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Excerpt From Book I |
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Excerpt From Book I |
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I spent the next hour going over again, in my mind, every normal and emergency operating procedure. I drove to Panchos. I didn’t dare have a drink. I remember meeting Bill Richardson. He was with the love of his life. In thirteen months he would marry. Speaking of months, tomorrow, my first test flight in the world’s fastest fighter would make me, at that time, the only officer below the rank of Major to fly the F-100. I ordered Chinese. I asked Bill, “Where do the damn Chinese go when they want to eat out?” He laughed and said, “Probably to a restaurant by the name of Sing Sing Lu that specializes in Mexican food.” Gwen had to fly in the morning so she and Bill left after dinner. I went to my small but comfortable library in my second floor apartment, threw open the windows to the sea, and buried my face into the F-100 pilot’s handbook. I got to the flight line early. I tossed and turned all night; didn’t eat any breakfast. Was this my first combat mission all over again? My stomach didn’t know the difference. Major Woolfolk was there to help strap me in. He reviewed all the procedures with me—walk around—start—pre-taxi checks of instruments—controls—taxi, takeoff, climb out, the use of the afterburner, stalls—gear up, gear down—the practice of a simulated landing—the importance of critical airspeed on base and final—the use of the drag chute. The ground crew started the power unit that fed compressed air into the engine. I hit the master switch and as the RPM reached 20% I hit the ignition and brought the throttle ‘round the horn’ into idle. I immediately checked the exhaust gas temperature, the oil pressure, and the hydraulic pressure. The rpm was at 55%. The engine was making a hell of a racket; a high-pitched whine accompanied by a deep, prolonged guttural sound. It was a roar of excitement! Ten thousand horses ready to kick ass. God! this airplane is massive! I checked the flight controls and moved the stick to the right. The crew chief signaled right aileron ‘up’, left one ‘down’. God they were big. We did the same with left aileron input. I moved the elevator up and down to check pitch control. I checked the rudder. Everything was OK. I signaled ‘speed brake up’. I sensed 3000 pounds of hydraulic pressure ramming the pistons in the hydraulic actuator to the closed position. The crew chief was on one knee making sure it was flush and signaled so. He then disappeared under the airplane and shortly came into view holding three landing-gear pins. I showed him the ejection seat safety pins and the put them in my now soaking wet flight suit under my ‘Mae West’. I checked the instruments once more, made sure my pitch trim was set for takeoff, gave a big sigh, and put on my helmet and oxygen mask. I breathed in oxygen and checked the ‘blinker’. OK! I checked in with North American flight control, tuned to LA tower frequency, checked my flow of oxygen again and signaled to ‘pull the chocks’. Major Woolfolk had been watching my every move from the ladder attached to the side of the cockpit. I was ready to move forward with about 25,000 pounds of metal with wheels attached. When I gave the signal I was ready to taxi, he patted me on the head and stepped down. The ladder was removed. I was on my own. “LA tower, this is North American 5756— taxi, takeoff.” “Roger, North American ‘56. Taxi runway 25 left, altimeter 30.01, wind from 28 (280 degrees) at 10 (knots.)” “Roger, LA. I am at the NAA revetment behind the wall.” “Have you in sight, ‘56. Clear to runway 25 Left.” I gave the ‘hundred’ a little power, moved forward, checked the brakes, left turn to the end of the revetment, right turn to the taxiway, right turn heading east on the taxiway, and then headed to the active runway. The big jet fighter handled OK-—it was a moose compared to the F-86. But what the hell, its gross weight was about 3 ½ tons more than the F-86. About 30 yards from the end of my taxiway the LA tower cleared me on to the runway. “Roger,” I said, as I lined up on the runway. Jesus! What’s their hurry? I noticed a crowd gathered around the railing of the production pilots’ lounge. Of course, the F-100 was new to everyone including the tower operators. “Don’t fuck up here, Simpson,” I said to myself. I checked the freedom of the controls, all instruments, and my flow of oxygen as I took the runway and lined up. I was soaking wet with sweat. I stomped on the brakes, added full military power, checked all my power gauges—RPM—EGT (exhaust gas temperature) oil pressure—fuel flow-flight controls once more, and then—let go!! All 12 and ½ tons of me!! I checked the airspeed indicator, made sure I had directional control with the nose gear steering as I moved down the runway, and then hit the afterburner. A 50th of a second later I was hit in the back with a big burst of significant forward pressure—literally throwing me against the back of the seat!! 15,000 horses! The F-100 accelerated. Fifty, seventy, ninety knots; I now had full directional control with the rudder—I was haulin’ ass. One hundred, one twenty five, one fifty—I eased the nose off—waited—then slowly added back pressure to the stick and at 175 knots my silver streak with the tailpipe of blinding intensity broke free from the grip of the runway and headed for blue skies. I put the gear handle in the ‘UP’ position, took the aircraft out of afterburner, trimmed the big bird, and the second I hit the coastline I turned 45 degrees and headed for 30,000 ft. at a point south and east of Catalina. I trimmed for pitch and roll again, and relaxed—a little bit. I made some small aileron inputs on the way—first right and then left then increased them bank-to-bank. I did a barrel roll. I performed wings-level side-slips. At 20,000 ft. I turned an additional 30 degrees toward San Diego and made throttle transients from idle to military power. The engine reaction was smooth and responsive. I did a couple of aileron rolls. Oops! A little yaw there? I looked around. At 30,000 feet I pushed the throttle into afterburner. My eyes were riveted to the Mach meter. At Mach .95, .96, the longitudinal stability was ‘edgy’. I didn’t like that. My inputs into the stick were minor. I looked around. The next thing I observed was the Mach needle indicating Mach 1.05, then 1.1, then 1.13. I was supersonic in level flight. “That’s enough,” I said to myself. I moved the throttle inward to come out of afterburner. Damn! Look at me; I’m almost to San Diego!! Turn around! Head back! It seemed as if I had the world by the ass—but I didn’t want it to crap all over me. I was confident. I sharply turned around toward the Palos Verdes peninsula. At the same time I cracked the speed brake, took notice of the trim change, corrected it with the trim switch on top of the stick. Remember my first combat mission when I tried to use it as a bomb release? Was I dumb or what? If someone had offered me a penny for my thoughts he would have had change coming. I tried a power-on stall—with the gear up. It handled OK. Good aileron input and control—good response in pitch/throttle control too. I didn’t go less than 200 knots—just wanted to get a feel. Good elevator control—kept my altitude on the mark—well, almost! I did notice a pretty high angle of attack, though. I made a simulated landing—downwind, gear down-—poor directional control, simulated base and final. I needed power—lots of power—as my angle of attack increased. I simulated a go around. I got the airspeed to increase, pulled the gear, and flew in level flight. I said to myself, “That was a mess.” I was lighter. I did a couple of aileron rolls left and right. Whoa!! Did I detect excessive yaw? I’m going to have to do that again, but I’d better head for home for now. I extended the speed brake to max, let it take full effect, rolled over and headed for downwind at LA. I had plenty of fuel but I wasn’t about to run out if I had to make a go-around—or two! Naturally I was thinking what I had been told—“landing difficult and touchdown speed high.” LA International wasn’t exactly Edwards. And it didn’t make me feel any better when, just a few days before, “Wheaties” Welch tried to demonstrate a slow speed approach and hit short and banged the hell out of the tail cone of the engine and tail assembly of the aircraft. Major Woolfolk made it OK but now it was my turn. I called the tower and received permission to land on 25 Left. I started downwind at 1500 feet, held it steady with sufficient power, felt sweat running down the crack of my ass, lowered the gear, and turned base. Was I in for a surprise!! The gear seemed slow to come down and it wasn’t sequential. The left gear lowered and locked ‘DOWN’, but the right was slow and had not, as yet. The aircraft yawed left then right. I over corrected—had to fight the rudder pedals—as the right gear locked ‘DOWN’ as had the nose gear. The big moose’s reaction to the controls seemed to be in slow motion. “This is a *&%#@+|^ mess,” I said to myself. “Fighting a non-sequential gear with what seemed to be an ineffective vertical stabilizer and rudder. That’s bull shit.” It was my first real test with facing reality and I was going to ask Major Woolfolk about it. ‘Wheaties’ Welch was doing most of the initial flying and he didn’t say anything about it. Neither did Major Woolfolk. Maybe I should have dropped my gear on the downwind. But that’s bull shit too. The plane was still only under 1 ‘G’ conditions. North American was aware of a number of problems and I was sure they were doing something about them. Everyone was enthralled with a supersonic airplane. So was I—but I was right there at the plant and I had a boss who listened. I was flying #52-5756, the first F-100A-1, accepting it for the Air Force and I didn’t like what I was flying a single bit. Bob Kemp, the brilliant F-100 chief project engineer, would listen. Things settled down as I turned final. What was I going to do? Use power and have a high angle of attack or keep altitude as long as I could then have a swift, controlled crash. I took the power on approach. I felt beads of sweat dripping off my forehead. Two hundred knots, 190, 180, aiming for the “25L” on the runway. Lined up ok. Down—down—add power—down—nose up!! Too much!! Down—little power—OK!!—Easy—let ‘er down—170 knots-good lateral control—Keep it at 170---no less than 165! You look OK!! Nose up—easy!—easy!—pull back on the stick—the power—bleeding airspeed OK—easy! eeeeeezzzy!! That’s it!! Touchdown!! Power to idle—kiss the runway with the nose gear——not that hard!! Yah dumb shit!—brakes—just a touch—more—pull the drag chute—easy—easy—I felt the tug of the chute—a little brakes—let it roll—you’re slow enough—release the chute—more brakes—turn off next taxiway—careful with your taxi. I’m home! I made it!! I’m QUAD-S——Suitcase Simpson—Supersonic Shitkicker!! I was elated about my flight. Major Woolfolk and George Smith met me at the flight line. They shook hands with a body that should have flown in a wet suit. I would be lying if I said my first flight was effortless—or simple. It wasn’t! Was I apprehensive about the whole thing?? Definitely!! I reported my comments to Major Woolfolk. He stated that North American was fixing the uneven ‘gear down’ problem with a set of priority valves in the utility hydraulic system and retrofit kits were being prepared for the test aircraft and the first few production models. In fact, he said, you knew you were in the first bird; in the next few weeks it will be taken care of. “You were right in telling me,” he said. “I won’t have the chance to fly as much as you will so I want to be told everything. You can put your signature on the DD-250 (the form that pays NAA.) It has been noted that the Engineering Change Proposal (ECP) will be in the form of a retrofit.” “Yes, Sir,” I said. “I will do that. I’d like to say something else. I rolled the aircraft—pretty good stick force into the aileron roll. After a couple of them I though I sensed more than normal yaw—certainly more than I have ever been associated with.” “You’re right—long cigar fuselage and maybe not enough tail. Engineering is looking at that now. And Jack, don’t be afraid to speak up.” “Yes, Sir.” Major Woolfolk then said, “It’s Bill and Suitcase at the plant. Treat me like a Major when I’m in the company of pretty women.” “Gee, Bill,” I said. “By that time I’ll forget your name.” He laughed. Thank God!! He was one of the ‘good guys’ |
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