Quite the amazing ride
From the
USS Los Angeles CA-135 website comes
the story of Cliff Judkins who bailed out at 15,000 feet, his parachute failed to open and he lived:
CHAPTER SEVEN
I FELL 15,000 FEET AND LIVED
CLIFF JUDKINS
�Jud, you�re on fire, get out of there!�
Needless to say that startling command got my attention. As you will read in this report, this was just the beginning of my problems!
It had all started in the brilliant sunlight 20,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean as I nudged my F-8 Crusader jet into position behind the lumbering, deep-bellied refueling plane. After a moment of jockeying for position, I made the connection and matched my speed to that of the slowpoke tanker. I made the graceful task of plugging into the trailing fuel conduit so they could pump fuel into my tanks.
This in-flight refueling process was necessary, and routine, because the F-8 could not hold enough fuel to fly from California to Hawaii. This routine mission was labeled �Trans-Pac,� meaning Flying Airplanes across the Pacific. This had been going on for years.
Soon, after plugging-in to the tanker, my fuel gauges stirred, showing that all was well. In my cockpit, I was relaxed and confident. As I was looking around, I was struck for an instant by the eeriness of the scene: here I was, attached, like an unwanted child, by an umbilicus to a gargantuan mother who was fleeing across the sky at 200 knots as though from some unnamed danger. Far below us was a broken layer of clouds that filtered the sun glare over the Pacific.
In my earphones, I heard Major Van Campen, our flight leader, chatting with Major D.K. Tooker who was on a Navy destroyer down below. Major Tooker had ejected from his aircraft, the day before, in this same area, when his Crusader flamed out mysteriously during the same type of refueling exercise.
At that time no one knew why his aircraft had flamed out. We all supposed it had been some freak accident that sometimes happens with no explanation. One thing we knew for sure, it was not pilot error. This accident had to be some kind of mechanical malfunction, but what? Our squadron had a perfect safety record and was very disturbed because of the loss of an airplane the day before.
�Eleven minutes to mandatory disconnect point,� the tanker commander said. I checked my fuel gages again, everything appeared normal.
My thoughts were, �In a few hours I knew we�d all be having dinner at the Kaneohe Officers Club on Oahu, Hawaii. Then after a short rest, we�d continue our 6,000-mile trek to Atsugi, Japan, via Midway and Wake Island.� Our whole outfit - Marine All Weather Fighter Squadron 323 - was being transferred to the Far East for a one-year period of operations.
�Nine minutes to mandatory disconnect.�
My fuel gages indicated that the tanks were almost full. I noticed that my throttle lever was sticking a little. That was unusual, because the friction lock was holding it in place and was loose enough. It grew tighter as I tried to manipulate it gently.
Then - thud! I heard the crack of an explosion.
I could see the rpm gauge unwinding and the tailpipe temperature dropping. The aircraft had lost power � the engine had quit running � this is a flame-out!
I punched the mike button, and said, �This is Jud. I�ve got a flame-out!�
Unfortunately, my radio was already dead; I was neither sending nor receiving anything via my radio.
I quickly disconnected from the tanker and nosed the aircraft over, into a shallow dive, to pick up some flying speed to help re-start the engine. I needed a few seconds to think.
I yanked the handle that extended the air-driven emergency generator, called the Ram Air Turbine (RAT), into the slipstream, hoping to get ignition for an air start. The igniters clicked gamely, and the rpm indicator started to climb slowly, as did the tailpipe temperature. This was a positive indication that a re-start was beginning. For one tantalizing moment I thought everything would be all right. But the rpm indicator hung uncertainly at 30 percent of capacity and refused to go any faster. This is not nearly enough power to maintain flight.
The fire warning light (pilots call it the panic light) blinked on. This is not a good sign. And to make matters worse, jet fuel poured over the canopy like water from a bucket. At the same instant, my radio came back on, powered by the emergency generator, and a great babble of voices burst through my earphones.
�Jud, you�re on fire, get out of there!�
What follows is an amazing story of survival. One incredibly lucky man...
Posted by DaveH at July 22, 2012 7:33 PM