek to Atsugi, Japan, via Midway and Wake<br>Island." Our whole outfit - Marine All Weather Fighter Squadron 323 -<br>was being transferred to the Far East for a one-year period of<br>operations.
"Nine<br>minutes to mandatory disconnect."
My<br>fuel gages indicated that the tanks were almost full. I noticed that my<br>throttle lever was sticking a little. That was unusual, because the<br>friction lock was holding it in place and was loose enough. It grew<br>tighter as I tried to manipulate it gently.
Then<br>- thud!<br>I heard the crack of an explosion.
could see the rpm gauge unwinding and the tailpipe temperature<br>dropping. The aircraft had lost power – the engine had quit running –<br>this is a flame-out!
punched the mike button, and said, "This is Jud. I’ve got a<br>flame-out!"
Unfortunately, my radio was already dead; I was neither sending nor<br>receiving anything via my radio.
quickly disconnected from the tanker and nosed the aircraft over, into<br>a shallow dive, to pick up some flying speed to help re-start the<br>engine. I needed a few seconds to think.
yanked the handle that extended the air-driven emergency generator,<br>called the Ram Air Turbine (RAT), into the slipstream, hoping to get<br>ignition for an air start. The igniters clicked gamely, and the rpm<br>indicator started to climb slowly, as did the tailpipe temperature.<br>This was a positive indication that a re-start was beginning. For one<br>tantalizing moment I thought everything would be all right. But the rpm<br>indicator hung uncertainly at 30 percent of capacity and refused to go<br>any faster. This is not nearly enough power to maintain<br>flight.
The<br>fire warning light (pilots call it the panic light) blinked on. This is<br>not a good sign. And to make matters worse, jet fuel poured over the<br>canopy like water from a bucket. At the same instant, my radio came<br>back on, powered by the emergency generator, and a great babble of<br>voices burst through my earphones.
"Jud, you’re on fire, get out of<br>there!"
Fuel<br>was pouring out of my aircraft; from the tailpipe; from the intake<br>duct; from under the wings, and igniting behind me in a great awesome<br>trail of fire.
The<br>suddenness of the disaster overwhelmed me, and I thought: "This can’t<br>be happening to me!"
The<br>voices in my ears kept urging me to fire the ejection seat and abandon<br>my aircraft.
pressed my mike button and told the flight leader, "I’m getting out!"
took my hands off...