Tuesday, March 6, 2012

When you're having a bad day

From:
Sent: Friday, March 23, 2012 6:51 PM
To:
Subject: Fw: When you're having a bad day

pilot survives..FALL 15,000 FEET AND LIVED
When you read this you are going to say it was made-up - well it's REAL. 


As you see from an article in the Atlanta Journal, the pilot spoke at a
Breakfast in Atlanta earlier this year.

Pilot who plunged 15,000 feet to speak on April 2


By David Wickert

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

Retired Delta Capt. Cliff Judkins will speak at 10:30 a.m. April 2 at the
Experimental Aircraft Association Sport Aviation Center , 690 Airport Road
at Gwinnett Countys Briscoe Field.


Judkins served in the United States Marines and in 1963 plunged 15,000 
feet after abandoning his crippled F8 Crusader jet over the Pacific Ocean . His
parachute failed to open and he plummeted into the sea, suffering broken
legs and other injuries.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When you're having a bad day remember this story and the fact it could be
much worse.

It's amazing this pilot survived..
FELL 15,000 FEET AND LIVED.... story of 1st LT Cliff Judkins, USMC
(6/19/1963)

"Jud you're on fire, get the hell 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.

Crusaders in-flight refueling from a C-130 Tanker

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 gauges 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 are on fire, get out of there!
>
> Fuel was pouring out of my aircraft; from the tailpipe; from the intake
> duct; from under the wings, and igniting behind me in a great awesome 
> trail
> of fire.
>
> The suddenness of the disaster overwhelmed me, and I thought: This can't
> be happening to me!
>
> The voices in my ears kept urging me to fire the ejection seat and abandon
> my aircraft.
>
> I pressed my mike button and told the 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, which would
> send me rocketing upward, free of the aircraft.
>
> Nothing happened! The canopy, which was designed to jettison in the first
> part of the ejection sequence did not move. It was still in place and so 
> was
> I.
>
> My surprise lasted only a second. Then I reached down between my knees for
> the alternate ejection-firing handle, and gave it a vigorous pull.
> Again, nothing happened. This was very surprising. Both, the primary, and
> the secondary ejection procedures had failed and I was trapped in the
> cockpit of 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. There was no way 
> out
> of it. With great effort, I pulled my thoughts together and tried to 
> imagine
> some solution.
>
> A voice in my earphones was shouting: Ditch the plane! Ditch it in the
> ocean!
>
> It must have come from the tanker skipper or one of the destroyer
> commanders down below, because every jet pilot knows you can't ditch a jet
> and survive. The plane would hit the water at a very high a speed, flip
> over and sink like a stone and they usually explode on impact.
>
> I grabbed the control stick and leveled the aircraft. Then I yanked the
> alternate handle again in an attempt to fire the canopy and start the
> ejection sequence, but still nothing happened. That left me with only one
> imaginable way out, which was to jettison the canopy manually and try to
> jump from the aircraft without aid of the ejection seat.
>
>
> Was such a thing possible? 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. I had
> been told that this procedure, of bailing out of a jet, was almost
> impossible. Yes, the pilot may get out of the airplane but the massive
> 20-foot high tail section is almost certain to strike the pilot's body and
> kill him before he falls free of the aircraft. My desperation was growing,
> and any scheme that offered a shred of success seemed better than riding
> that aircraft into the sea, which would surely be fatal.
>
> I disconnected the canopy by hand, and with a great whoosh it disappeared
> from over my head never to be seen again. Before trying to get out of my
> confined quarters, I trimmed the aircraft to fly in a kind of sidelong 
> skid:
> nose high and with the tail swung around slightly to the right.
>
> Then I stood up in the seat and put both arms in front of my face. I was
> sucked out harshly from the airplane. I cringed as I tumbled outside the
> bird, expecting the tail to cut me in half, but thank goodness, that never
> happened! In an instant I knew I was out of there and uninjured.
>
> I waited . . . and waited . . . until my body, hurtling through space, 
> with
> the 225 knots of momentum started to decelerate. I pulled the D-ring on my
> parachute, which is the manual way to open the chute if the ejection seat
> does not work automatically. I braced myself for the opening shock. I 
> heard
> a loud pop above me, but I was still falling very fast. As I looked up I
> saw that the small pilot chute had deployed. (This small chute is designed
> to keep the pilot from tumbling until the main chute opens.) But, I also
> noticed a sight that made me shiver with disbelief and horror! The main,
> 24-foot parachute was just flapping in the breeze and was tangled in its 
> own
> shroud lines. It hadn't opened! I could see the white folds neatly
> arranged, fluttering feebly in the air.
>
> This is very serious, I thought.
>
> Frantically, I shook the risers in an attempt to balloon the chute and 
> help
> it open. It didn't work. I pulled the bundle down toward me and wrestled
> with the shroud lines, trying my best to get the chute to open. The
> parachute remained closed. All the while I am falling like a rock toward 
> the
> ocean.
>
> I looked down hurriedly. There was still plenty of altitude remaining.
> I quickly developed a frustrating and sickening feeling. I wanted
> everything to halt while I collected my thoughts, but my fall seemed to
> accelerate. I noticed a ring of turbulence in the ocean. It looked like a
> big stone had been thrown in the water. It had white froth at its center; 
> I
> finally realized this is where my plane had crashed in the ocean.
>
> Would I be next to crash? were my thoughts!
>
> Again, I shook the parachute risers and shroud lines, but the rushing air
> was holding my chute tightly in a bundle. I began to realize that I had
> done all I could reasonably do to open the chute and it was not going to
> open. I was just along for a brutal ride that may kill or severely injure
> me.
>
> I descended rapidly through the low clouds. Now there was only clear sky
> between me and the ocean. This may be my last view of the living.
> I have no recollection of positioning myself properly or even bracing for
> the impact. In fact, I don't remember hitting the water at all.
> At one instant I was falling very fast toward the ocean. The next thing I
> remember is hearing a shrill, high-pitched whistle that hurt my ears.
>
> Suddenly, I was very cold. In that eerie half-world of consciousness, I
> thought, Am I alive? I finally decided, and not all at once, Yes, I think 
> I
> am . . . I am alive!
>
> The water helped clear my senses. But as I bounced around in the 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 though there were some task I ought to 
> be
> performing. Then it dawned on me what it was. The parachute was tugging at
> me from under the water. It had finally billowed out (much too late) like
> some Brobdingnagian Portuguese man-of-war. I tried reaching down for
> my hunting knife located in the knee pocket of my flight suit. I had to 
> cut
> the shroud lines of the chute before it 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. I tried moving my feet, but that too was impossible. They were
> immobile, and I could feel the bones in them grating against each other.
>
> There was no chance of getting that hunting knife, but I had another,
> smaller one in the upper torso of my flight suit. With difficulty, I
> extracted it and began slashing feebly at the spaghetti-like shroud line
> mess surrounding me.
>
>
> Once free of the parachute, I began a tentative search for the survival
> pack. It contained a one-man life raft, some canned water, food, fishing
> gear, and dye markers. The dye markers colored the water around the pilot 
> to
> aid the rescue team in finding a down airman. All of this survival
> equipment should have been strapped to my hips. It was not there. It had
> been ripped away from my body upon impact with the water.
>
> How long would the Mae West sustain me I wondered.
>
> I wasn't sure, but I knew I needed help fast. The salt water that I had
> swallowed felt like an enormous rock in the pit of my gut. But worst of
> all, here I was, completely alone, 600 miles from shore, lolling in the 
> deep
> troughs and crests of the Pacific Ocean . And my Crusader aircraft, upon
> which had been lavished such affectionate attention, was sinking thousands
> of feet to the bottom of the ocean.
>
> At that moment, I was struck by the incredible series of coincidences that
> had just befallen me. I knew that my misfortune had been a 
> one-in-a-million
> occurrence. In review, I noted that the explosion aloft should not have
> happened. The ejection mechanism should have worked. The parachute should
> have opened. None of these incidents should have happened. I had just
> experienced three major catastrophes in one flight. My squadron had a
> perfect safety record. Why was all of this happening was my thinking.
>
>
> In about ten minutes I heard the drone of a propeller-driven plane.
> The pot-bellied, four-engine tanker came into view, flying very low.
> They dropped several green dye markers near me, and some smoke flares a
> short distance from my position. 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 all most blacked out due to the intense pain in my body.
> The tanker circled again and dropped another raft closer to me, but there
> was no way for me to get to it, or 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 
> hands
> 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. I remembered the words W.C. Fields had chosen for his epitaph: On 
> the
> whole, I'd rather be in Philadelphia .
>
> 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 high and I knew 
> he
> couldn't make it. He came in very low and dropped another raft; this one 
> had
> a 200-foot lanyard attached to it. The end of the lanyard landed barely 
> ten
> feet from me. I paddled gently backward using only my arms. I caught hold
> of it and pulled the raft to me. Even before trying, I knew I couldn't
> crawl into the raft due to my physical condition. I was able to get a good
> grip on its side and hold on. This gave me a little security.
>
> The Coast Guard amphibian gained altitude and flew off. (I learned later
> that he headed for a squadron of minesweepers that was returning to the
> United States from a tour of the Western Pacific. He was unable to tune to
> their radio frequency for communications. But this ingenious pilot lowered
> a wire from his aircraft and dragged it across the bow of the minesweeper,
> the USS Embattle. The minesweeper captain understood the plea, and veered
> off at top speed in my
> direction.)
>
> I was fully conscious during the two and a half hours it took the ship to
> reach me. I spotted the minesweeper while teetering at the crest of a 
> wave.
> Soon, its great bow was pushing in toward me and I could see sailors in
> orange lifejackets 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 back.
>
> I was now very cold and worried about the growing numbness in my legs.
> Perhaps the imminence of rescue 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 remember it. Somebody gave me a shot of morphine and this erased
> part of my extreme pain.
>
> An hour or so later a man was bending over me and asking questions.
> (It was a doctor who had been high-lined over from the USS Los Angeles, a
> cruiser that had been operating in the area.)
>
> He said, You have a long scar on your abdomen. How did it get there?
>
> I told him about a serious auto accident I'd had four years earlier in
> Texas , and that my spleen had been removed at that time.
>
> 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 alongside.
>
> Somehow they got me into a wire stretcher, and hauled me, dangling and
> dipping, across the watery interval between the Embattle and the cruiser.
>
> In the Los Angeles 's sickbay, they gave me another shot of morphine, 
> thank
> God, and started thrusting all sorts of hoses into my body. I could tell
> from all the activity, and from the 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.
> Finally, I threw up about a quart or more of seawater. After this my 
> nausea
> was relieved a bit.
>
> By listening to the medical team, who was working on me, I was able to 
> piece
> together the nature of my injuries. This is what I heard them saying. 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 shaken 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 from
> Long Beach , California .
>
> At 3:30 that afternoon, I was hoisted into the belly of a Marine 
> helicopter
> from the USS Los Angeles' fantail, and we whirred off to a hospital ship,
> the USS Haven, docked in Long Beach, CA.
>
> 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. I finally broke down and let go a few 
> tears
> of relief, exhaustion, and thanks to all hands and God.
>
> 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 the
> need of prodding.
>
> The Marine Corps discovered the cause of my flameout, and that of Major
> Tooker, the day before, 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 
> to
> overfill and it burst like a balloon. This then caused the fire and
> flameout. We will never know why the ejection seat failed to work since it
> is in the bottom of the ocean. The parachute failure is a mystery also. 
> Like
> they say,
>
> "Some days you are the dog, and others you are the fire plug."
>
> Do I feel lucky? That word doesn't even begin to describe my feelings. To
> survive a 15,000-foot fall with an unopened chute is a fair enough feat. 
> My
> mind keeps running back to something Dr. Rhodes told me in the sickbay of
> the Los Angeles during those grim and desperate hours.
>
> He said that if I had a spleen, it almost certainly would have ruptured 
> when
> I hit the water, and I would have bled to death. Of the
> 25 pilots in our squadron, I am the only one without a spleen. It gives me
> something to think about. Maybe it does you as well.
>
> Cliff Judkins
>
> Author's Note: Amazingly, Cliff Judkins not only survived this ordeal but
> he also returned to flight status. He was flying the F-8 Crusader again
> within six months after the accident. After leaving the Marine Corps he 
> was
> hired as a pilot with Delta Airlines and retired as a Captain from
> that position.

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