• I Fell 15,000 Feet And Lived

Chapter 7 in author Ron Knott's book Supersonic Cowboys, a collection of forty-five Crusader stories is by Marine Corps aviator Cliff ('Jud') Judkins, reprinted here for your reading pleas . . . astonishment. Because he was able to write an account of his experience you've probably concluded that Jud survived this ordeal—but he also returned to flight status and was flying F-8s again within six months. After leaving the Marine Corps he was hired as a pilot with Delta Airlines and retired as a Captain.


JUD ! YOU ARE ON FIRE! GET OUT OF THERE !

Needless to say that startling command got my attention.

Our in-flight refueling process was necessary, and routine, because the F-8 Crusader could not hold enough fuel to fly from California to Hawaii. Soon, after plugging-in to the tanker, my fuel gauges stirred, showing that all was well.. In my cockpit, I was relaxed and confident. My thoughts were “In a few hours I knew we’d all be having dinner at the Kaneohe O'Club on Oahu."

My fuel guages indicated that the tanks were almost full. Then - THUD ! I heard the crack of an explosion. Instantly, I could see the RPM gauge unwinding with the tailpipe temperature dropping. The engine had quit – a flame-out !

I punched the mike button : “This is Jud. I’ve got a flame-out !”

Unfortunately, my radio was already dead; I was neither sending nor receiving..

I quickly disconnected from the refueling tanker and nosed over, into a shallow dive, to pick up some flying speed to help re-start the engine. I needed those few seconds to think. I yanked the handle that extended the air-driven emergency electrical generator ( RAT ) into the slipstream, hoping to get ignition for an air start. The igniter's clicked gamely, and the RPM indicator started to climb slowly, as did the tailpipe temperature.

For one tantalizing moment I thought everything would be all right.

But the RPM indicator hung uncertainly at 30 percent . . refused to go any faster.

Jet fuel poured over the canopy and the RED FIRE WARNING light blinked ON.

At the same instant, powered by the RAT, my radio came back on. And a great babble of voices burst through my earphones. Fuel was pouring out of my aircraft . . from its tailpipe . . from under the wings . . the fuel had flowed together, then it ignited in . . . a great awesome trail of fire!

I told my flight leader , “ I’m getting out! ”

I took my hands off the flight controls and reached above my head for the canvas curtain that would start the ejection sequence. I pulled it down hard over my face and waited for the tremendous kick in the pants, rocketing me upward.

Nothing happened!

The canopy, was designed to jettison in the first part of the ejection sequence. But it did not move. It was still in place.

And so was I.

I reached down between my knees for the alternate ejection-firing handle, and gave it a vigorous pull. Nothing happened.

I was trapped in the burning aircraft.

The plane was now in a steep 60-degree dive. For the first time, I felt panic softening the edges of my determination. I knew that I had to do something or I was going to die in this sick airplane.

With great effort, I pulled my thoughts together and tried to imagine some solution, as a voice in my earphones was shouting : " Ditch it !”

That suggestion must have come from the re-fueling tanker skipper or one of the destroyer commanders, because every jet fighter pilot knows you can’t ditch a jet fighter and survive. On impact with the water, it would usually destroy itself.

I grabbed the control stick and leveled the aircraft. Then I yanked the alternate ejection handle once again.

Nothing.

That left me with only one imaginable way out : jettison the canopy manually, release your seat belt and harness, then jump out of the aircraft.

I was not aware of any Crusader pilot who had ever used this World War II tactic to get out of a fast flying jet fighter. I had been told that this procedure, of bailing out of a jet, was almost impossible. The Crusader's high vertical fin's almost certain to strike the pilot’s body and kill him.

My desperation was growing, and any scheme that offered a shred of success seemed better than riding the aircraft into the sea swells.

I disconnected the canopy with my hands.. And it disappeared with a great whoosh.

To move the tail slightly out of the way of my exiting body, I trimmed the aircraft to fly in a sideways skid . . nose high and with the rudder trimmed in a ' crab ' to the right. I stood up in the seat, and held both arms in front of my face.

I was harshly sucked out of the airplane.

I cringed as I tumbled outside, expecting the tail to cut me in half ! Instantly, I knew I was uninjured. I was going too fast, so I waited . . . and waited . . . until my body decelerated to terminal velocity. Then I pulled the parachute's D-ring and braced for the opening shock.

No shock.

I heard a loud pop above me, but continued falling rapidly. As I looked up, I saw the small pilot chute had deployed. But the main, 24-foot parachute had not opened ! I was stunned with disbelief and horror as I saw the parachute's neatly arranged white folds, tangled by the shroud lines. Frantically, I shook and jerked the risers in an attempt to open the main chute.

It didn’t do anything.

Hand over hand, I pulled the parachute bundle down toward me, then wrestled with the shroud lines, trying to get the chute to billow open. But the parachute remained as a closed bundle with shroud lines wrapped around it. All the while I am falling like a rock toward the Pacific ocean. I noticed a ring of turbulence in the ocean. It looked like a big stone had been thrown in the water with white froth in the center. I quickly realized, that was my Crusader crashing.

“Would I be next to crash? ”

Again, I shook the parachute risers and jerked on the shroud lines, but the rushing air was holding my chute in a tight bundle. I began to realize that I had done all I could reasonably do.

I was just along for a brutal ride that may kill or severely injure me.

I have no recollection of positioning myself properly nor even bracing for the impact. In fact, I don’t remember slamming into the water at all.

At one instant, I was falling fast toward the ocean. Suddenly, I was very cold. And in an eerie world of half-consciousness, I thought, “Am I alive ? ”

I finally decided , “Yes, I think I am . . ."

The cold water helped clear my senses. But as I flopped around injesting water, I began coughing and retching. The Mae West around my waist had inflated. I concluded that the shrill whistling sound that I had heard was the gas leaving the CO2 cylinders as it was filling the life vest. A sense of urgency gripped me, as my mind told me there were some task I was supposed to do next. Then it dawned on me what it was. I need to get rid of the parachute! It had billowed out underwater, and it was now tugging me down.

I tried reaching down for my hunting knife located in the knee pocket of my flight suit. I had to cut the shroud lines before the parachute pulled me under for good.

This is when I first discovered that I was injured severely.

The pain was excruciating. Was my back broken? I tried to arch it slightly and felt the pain again. As I tried moving my feet, I could feel my broken ankle bones grating against each other.

There was no chance of getting that hunting knife, but I had another, smaller knife one in the upper torso of my flight suit. With difficulty, I extracted it and began slashing feebly at the spaghetti-like mess of lines surrounding me.

Once free of the parachute, I began a tentative search for my survival pack. It should have been strapped to my hips. And it contained my one-man life raft, canned water, food, fishing gear, and dye markers. Not there.

The impact had ripped it off my body.

“How long would the Mae West sustain me ? ”

I wasn’t sure, but I knew I needed help fast. The salt water that I had swallowed felt like a rock in the pit of my gut. And, here I was, solo, 600 miles from shore, lolling in the deep troughs and crests of the vast Pacific. And my Crusader, upon which we had lavished such affection, was sinking the thousands of feet to the ocean's bottom.

In about ten minutes, I heard the drone of propellers. Flying very low, the pot-bellied, four-engine refueling tanker came into view. They dropped several green dye markers near me, and some smoke flares a short distance away. They circled overhead and dropped an inflated life raft about 50 yards from me.


I was so pleased and tried to swim toward the raft. When I took two strokes, I almost blacked out due to the intense pain. The tanker circled again and dropped another raft closer to me, but there was no way for me to get to it . . then in it . . in my condition.

The water seemed to be getting colder, and a chill gripped me. I looked at my watch, but the so-called unbreakable crystal was shattered and the hour and minute hands were torn away. I tried to relax and surrender to the Pacific Ocean swells.

I could almost have enjoyed being buoyed up to the crest of one swell and gently sliding into the trough of the next, but I was in such excruciating pain.

In about an hour, a Coast Guard amphibian plane flew over and circled me as though deciding whether or not to land. But the seas were too high. And I knew he couldn’t make it down, then make a successful take-off. He came in very low and dropped another raft; this one had a 200-foot floating lanyard attached.



The end of the lanyard landed barely ten feet from me. Using only my arms, I paddled gently backward. I caught hold of it and pulled the raft to me. I knew I couldn’t crawl into the raft due to my physical condition. But I was able to get a good grip on its side and hold on. And this gave me a little more security.

The Coast Guard amphibian pilot gained altitude and flew off and found some minesweepers returning from the Far East. He was not able to tune to their radio frequency, but the ingenious pilot lowered a wire and dragged it across one of the minesweeper's bows, then rocked his wings, heading back toward me. The minesweeper captain understood. He instantly veered off and headed at top speed in my direction.


I was fully conscious during the two and a half hours it took the mine sweeper to reach me. I spotted the ship while teetering on the crest of a wave. Soon, its great bow was pushing in close toward me. Sailors in orange life jackets were crowding its lifelines. A bearded man in a black rubber suit jumped into the water and swam to me.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “My legs and my back.”

I was now very cold and was concerned about increasing numbness in my legs. Perhaps, the imminence of rescue had made me light-headed, for I only vaguely remember being hoisted aboard the ship. I was laid out on the ship’s deck as they cut away my flight suit.

“Don’t touch my legs ! Don’t touch my legs ! ” I screamed.

I don’t actually remember saying that, but then somebody gave me a shot of morphine. It erased part of my extreme pain.

An hour or so later, a man was bending over me and asking questions. A doctor had been 'high-lined ' over from the cruiser USS Los Angeles, now along side the sweeper.

He asked me, “You have a long scar on your abdomen. How did it get there ? ”

I told him about an auto accident I’d had four years earlier in Texas, and that my spleen had been removed.

He grunted, and asked more questions while he continued examining me. Then he said, “You and I are going to take a little trip over to the USS Los Angeles; it’s steaming along- side.”


They got me into a wire stretcher, and hauled me, dangling and dipping, across the watery interval between the ships.

In the Los Angeles’s sickbay, they gave me another shot of morphine before they started thrusting all sorts of hoses into my body. I could tell from all their activity, and their intense, hushed voices, that they were very worried about my condition.

My body temperature was down to 94 degrees; my intestines and kidneys were in shock. The doctors never left my side during the night. They took my blood pressure every 15 minutes. I was unable to sleep. Until finally, I threw-up about a quart or more of seawater and my nausea was relieved a bit.

By listening to the medical team, I was able to piece together the nature of my injuries. My left ankle was broken in five places. My right ankle was broken in three places. A tendon in my left foot was cut. My right pelvis was fractured. My number 7 vertebra was fractured. My left lung had partially collapsed. There were many cuts and bruises all over my face and body, and my intestines and kidneys had been stunned into complete inactivity.


The next morning, Dr. Valentine Rhodes told me that the Los Angeles was steaming at flank speed to a rendezvous with a helicopter 100 miles off shore from Long Beach. At 3:30 that afternoon, I was hoisted into the belly of a Marine helicopter, and we whirred off to a hospital ship, the USS Haven, docked in Long Beach. Once aboard the Haven, doctors came at me from all sides with more needles, tubes, and X-ray machines. Their reaction to my condition was so much more optimistic than I had expected.

So I finally let go a few tears of relief, exhaustion, and thanks to all hands.

Within a few months, I was all systems go again. My ankles were put back in place with the help of steel pins. The partially collapsed left lung re-inflated and my kidneys and intestines were working again without artificial prodding.

The Marine Corps discovered the cause of my flame-out, was the failure of an automatic cut-off switch in the refueling system. The aircraft’s main fuel tank was made of heavy reinforced rubber. When the cut-off switch failed, this allowed the tank at high pressure, to go beyond its capacity. The tank burst like a rubber balloon, causing a flame-out and very spectacular fire.

We will never know why the ejection seat failed because it is on the bottom of the ocean. The failure of the parachute is a mystery also. Like they say, “Some days you are the dog, but others you are the dog's fire-plug.”

Do I feel lucky ?

That word doesn’t even begin to describe my feelings. To survive a 15,000-foot free fall with an unopened chute is a fair enough feat. But my mind keeps running back to something Dr. Rhodes told me during those grim and desperate hours.

He said that if I had had one, the spleen would have almost certainly would have ruptured at impact and I would have bled to death, internally.

Of the 25 fighter pilots in our squadron, I am the only one who didn't have a spleen.

• "Hey, Don't I Get A Vote ?"

Showed up to brief for an EA-6B 'Prowler' hop from North Island to NAS Whidbey and the pilot, our Skipper, was major hung over after a night in Tijuana. (He took the rental car alone, and left us without wheels. Showed up at Ops the next morning in a cab. "No, YOU guys had the car. . . . Didn't you?"). Anyway we decided we had the final vote (the one stamped Martin-Baker); and he decided we were going home VFR (his gyros were still a bit wobbly) and--against our protests--he decided low-level up the coast would be fun. So we flew right through the brand new Los Angeles TCA (give you an idea how long ago it was) without talking to a soul. I still have the knee-board note I wrote to my fellow backseater that asks, cryptically, "Don't we have to talk?" He damned near lost his wings (and so did we). It's all too easy to 'check to the power' and defer decision-making to implied (or real) authority when you know better.
If the following example doesn't give you shivers, you were never there.

"Flash back to the early 70's... the war was winding down... and low and behold... some genius decided that the RF-8's were tired and worn out and they needed to be replaced by a newer aircraft... Trouble was, the only thing around was the RF-4B... and they belonged to us... the Marines.


Since most of us "Green Machine" types hadn't seen the blunt end of the boat since the training command... initial efforts were a real horror show. I was determined that when my time came... I'd rather die than look bad at the boat. Day CQ didn't bother any of us... been there, done that... Night CQ however, was a different story.

Not one pilot in our squadron had ever had a night trap.

When my turn came... it was aboard the USS Kitty Hawk. I'd gotten in my required day landings and had flown out to the ship earlier in the day to check on my troops ( I was the Maint. Officer). Also on board was newly designated CAG James Flatley. He was going through a refresher course in the F-4 at Miramar.

After attending to my troops, I made my way down to the ready room and found out that I was scheduled for the first night launch with CAG. Since we were both on the boat already ... I couldn't believe my good fortune, my first night traps were going to be "easy pinkies"... it was forecast to be a "field grade" night.

About that time, CAG came into the ready room and introduced himself... seemed like a nice enough guy... said we'd brief about 1630 for an 1800 launch. After he left the room, one of the Navy guys asked me if I knew who the CAG was? I shrugged my shoulders and he proceeded to tell me about Flatleys's C-130 caper [no-hook cargo aircraft full-stop carrier landing experiments]. Now I was impressed!



Around 1530, the ship sailed into a fog bank... By the time we briefed... the weather was "Zero-Zero". Damn the luck ! We briefed anyway and hung out in the ready room for hours, waiting for a break... No luck...

Around 2200 we decided to bag it. We secured to our respective rooms... but my back seater and I were 'wired' and found it hard to sleep ... cursing what had started out to be a good deal that had gone south with the weather. I think I finally nodded off at about 2330... only to be rudely awakened by some sailor around 0100..." Sir, CAG is waiting for you in the ready room... You're going flying! "

In a literal fog... we jumped into our bags and made our way down to the RR... There stood CAG... bright eyed and bushy tailed... fresh as a flower... as I recall, he even smelled of after shave... "Hey, let's do it", he said. "The brief is the same as earlier, except for bingo which is 4.9... So every trap will be a trick or treat... I'll go first and give you a PIREP down- wind... see you up top". With that he wheeled out of the ready room and headed up topside.

My brain was trying to absorb his abbreviated lecture as I was putting on my speed slacks and torso harness... when it dawned on me... Max trap fuel weight for the F-4 was 5.1! With a bingo of 4.9, we only had two hundred pounds to play with! Hence his cavalier "Trick or Treat" statement meant, we either got aboard or went home immediately. With such a high bingo fuel state... we were way the hell out to sea and land at [home base] Miramar was IFR. At least I thought, we'll have a thousand and three here at the boat [required for initial night CQ ] .. as my bleary eyes scanned the chalk board where I saw, " Estimated 300 overcast, ¾ mile"... " Shit, I thought! That can't be right " ?

We made our way up to the flight deck and as I came out of the island... I'm immediately slapped in the face with moisture... I can't believe we're going to fly in this crap! I look over and CAG is climbing up the cockpit ladder... in the [artificial] twilight like mist, I can barely make out him turning toward me, smiling and giving me a thumbs up! In my heart, I'm wanting to believe this is just a cruel joke they're playing on this young Marine... that at some point they'll say: secure flight operations... just kiddin'! I'd surely rather have been the butt of the joke... than to have to do this... at this time... for real! As I started engines... reality hit home... it was for real... and like it or not... we were going to do it.

CAG and I taxi up to the CAT... the boss comes up and says they'll work the pattern single frequency until turned over to CCA. CAG needed only two traps to re-qualify... while I needed to get a full bag... six.

As I cross the shuttle, CAG is in tension and is quickly fired off the bow, disappearing immediately ! As I go through the cockpit checks, I try to keep my voice as low as possible (trying not to do a Tiny Tim impersonation) and keep my heart from pounding a hole in my chest... Truthfully, Marine or not... I was scared shitless!

God never made a blacker void than off the bow of the boat at night with no stars and no moon... Only those of us who've been there... can truly appreciate what I'm saying, here... By this stage of my life, I'd been shot at... missed and hit... but never had anything make me as tense. The bad dream was about to get worse as we fired off into the void.

Just as I'm turning downwind, CAG goes over to CCA... as I turn to final... the CCA final controller comes up, fires off a staccato of instructions and ends with a terse... "CAG says it's workable".

Down the chute we came... Folks... I'm working harder than I've ever had to in the cockpit... This was not the joy of flight! It was just short of stark raving terror! CCA then says... you're now ¾ mile . . call the ball ! I glance up and nothing ! Okie, my backseater says... "200 feet"... Paddles says, "Call the ball!" Another glance and still nothing! I keyed the mike and said, "I can't see shit"! As the expletive was leaving my lips... It was suddenly there ... and I had about a nano-second before we hit the deck and caught a wire.

Unlike a day trap where one feels euphoria and exhilaration... my first night trap left me with the impression that I'd just cheated death... Big Time! Coming out of the wire and I taxied over to the purple shirts... my knees were shaking like a leaf and my boots were drum beating on the rudder pedals. Once I was chained down and taking on fuel... paddles comes up and says, "Shadow, go squadron common"... I switch frequencies... "What'd ya think"? I said... "I didn't break out until 100 to 150 feet... This is insane"! CAG replies, " I knew you'd say that... that's why I switched you over to this freq". I asked what happened to our 1,000 and three minimums... He then threw down the gauntlet... "If an old man [like me] can do it, you can too"! Why'd he have to say that? The bastard knew I'd take the bait!

It would end up being the longest night I ever spent in a fighter cockpit.

CAG got his second and blew me a kiss as I taxied up to the cat for my third. Just before my third trap [another 100 footer]... the boss tells me that the air wing is coming out from Miramar... and the pattern will get more crowded soon... After the third trap... I'm steeling myself for the last go [I thought] while taking on fuel... when all of a sudden the horror show began... plane after plane is waved off... or bolters...

I'd gotten all the way up to the cat when I had to push back and take on more fuel... one of my squadron mates initiated a wave-off FROM BELOW FLIGHT DECK LEVEL... IN FULL AFTER BURNER ! Then a Viggie hits the round down and wipes out the number one wire... at this point, I truly believe exhaustion overtook fear.

I fire off for number four and upon recovery... instead of taxiing me forward... I'm sent back to the 'grapes' once again. "What's going on?", I think...

Paddles then comes up and says... "Looks like you're the only game in town... We're going to the Admiral for a waiver if you think you can hack it... It's up to you". Amazing how they absolve themselves of any responsibility... Tired and beaten, but ego still intact... I said, "Fuck ... Let's do it"!

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than from the back cockpit, Larry, tersely says : "Hey . . don't I get a vote"?

As it turned out, approval was granted and I completed initial night qualification in one night... Six Cats, Six Traps... All the way back down to the ready room, my six foot conscience [my backseater] is nipping at my heels... and telling me how stupid we were to do it...

As we get to the ready room... there stands CAG... He comes up, shakes my hand and says... "We did it... great job... what'ya think"? White as a sheet... I responded with: "Honestly CAG, the last one was just as scary as the first one and it never got any better!" He laughed and hit me with the old cliché... "If you ain't scared, you don't belong here". He then invited us up to his room for a toddy.

Amazing how drunk you can get off one drink when you're ragged out... As we got up to go to our own room... I turned to CAG and thanked him for waiting up for us... but imbued with a little libation... I ended with... "CAG, I hope you never are the duty weather pilot again... 'CAUSE YOU'RE A LYING SUMBITCH !" He just looked at me, smiled and said : "Go on, get outta here"..

To this day, whenever I cross paths with Jim Flatley... I point him out to who I'm with and say, "You see that man over there... He's a lying sumbitch!... Workable my ass"! Every time I do this, he gives me that same twinkling smile... feigns ignorance... and says: "Get outta here".

As long as I live, I'll never forget this living Navy legend and the night he conned me into going six for six.

/s/
Shadow