Aircraft Commander Meets Murphy's Law:
By Donald M. Ricks
The pilot on the left in the above photo and I we flew together often. He had nothing to do with this incident report, nor did Aaron Shellenberger. My co-pilot, in the story below, will remain anonymous—on my part. This was a memorable event for both of us I am certain, not it was not the copilot´s responsibility....
I flew as co-pilot in CAC for a few months before appointment to Aircraft Commander. For several more months afterwards things went well. No accidents or incidents, and I had only good reports. I was a competent and professional member of a professional unit, until one fateful event shortly after returning from a mid-tour week in Hawaii. This story is full of mistakes, and I learned very much from the incident. Shortly after it happened, I sat down and wrote this article for my own recollection so that I could later tell the story in logical sequence:Army Aviators flying for the Command Aircraft Company enjoyed an outstanding reputation as some of the finest professionals available. This reputation was possible because of command emphasis and strong individual competetion among the unit´s aviators. Techniques and standards of acceptance were always discussed wherever the men gathered. If an aviator was not professional when he arrived, it didn´t take him long to change. We had an effective way of ensuring that the transition happened that way.
Our commanding officer and operations officer arranged to get all the aviators together quite frequently to discuss safety and professional development. During those sessions, we all participated as much as our experience would allow credible input. The remaining time we listened with interest. Because our mission was to support the Military Advisory Command, Vietnam (MACV) and United States Army Vietnam (USARVN) headquarters with very important person (VIP) flight service, we were naturally expected to conduct ourselves professionally on every flight, both on the ground and in the air. We all took pride in doing just that.
Up until this situation, I gradually approached a state of over confidence. It was evident on the flight. I will pull no punches; it shook up and woke up both the aircraft commander and the pilot.
On that particular day, we had a mission to provide a stand-by airplane for MACV Headquarters in Saigon. We were to be on duty at Ton Son Nhut from 0600 hours until around 1730 hours. A little before 1700, we were released to return to Long Thanh North, our home base just east of Saigon. Though we were subject to recall for a mission, it very seldom happened.
Upon return to Long Thanh, the copilot and I headed for the officer´s club to eat dinner. We also had several beers (tasted better than the water), and around 1900 hours I retired to my room to write a letter. As soon as I settled down to write, word came that the operations officer had a priority mission to fly a briefing team to Da Nang. The stand-by crew was to depart right away and pickup the passengers in Saigon.
Although I spoke with the operations officer before departing. I did not mention that I had drank a few cans of beer. The previous night I had returned at around 2000 hours and had flown approximately eight hours in the Delta region. In fact, the pilot and co-pilot had been flying steadily for ten days, during a peak operational period, flying an average of at least seven or more hours each day. We were slightly fatigued, but again we said nothing. Had we mentioned either crew rest violation, I am sure we would have been relieved of the mission.
We normally filed an instrument flight rules (IFR) flight plan wherever we went, but because of the stated urgency of the mission and the good weather during the day, we headed out without filing a flight plan or checking weather. My intension upon departing Saigon was to fly under visual conditions to Cam Rahn Bay, then along the coast "feet wet" up along the coast to Da Nang. There were no clouds at 9,500 feet, but on a dark night you can´t see ahead.
Our four passengers were asleep by the time we reached altitude, and everything went well until we approached Cam Rahn Bay. I could see a buildup ahead and asked Cam Rahn approach for vectors around it and until we were out over the coast. We were released from control about fifteen miles northeast of Cam Rahn Bay.
We could see clouds ahead, and to avoid them we continued to navigate eastward, about seven miles out to sea. When avoiding the clouds at our altitude became impossible, I instructed everyone to wake up, secure and put on their oxygen masks, because we were climbing above the safe oxygen altitude. I then began a climb to top the clouds and broke out above them at flight level 185 (18,500 feet). Everything went well for another hour, but it was getting extremely dark. I was constantly on gauges, and my co-pilot was observing for other aircraft. A little north of Oui Nhon we started entering thin clouds frequently but thought we would be alright. We talked about filing an IFR flight plan but dismissed the idea. The flight had gone well, so far.
About fifteen minutes later, we were in solid rain clouds and light turbulence. My co-pilot knew exactly what to do and attempted to communicate with Saigon Center out of Qui Nhon. We were unable to establish communications and changed frequency in order to contact Chu Lai Approach but got temporarily distracted because of what was happening to the aircraft.
We entered a thunderstorm at FL 185 and immediately encountered moderate turbulence, lightening, and heavy rain. There were also little bolts of static electricity running along the instrument panel, windshield, wings, and engine nacelles. I looked at my co–pilot, and he was in another world, frightened, like me, so much that he was momentarily useless. I spoke to him in a calm voice and asked him to try communicating with Chu Lai once more, and he responded immediately. Saint Elmo´s Fire can be frightening when first experienced, and believe me—we were taking notice. I looked back into the cabin and saw four men gripping seats with white knuckles and challenging eyes on us, with looks that said "get us out of this." My thoughts were that the officers, all from the air force, must be wondering why they entrusted their lives to army pilots. It later crossed my mind that this single mission event must have given my unit a lot of negative publicity in Saigon clubs. when these officers returned.
Our weather radar had been tilted down at an angle for navigation along the east coast of Vietnam; therefore, it had no chance to paint the storm we entered. The rain was like sheets of solid water hitting the windshield and became so intense that the seals could not keep out the water. The incoming droplets shorted out the radar, and it was useless at that point. Our radio magnetic indicator (RMI) was also unreliable, due to the electrical interference. We had, no, I had made my mistake.
The co–pilot established communications with Chu Lai Approach and asked for an IFR clearance and a TACAN penetration and instrument approach to Chu Lai. Our request was disapproved, due to possible southbound traffic from Da Nang, and a clearance would take time we did not have. I then asked for a Ground Controlled Approach (GCA) but was told the radar was not turned on and would require a thirty–minute warm up period.
The controller realized our situation and asked if we wanted to declare an emergency. I lost no time saying "yes" and started the TACAN approach, but I did not totally trust the instruments. Around 10,000 feet, still in that storm, we lost the TACAN instrument. I became a believer in Murphy's Law! The radar was still not working, and with that situation, what would you do? I continued to descend on my last heading, committed to go no lower than 3,000 feet, the safe terrain clearance altiture around Chu Lai. At that altitude we were in and out of the clouds, and I was still unsure of my exact location.
Maintaining terrain clearance, we asked Chu Lai for clearance to Da Nang and for an instrument landing system (ILS) or GCA approach upon arrival. We were picked up on radar and cleared at 5,000 feet to Da Nang, to remain feet wet. We were back in the soup again.
Our flight to Da Nang and the instrument approach went well from that point, except for the turbulence and rain, which were constant. All navigation instruments, except the radar, were once again reliable. We broke out of the weather about five miles out over the bay and went in under visual flight rules to make a smooth landing. Once on the ground, we both decided to remain over night. That was possibly the only right decision we made that night. Our passengers were quickly off the airplane and out the door, not even looking at us, to a waiting staff car. We did not hear from them after that flight.
We spent the night in the airport operations room, sleeping on sofas and getting less than a good night´s sleep. The next morning, I filed an IFR flight plan and took the left seat as pilot. The co-pilot was not in a flying mood and wanted to work the radios. Since we had oxygen and clouds were thick over the country, with rain showers enroute, I decided to file a high altitude plan and ask for a direct radar vector to Saigon. We received out clearance, as requested, and we soon climbed on top and remained on oxygen for an hour or so at FL 210.
The co-pilot became cold and asked if we could turn on the heater. I turned it on and sat back to enjoy the clear skies above the clouds. The co-pilot was still cold and began pulling knobs to adjust the heat, but I did not pay attention to what he was doing, as I was listening to a radio station out of Saigon. All of a sudden there was dark gray smoke billowing into the cockpit, and I turned to look at the co-pilot. He screamed, "We are on fire," with tenseness I had not before seen him display. He changed frequency and broadcasted "May Day" several times before I could stop him. While he completed his call, I reached over and turned off the heater and opened the vents. We still had smoke in the cockpit, and my main concern was to descend to a lower altitude as quickly as possible, in case the problem was something other than the heater.
We were over a familiar airfield in central Vietnam, so I asked for and received an approach clearance to that airport. Our high altitude allowed our "May Day" transmission to be picked up by many aircraft in the area, as well as the controllers, and there were several offers of assistance. To my dismay, our operations radios, which were equipped with strong antennas, also picked up the call, and they also knew we were in an emergency situation. Of course, as soon as I had turned off the heater and opened the vents we were loosing the smoke, and by the time we landed all signs of smoke were gone. All I could do was look at my frightened co-pilot and try to calm him during the approach. He was embarrassed, and I did not mention the May Day call. This entire flight, the night before fresh in our minds, was one that would have made anyone edgy.
On the ground, I inspected the aircraft very closely and determined that the smoke had been caused by a faulty heater. I filed an IFR fligh plan at a lower altitude, did a thorough run–up and took off with a clearance. The flight was uneventful to Long Thanh North, but we were met by the company commander and operatioins officer. Of course, they wanted a full report immediately, paying particular attention to why I had departed the intermediate stop without clearance from a maintenance officer.
In the commander´s office, I explained all that I have written here and told the commander that the "May Day" call had not been my idea but that I had followed immediate actions called for by the airplane manual. I had followed the checklist to the letter. I further stated the situation had not called for declaring an emergency, and the precautionary landing was accomplished merely to inspect the front wheel well. In fact, I had cancelled the emergency before descending for an approach.
By this time the commander had also heard of our long and difficult flight from Saigon to Da Nang, and I was placed on administrative time for a review of my actions over the past two days. A few days later, while working in the operations office assisting in scheduling of missions, the commander sent for me and removed my PIC designation, for a "short while" until they reviewed my ability to make decisions. I was so shocked by the severity of the action that I remained silent.
I flew as co-pilot for a couple of weeks, slowly building up a resentment for what I considered an unjust and unnecessary action by the commander, Bob Bayne. I could have agreed with him if he had discussed the poor decisions I had made before and during the night flight, and I could have agreed with the wisdom of a check ride and a mission review over several days. However, an embarrassing action like removal from a leadership position and to be placed with low time PIC´s was too extreme. I stood a chance of loosing the respect and confidence of my fellow pilots. There came a point where I got fed up with unwise inflight decisions by others that had less experience than my own. I asked to speak with the commander, after one particularly disruptive mission, and in his office I stated that if he ever wanted me to be a PIC again he should reinstate me right away. Otherwise, I wanted a transfer back to a Birddog outfit. I must have won him over, because I got what I wanted. I was redesignated an aircraft commander on 20 April 1970. I returned the United States in September that year.
