The "Buck" Stops Here

Coatimundi at Iguazu Falls - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Cuernos of Torre del Paine, Chile - photo by JoAnn Sturman

By Steven R Oberst

My first helicopter flight assignment was at a rescue unit on a northern frontier base flying support missions for the strategic missile wing. Normally an Air Force assignment lasted about three years then you moved on to another assignment. However, I found myself in the middle of the post Viet Nam era of a shrinking military. I watched as pilot after pilot in our unit left the Air Force. During this time frame only three new pilots were assigned to my unit. By my fifth year the unit had gone from 15 pilots to just 6. In addition to myself, our unit consisted of the Commander, Major Rhineland, the Operations Officer, Captain Bridgeport, 1/Lt, Kris Polly, who was a newly designated instructor pilot, 2/Lt Mike Hotel with six months in the unit, and the most recent arrival, 2/Lt Buck Famous who was the son of well known VIP, Milt Famous.

Each month our unit was funded to fly 480 hours and headquarters expected you to fly every minute of it. It was a big no-no for a commander to turn in hours, so there was always pressure to fly the time allotted. The unit had six helicopters, so each helicopter was flown an average of 80 hours per month. With only six pilots, each of us would also be expected to fly 80 hours per month. However, neither the commander nor the operations officer wanted to fly that much, and 2/Lt Buck Famous had not yet been checked out as a pilot, so all he could do was fly as a co-pilot or with an instructor. This meant that Kris, Mike and I were flying 120 or more hours per month.

The typical day was eleven or twelve hours for each of us. Basically we would come to work, strap into a helicopter, and fly support missions all day with breaks for refueling and waiting for passengers. By this time in my flying career I had about 150 hours of instructor time, and I had been the unit chief of flight standardization and evaluation for about six months. Normally, this position went to a more senior pilot, but given the exodus of pilots, I was the most senior pilot. Kris and I flew training missions with the other pilots in order to maintain proficiency in emergency procedures and meet minimum training requirements for a pilot.

Needless to say, with so few pilots in the unit getting Buck checked out as an aircraft commander, who could share part of the load, was a high priority. It normally took 45-60 days for a new pilot to be ready. Kris created a training program for Buck that included a considerable amount of local area familiarization and navigation. We expected that new pilots coming to us from Ft Rucker and the 1550th Aircrew Training and Test Wing at Kirkland AFB, New Mexico would not need any additional training in instrument flying or emergency procedures.

Buck was scheduled to fly as copilot for as many hours as he could handle. Logically, this was the best way for him to learn to navigate in the northern plains and find his way to and from the different missile sites. Visual flight navigation was a very basic skill that involved time, distance and heading. Pilots needed to read a map, fly the correct heading, adjust for the wind, monitor ground speed, and look for visual cues on the ground. Those first few weeks in the unit all of us flew with Buck, and all of us came to the same conclusion: Buck could not navigate.

How many ways can you get lost trying to find a missile site in the middle of the prairie? For Buck the answer was “many.” He was apparently unable to translate what he saw on a map to what he saw on the ground. Furthermore, the high winds on the plains were always a factor in navigation, and Buck consistently misapplied wind corrections to his headings and groundspeed calculations. We spent hours on the ground trying to teach Buck how to navigate. We learned that he was not a communicator. In fact, he was soft spoken and seemed to be uncomfortable when asked to verbalize.

After six weeks, Buck was still getting lost more often than not. To compound his problems, we discovered on training flights he could not master the manual fuel emergency procedures in the H-1F, needing instructor pilot intervention on the controls on every manual fuel landing he attempted. Also, he struggled with basic instrument flying maneuvers such as holding patterns and approaches.

Major Rhineland had a meeting with Kris and I to discuss the situation. He had flown with Buck the previous day. Buck got disoriented and was unable to find two missile sites without help. After the flight, the Major had contacted Kirkland AFB to discuss how Buck had done during his six week training program with the 1550th. According to his student records, he had no reported problems with navigation, flying manual fuel landings or instrument flying. His training record indicated he was an average pilot with no glaring weaknesses.

We were amazed. How do you go from being proficient at these things to being horrible in just a couple of months? As Kris put it, “This kid couldn’t find his butt with both hands since he got here, but during pilot training at Ft Rucker and advanced training at Kirkland he could?” Did the fact that Buck’s father the renown Milt Famous influence his instructors’ decisions to fabricate his proficiency reports? The answer to this will never be known, but it was not long before squadron headquarters was bugging us about the length of time 2/Lt Famous was taking to be a full fledged pilot.

We got the word the squadron operations officer, Lt Col Harvey Misbon, planned to spend a few days with us. Misbon intended to personally fly a training mission with Buck. As luck would have it, Misbon showed up on the only no-wind day of the entire year. During the flight with Buck, Misbon told him to fly to missile site Delta. Of the 150 sites we served, Delta was the easiest site to find, because it sits at the foot of Bear Butte, a prominent hill that can be seen from the base on a clear day. Misbon brilliantly concluded that there was nothing wrong with Buck’s navigation skills and directed us to finish his upgrade training program within ten days.

Based on this visit we had no choice but to complete the training program and order the evaluation flight. I scheduled Buck for his aircraft commander upgrade checkride the next week. It was common to use an actual mission for the navigation portion of this evaluation. Buck’s mission was to deliver maintenance parts to three missile sites. To simulate an actual single pilot mission, my task was to sit in the left seat without saying a word or assisting in any way during the flight. I was pleasantly surprised when Buck managed to find the first site, but then things went downhill.

The next missile site on the mission was 100 miles to the east. I observed Buck selected the wrong heading and watched as he attempted to use terrain features to pinpoint his location. After flying for approximately 40 minutes, Buck actually thought he knew where the aircraft was located on the map. Unfortunately he had mistaken the river below us for one 35 miles to the south. By this time we should have reached site 2, but Buck continued to fly on his heading. After another ten minutes I ended the checkride before it jeopardized the support mission. I took the controls and turned the aircraft on a southwesterly heading towards site 2 and delivered the cargo.

As a flight examiner, I never took delight in failing someone on a checkride; however, I did feel it was my job to ensure pilots could perform in a safe and professional manner. In my opinion Buck could not safely perform the duties of an aircraft commander. During the debriefing, Buck looked like a hurt puppy. He acknowledged that he had gotten lost, but was seemingly unable to understand how it happened. At this point, further training did not seem to make any sense. Buck’s future was now out of our unit’s hands and in the hands of higher levels of command.

News of the checkride failure did not go well with Lt Col Misbon. In a phone conversation with our Commander, Major Rhineland, he implied that our unit and especially me were out to get 2/Lt Famous. I was irate and if the option was available, I would have resigned from the Air Force immediately. Major Rhineland calmed me down and informed me the Squadron Chief of Flight Evaluations, Major Bob Reindeer, would arrive next week to personally evaluate 2/Lt Famous.

Did Buck get lost on the checkride with Major Reindeer? None of us would ever know. The helicopter took off from the base and spent about two hours north of the base. Upon returning the helicopter flew to the training area for an emergency procedures evaluation. About twenty minutes later our flight dispatcher received a call from the airfield tower controller.

“We just got an emergency call from Bever 59 in the helicopter training area adjacent to the runway. The pilot declared a hard landing and the need for immediate assistance. Fire rescue has been dispatched.”

I’d be lying if I did not admit to some personal satisfaction from what happened to Major Reindeer. Apparently, while attempting a manual fuel approach to a landing, Buck lost control of the manual fuel switch, resulting in rapid engine and rotor speed decay. Major Reindeer must have reacted too late to avoid a hard landing. Although damage turned out to be nominal (less than $5,000), the outcome vindicated of our unit’s concerns about Buck’s flying abilities.

We were directed to discontinue Buck’s training program and use him as a copilot while the situation was evaluated in the chain of command. Buck was subjected to a series of physical and psychological tests. He was diagnosed as having a type of functional disorder that prevented him from translating what he saw on a map to what he saw outside. Eventually the squadron conceded that 2/Lt Buck Famous was un-trainable. About 14 months after reporting to our unit he was removed from flight status and transferred to a desk job.

Epilogue:

Remember this old joke?

What do you call the person who graduates last from medical school?

Doctor.

Substitute other professions and come up with a similar joke. For example, what do you call the person who graduates last in his class from the U.S Air Force Academy?

2nd Lieutenant.

Some “tail end Charlies” have achieved great notoriety, such as George Armstrong Custer, who graduated last in his class at West Point. But somehow, the thought of the last graduate from a U.S. military academy lacks the visceral feel of the thought of the last doctor in the class, especially if you are that doctor’s patient. Okay, what if one considers the aviation profession? How would Buck Famous perform compared to Sully Sullenberger, pilot of US Airways Flight 1549?

On the surface it would appear to be more difficult to graduate a crappy Air Force pilot than to graduate a crappy doctor. After all, consider all the opportunities during training for a pilot to wash out. Think of all those checkrides that cannot be passed without demonstrating a certain level of proficiency and safety. But this belief depends on the integrity of the instructor and evaluator pilots involved in the pilot training program. What if every instructor and evaluator had this philosophy: “This person’s flying sucks, but I don’t want to be the bad guy and fail him or her, especially if Dad or Mom is ‘VIP Somebody’. I’ll play it safe and pass them on to the next level.” What if you are the last pilot that stands between this person becoming a pilot or not?

Personal integrity in any field means not passing the “Buck” to the next person, but doing the right thing, however uncomfortable or unpopular. It is an axiom which should apply to everyone, particularly those in positions of authority or in public office.

Chapter 3 Part 1 Charlie's Check Ride

Bryce Canyon, Utah - photo by JoAnn Sturman

by S.R. Oberst

Charlie Crown, the ultimate unleader and a pilot of marginal ability, has been set up by pilots in his unit. The squadron flight evaluation officer, SK, has been told Charlie's piloting abilities are without peer, so he has flown from headquarters to see how good Charlie really is.

We never said a word to Charlie about arranging to have SK give him a surprise check ride. When it was announced that the Squadron Chief of Flight Evaluations would arrive in November for check rides, Charlie seemed nonplussed.

Time for another Un-Leadership Moment: Most Un-Leaders do not have any real friends. If they have a friend, it tends to be someone just like them, which means it is someone who is looking out for “me” first. Virtually every pilot in the entire squadron knew that a check ride with SK was something to be taken seriously, which meant hit the books and take some training flights to get ready. 1) as mentioned earlier Charlie had a disdain for training; 2) Charlie had no friends; and 3) his non-friends were rooting for SK.

The evaluation cycle alternated every six months for pilots depending on their birth month. One of the evaluations was basic flight operations including emergency procedures. The other, for which Charlie was due, was an instrument flying and search and rescue evaluation. Most pilots would admit that the Huey is not exactly an ideal instrument platform. This is why most would usually avoid flying in the clouds. This included Charlie, who was known to brag that he once hovered downward in the “cone of confusion” over a VOR in order to descend through clouds from above.

A note to the reader: A VOR is a VHF Omnidirectional Range ground station used for instrument flight navigation. The cone of confusion is the area directly over the VOR evidenced by the swinging of the bearing pointer until the aircraft passes over the VOR and the bearing changes 180 degrees.

Strangely on the day of THE Check Ride, many of the other pilots in my unit had sinus infections, an easily obtainable diagnosis from the Flight Surgeon as an excuse for not flying. So, guess which “dummy” got to be Charlie’s copilot for the evaluation? Me, of course.

SK arrived mid-morning and THE Check Ride was scheduled for a 1:00 PM takeoff. Charlie was at his best talking, so he did a marvelous job of conducting the pre-flight briefing for a simulated instrument flight with two instrument approaches followed by a simulated search and rescue mission for a lost hiker in the mountains west of the base. Charlie was wise enough not to use his standard intimidation tactics on SK and all was going well as we headed for the aircraft. Weather was fairly typical for a November day in the Dakotas with a 1,000 foot level of overcast, temperature about 40 degrees F, and winds of 20 knots gusting to 30 knots. No precipitation was forecast, and the freezing level was about 3,000 feet above ground level.

After we did a pre-flight check of the helicopter, call-sign Beaver 72, Charlie’s problems began. For most pilots who flew a lot, it mattered little whether you were in the left or right seat. Charlie flew very little, but when he did, he always flew from the left seat. When he attempted to get in the left side, SK told him that the aircraft commander must fly in the right seat. I could tell Charlie was not happy, but SK was not about to bend the rules. Usually if pilots had difficulty transitioning between seats it was when practicing emergency procedures. EPs were not planned for this evaluation, so I thought to myself “no big deal”.

Charlie fumbled his way through the start checklist, and we contacted the Air Traffic Control controller on the radio. Charlie’s plan was to fly to the VOR and get clearance for his two approaches. He also planned to stay below the clouds and fly under visual flight rules (VFR). Charlie lifted off and immediately struggled against the wind. It was a sloppy hover from the hangar area to the helipad, but we managed to get there and takeoff. Charlie again contacted the controller and asked for clearance to the VOR. “Roger Beaver 72, climb to 2,000 feet and proceed to the Northern VOR and hold. We’ll get to you in about 15 minutes” said the controller. Charlie was caught off guard. He did not want to go into the clouds, especially on a checkride, so he replied, “This is Beaver 72, negative! Request climb to 1,000 feet.” The controller responded, “Negative Beaver 72, climb to 2,000 feet.” After some more pleading, Charlie finally agreed to the higher climb. Then, of course, he told me to take the controls, climb to 2,000 feet and head for the VOR while he got out the instrument flight book to plan for his unplanned holding pattern.

I focused on the instruments and did a reasonable job of flying in the clouds to the VOR. Just before we get to the VOR, Charlie took the controls back to enter the holding pattern. Holding patterns are shaped like a race track and depicted on various flight instrument charts. The idea is to adjust your outbound flight time so that the distance of the outbound leg equals the distance of the inbound leg. This meant Charlie needed to adjust for the wind. I watched as Charlie proceeded on his outbound course for 1 minute directly into the wind. As the copilot, I appropriately suggested a longer outbound leg due to the winds. Charlie responded “I know what I’m doing, Dummy!” and ignored me. When he turned right to go inbound to the VOR, we were immediately over it. Remember those 20 knot winds back on the ground? Up 2,000 feet they were more like 60 or 70 knot winds. I alerted Charlie that we were over the VOR. Seemingly surprised, he started to turn left, caught his mistake and made a steep turn back to the right. Steep turns are not a smart thing to do in the clouds with a helicopter. Charlie struggled to stay on his altitude, airspeed and heading. Once again he went outbound for only a minute. To make this story shorter, we were over the VOR for 15 minutes before the controller mercifully cleared us for an ILS approach to runway 30 at Northern. Charlie never came close to executing a holding pattern. The ILS approach was so erratic the controller asked if we needed assistance. All the while, SK sat in the jump seat observing but not saying a word.

Next: Charlie's troubles continue