Calvin C. Rock, Lt. USNR, 424928 - AAR 1-53
Composite Squadron THIRTY-FIVE, Detachment “C”, Statement of Pilot: Lt. C.C. Rock, 424928, USNR
After a normal and satisfactory preflight check, I took off CVA-33, the USS Kearsarge, for the purpose of building up “Slow Time” on the aircraft Douglas AD-4N, No. 126972. The plane had recently had an engine change. Previous pilot comments noted more than satisfactory performance.
The takeoff bore out the opinion of LCDR Wright that, “We had a good engine”, as I could have been airborne on a shorter run. The plane had to be held on the deck to finish the normal deck run.
Since this was an engine run in, I reduced power settings as soon as a safe altitude was reached. The plane climbed very easily at 1750 RPM and 27” MP. AEC Percival, who was my maintenance observer, discussed with me the power on takeoff and the smoothness of the engine as we climbed to altitude.
At 7,000 feet, I cruised at 1700 RPM and 26” MP which gave an indicated airspeed of 162 knots, a most satisfactory performance for this type of aircraft.
I continued to fly at these power settings as requested by the maintenance officer, with only occasional deviations of one or two inches and about 40 or 50 RPM to relieve the monotony.
At approximately 1510, I was cleared to enter the “Dog” pattern. I switched to automatic rich and noted a rise of about 40 RPM and ½” of MP. Without descending, I repeated this a couple of times and each time noted the same approximate rise and fall with the movement of the mixture control.
Leaving the mixture in rich, (I had 1400 lbs. of fuel, and I wanted to burn more up before landing), I joined up with the two other Douglas AD aircraft in Right Echelon in the “Dog Pattern.” Although I had plenty of altitude, I misjudged their distance and made recourse to 2500 RPM and 35” MP to close the distance before joining up.
We dogged together for about 12 minutes at an altitude of about 1300 feet. I was the third plane in the right echelon. We were about 100 degrees through a 180 degree turn when I began to drop back slightly, so I moved the throttle slightly forward to hold my position. There was no corresponding increase in power.
I advanced the throttle further and noted the engine MP had now dropped to 25”. The throttle moved easily and I felt no resistance to its movement, such as its operation normally.
I checked my fuel selector and although I had about 19 PSI of fuel pressure, I flipped on the emergency fuel pump and received a rise in fuel pressure to 23 PSI in pressure. Oil pressure was normal for both front and rear, as was cylinder head temperature and oil temperature. Also, no emergency lights were on.
I continued to lose power smoothly and steadily with the throttle full open. Then, I shoved the prop pitch full forward holding both throttle and prop pitch with considerable force. When the prop when into low pitch, airspeed dropped rapidly and I began to lose altitude at an alarming rate. I moved the prop pitch to the 2000 RPM position that I had used in flying formation.
By this time the MP had dropped to about ten or twelve inches, and I was down to about 750 feet of altitude. I then abandoned all attempts to regain power. From the first indication of lack of power until entering the water, the engine did not cough, sputter or run rough. The power decrease was very much as if I myself had slowly and steadily retarded the throttle.
While I was attempting to regain power in the engine, I had completed the other 80 degrees of the turn and rolled out into the wind. I informed Chief Percival to prepare to ditch and ran over my ditching check list. Tail hook down, wheels up, shoulder straps and safety belt tight and shoulder straps tight and locked, canopy open. I started to hit the flaps but glancing at my hydraulic pressure, I saw I had about 3,000 pounds, so I decided to delay this until I began my flare out to take advantage of the greater initial drag effect to decrease airspeed at the moment of contact with the water. What surprised, in fact amazed, was the amount of time I had. I did not feel rushed and the innovation of delaying the opening of the flaps was a direct result of excess thinking.
Another emotion surprised me. I was not the least bit excited and at first, I was unable to put my finger on the source of this mental attitude, and then I thought I entered a familiar pattern, and of course I was --- my survival training had covered this with a redundancy that hovered on monotony and boredom with each periodic enforcement.
From that moment on, I was completely confident I was going to make a good water landing.
My airspeed indicated about 110 knots. I hit my flaps and began my flare out, (or breaking my glide) to gain my nose high altitude prior to entry, sat erect in my seat and kept the wings parallel with the troughs.
I felt the initial lifting effect of the flaps just wearing off as I made contact with the water. A last glance at the airspeed indicator showed the airspeed falling past 100 knots, which I realized was no longer accurate in the three point altitude I now held.
I did not feel the tail hook hit, and my first sensation was a violent shudder followed almost immediately by a tremendous impact which threw up such a wall of spray that the horizon was completely obscured. I did not know if I was still skipping, but I saw a still prop blade sticking through a break in the water. It was not bent however.
I unbuckled my chute and unsnapped my earphones and mike cord, rising in the cockpit as I did so. I left all buckles of my chute fastened, as I wanted to be sure of retaining my raft, nor did I want any loose ends snagging onto anything.
At this point, the water began raining down, that I had kicked up. It threatened to force me down and back into the cockpit, but I braced the small of my back against the canopy, put my right foot on the panel, my left foot on the edge of the windshield and cockpit, and head bowed, (but not bloody), resisted the deluge.
As the downpour slacked off, something struck me a glancing blow on the back of the head, with such force, it knocked my helmet off my head, and momentarily slowed me up.
I could not imagine what and in my resultant groggy state, I thought I was back in a TBM (a plane that I had last flown extensively in the summer of 1949 with VA-95, off this same carrier), and tore the cross piece out that extends over the cockpit. I felt the object on the back of my neck and further imagined it was the jagged edge, but by this time, the cockpit was filled with water from the deluge pouring down, and it was met by water pouring in from the sides as the nose sank, and six seconds after impact.
I rolled off the canopy into the water and yelled encouragement to Chief Percival who came out of the back, to my disappointment, without parachute, which meant one, one man life raft between us.
I spoke to him several times, asking if he were injured. I never received a coherent answer, only occasional grunts. Since he looked glazed and funny, I concluded he was suffering from shock, little realizing some of the same might be affecting me. I directed him to remain close to me while I tried to figure out what to do next.
The sea which had looked so innocent from 7,000 feet, now really began to take its toll on our strength. The spray played in our face, and this alternated with the waves which broke over us so that only occasionally could we get air into our lungs.
Finally, I noticed something odd about Chief Percival. He seemed to have a ballooned affair around his neck. It was, of course, his “Mae West”, and I thought to myself, “Why I have one of those”, and I realized I’d been treading water for about two minutes with an uninflated “Mae West” and a now soaking parachute. I attempted to inflate my “Mae West” and found the bottles were pinned under the webbing of the chute. I discovered myself most reluctant to unsnap this chute for fear of losing the raft. Breathing was becoming very difficult and it was hard to keep my head up.
I unsnapped the chest strap and popped the CO2 bottle with my left hand, retaining the upper part of the harness with my right. The chute was very heavy and the effort of taking the leg straps and bringing the packed part to the surface nearly exhausted me, although I consider myself in fairly good shape, and swimming has always been my best sport.
I found myself unable to release the snap that held the Pararaft kit and I sorely tempted to give it up and let the chute sink. In fact, I was so exhausted I found myself near the periphery of that area where any man must reach before he succumbs to exhaustion and gives up. The desire to relax and to stop regulating my breathing was almost overpowering.
I couldn’t seem to collect the strength to unsnap the catch and yet for reason I wouldn’t let go of the chute. I became aware of Chief Percival now alongside of me, and with great effort, summoned enough breathe to request him to release the catch, and he did so.
With the Pararaft kit now accessible, I felt a surge of strength, pulled it out and let the remainder of the chute sink. I opened the snap side of the Para kit after going around it three times by hand looking for
the lanyard that led to the CO2 bottle. I had not snapped it to my “Mae West”, and remembered I had not noticed it when I climbed in the cockpit. I pulled out flares, smoke signals, water softening kit, poncho, and the various other paraphernalia that was supposed to be in the zipper part.
When that area was thoroughly empty, I began to unzip the other side and it was not until I had gone around to the third side of the zippered part that I found the CO2 bottle. This operation had taken me about a total of three full minutes since I had started on the kit, and once again, I was becoming very tired.
I grabbed the top of the CO2 bottle, and my arms and hands were so tired, I was unable to tell whether I twisted, turned, or pulled the top. I was aware my motions had become effective by the sound of the hissing bottle, and the sight of the raft taking shape.
About this time the tail section of the Douglas AD slid below the surface and I noted from my watch it had stayed afloat about seven minutes in a tail high altitude, until, as the plane disappeared, the fuselage was perpendicular to the water.
As the raft inflated, the high part was toward Chief Percival and I told him to grab tight and I did the same as I did not want the wind or waves to wash it away. As it began to fill up, I noted it was upside-down. I yelled to Percival and as we started to turn it over, a heavy wave hit and assisted our efforts, but since we both clung to the raft very tightly, it did not get loose.
I wanted the Chief to get in first, but I was aware this was a little silly, since it meant we would have to reverse our positions. I slid myself in as I had been instructed to do and grabbed the top of his “Mae West” to further insure his sticking close to me.
As I lay there regaining my breath, I heard a thumping noise and looked up to see the helicopter hovering over us, the sling was lowered, and on the second try we caught it. The Chief wanted me to go first, but I ordered him into the sling. He did not start in properly, I tried to pull him out and yelled at him that he was in wrong. He, apparently not hearing me was equally determined to hang on with his method. It must have been effective, for he stayed in as he went up.
The water, which felt warm when I first went in, (it was 68 degrees), now chilled me with each additional gust of spray that hit me and each wave that washed over me. I attempted to paddle the raft to my helmet which was about 5 years away. However, I could not make any headway, and I soon tired myself at this, so I laid back in the raft, spread my dye marker, and relaxed until about 8 minutes later, when I got into the sling lowered from the USS Yorktown’s helicopter.
In conclusion, I feel, looking back at this experience, I met no situation that Naval Aviation training and survival training had not prepared me. I had every confidence the ditching would be a success and that I would be retrieved from the water once I was in. The crewman or passenger need not be in such a rush to get out as the rear compartment will stay above water level as soon as the planes nose drops about 5 to 10 seconds after forward motion has stopped. In rough seas, there may not be a distinctly difference between the first and second impact.
I was wearing the following:
- Special 58 plus 18 pants
- Field shoes
- Khaki flight suit
- Leather intermediate jacket
- 38 pistol
- Knife and sheath
- Mae West
- Hard hat, single piece sponge rubber inside
- White cloth gloves
- Shorts, t-shirt, socks
- Nikon 35 MM F1.4 camera
Calvin C. Rock, Lt. USNR, 424928
