Partial Ejection
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Irish
Luck This is a true story about my cousin - Keith Gallagher surviving a very unusual and life threatening incident while serving as navigator on a A-6 aircraft off the USS Abraham Lincoln in the Indian Ocean on July 9, 1991. Keith would recover from this accident, return to flight status, and would later be honorably discharged from the Navy. Keith now works for a telecommunications company and lives in Kansas City with his wife Michelle and their two children. You may contact Keith at Keith.Gallagher@mail.sprint.com Mark Gallagher
Lieutenant Mark Baden's (pilot) Account of the Incident As we finished the brief, my BN (bombardier navigator - Keith Gallagher) told me that it was his birthday and that our recovery would be his 100th trap on the boat. To top it off, we were assigned the plane with my name on the side. As
we taxied out of the chocks, I was still feeling a little uneasy about all the
recent mishaps (view
log of the Lincoln's activities during this time). To make myself feel better, I went through the "soft
shot/engine failure on takeoff" EPs (emergency procedures), touching each
switch or lever as I went through the steps. "At
least if something happens right off the bat, I'll be ready," I thought. The
first few minutes of the hop were busy. Concentrating on the package-check and
consolidation, as well as trying to keep track of my initial customers,
dispelled my uneasiness. As
we approached mid-cycle, that most boring time in a tanker hop, we kept
ourselves occupied with fuel checks. We were keeping a close eye on one drop
tank that had quit transferring with about 1,000 pounds of fuel still inside. I
had tried going to override on the tank pressurization, but that didn't seem to
work.
My BN and I discussed the problem. We decided it was
probably a stuck float valve. Perhaps some positive and negative G would fix it.
We were at 8,000 feet, seven miles abeam the ship, heading aft. I clicked the
altitude hold off and added some power to give us a little more G. At
230 knots I pulled the stick back and got the plane five degrees nose up. Then I
pushed the stick forward. I got about half a negative G, just enough to float me
in the seat. I
heard a sharp bang and felt the cockpit instantly depressurize. The roar of the
wind followed. I ducked instinctively and looked up at the canopy expecting it
to be partly open. Something was wrong. Instead of seeing a two or three inch
gap, the canopy bow was flush with the front of the windscreen. My eyes tracked
down to the canopy switch. It was up.
My mind went into fast forward. "What
the hell happened?" I wondered. "I hope he ejects all the way. What am
I going to do now? I need to slow down." I
jerked the throttles to idle and started the speed brakes out. Without stopping,
I reached up, de-isolated, and threw the flap lever to the down position. I
reached over and grabbed for the IFF selector switch and twisted it to EMER. I
was screaming "Slow down! Slow down!" to myself as I looked up at the
airspeed indicator and gave another pull back on the throttles and speed brakes.
The airspeed was passing 200 knots. I
had been looking back over my shoulder at my bombardier the whole time I was
doing everything else. I felt a strange combination of fear, helplessness and
revulsion as I watched his body slam around in the windblast. After his helmet
flew off, his face looked like the people who get sucked out into zero
atmosphere in some of the more graphic movies. His eyes were being blasted open,
his cheeks and lips were puffed out to an impossible size and the tendons in his
neck looked like they were about to bust through his skin as he fought for his
life. At
200 knots I saw his arms pulled up in front of his face and he was clawing
behind his head. For a moment, I thought he was going to manage to pull the
handle and get clear of the plane. I was mentally cheering for him. His arms got
yanked down by the blast and I cursed as I checked my radio selector switch to
radio 1. "Mayday,
Mayday, this is 515. My BN has partially ejected. I need an emergency
pull-forward!" The reply was an immediate, "Roger, switch button six." I switched freqs and said (or maybe yelled), "Boss (Air Officer), this is 515. My BN has partially ejected. I need an emergency full-forward!" I
slapped the gear handle down and turned all my dumps on (in an effort to get
slower, max trap never crossed my mind). The
Boss came back in his ever-calm voice and said, "Bring it on in."
I had been arcing around in my descent and was still at seven miles. The boss came up and asked if the BN was still with the aircraft. I think that I caused a few cases of nausea when I answered, "Only his legs are still inside the cockpit." It made sense to me, but more than a few people who were listening had visions of two legs and lots of blood and no body. Fortunately, the Boss understood what I meant. As
I turned in astern the boat, I called the Boss and told him I was six miles
behind the boat. I asked how the deck was coming. He asked if I was setting
myself up for a straight-in. I
told him "yes." He told me to continue. It was then I noticed that my BN had quit kicking. A chill shot through my body and I looked back at him. What I saw scared me even more. His head was turned to the left and laying on his left shoulder. He was starting to turn grey. Maybe he had broken his neck and was dead. Bringing back a body that was a friend only minutes before was not a comfortable thought. I forced myself not to look at my bombardier after that. The
front windscreen started to fog up about four miles behind the boat. I cranked
the defog all the way and was getting ready to unstrap my shoulder harness so I
could wipe off the glass when it finally started clearing. I
saw the boat making a hard left turn. I made some disparaging remarks about the
guys on the bridge as I rolled right to chase centerline. I heard CAG paddles
(landing signal officer) come up on the radio. He told the captain he would take
the winds and that he needed to steady up. My tension eased slightly as I saw
mother begin to leave her wake in a straight line.
I
had no intention of passing up any "perfectly good wires." I touched
down short of the 1-wire and sucked the throttles to idle. The canopy shards
directly in front of the BN's chest looked like a butcher's knife collection. I
was very concerned that the deceleration of the trap was going to throw him into
the jagged edge of the canopy. I cringed when I didn't immediately feel the tug
of the wire. I pulled the stick into my lap as paddles was calling for altitude.
I got the nose gear off the deck and then felt the hook catch a wire. I
breathed a sigh of relief. Testing the spool-up time of a pair of J-52s as I
rolled off the end of the angle was not the way I wanted to end an already bad
hop. As
soon as I stopped, I set the parking brake and a yellow shirt gave me the signal
to kill my No. 2 engine. Immediately after that, I heard a call over the radio
that I was chocked. I killed no. 1 and began unstrapping. As soon as I was free
of my seat (I somehow remembered to safe it), I reached over and safed the BN's
lower handle, undid his lower koch fittings and reached up to try to safe his
upper handle. As I was crawling up, I saw that his upper handle was already safed. I started to release his upper koch fittings but decided they were holding him in and I didn't want him to fall against the razor-sharp plexiglas on his side. I
got back on my side of the cockpit, held his left arm and hand, and waited for
the medical people to arrive. I realized he still was alive when he said,
"Am I on the flight deck?" A
wave of indescribable relief washed over me as I talked to him while the crash
crew worked to truss him up and pull him out of the seat. Once he was clear of
the plane, they towed me out of the landing area and parked me. A plane captain
bumped the canopy open by hand far enough that I could squeeze out. I headed
straight for medical without looking back at the plane. Later, I found that ignorance can be bliss. I didn't know two things while I was flying. First, the BN's parachute had deployed and wrapped itself around the tail section of the plane. Second, the timing release mechanism had fired and released the BN from the seat. The only things keeping him in the plane were the parachute risers holding him against the back of the seat. Lieutenant Keith Gallagher's Account: Murphy's
Law says, "Whatever can go wrong, will, and when you least expect it."
(And, of course, we all know that Murphy was an aviator.) Murphy was correct
beyond his wildest dreams in my case. Fortunately for me, however, he failed to
follow through. On my 26th birthday I was blindsided by a piece of
bad luck the size of Texas that should have killed me. Luckily, it was followed
immediately by a whole slew of miracles that allowed me to be around for my 27th.
Not even Murphy could have conceived of such a bizarre accident (many people
still find it hard to believe), and the fact that I am here to write about it
makes it that much more bizarre. We
were the overhead tanker, one third of the way through cruise, making circles in
the sky. Although the tanker pattern can be pretty boring midway through the
cycle, we were alert and maintaining a good lookout doctrine because out airwing
had a midair less than a week before, and we did not want to repeat. We felt we
were ready for "any" emergency: fire lights, hydraulic failures and
fuel transfer problems. Bring 'em on! We were ready for them. After all, how
much trouble can two JO's get in overhead the ship? After
my third fuel update call, we decided that the left outboard drop was going to
require a little help in order to transfer. NATOPS recommends applying positive
and negative G to force the valve open. As the pilot pulled the stick back I
wondered how many times we would have to porpoise the nose of the plane before
the valve opened. As he moved the stick forward, I felt the familiar sensation
of negative "G", and then something strange happened: my head touched
the canopy. For a brief moment I thought that I had failed to tighten my lap
belts, but I knew that wasn’t true. Before I could complete that thought,
there was a loud bang, followed by wind, noise, disorientation and more wind,
wind, wind. Confusion reigned in my mind as I was forced back against my seat,
head against the headrest, arms out behind me, the wind roaring in my head,
pounding against my body. "Did
the canopy blow off? Did I eject? Did my windscreen implode?" All of these
questions occurred to me amidst the pandemonium in my mind and over my body.
These questions were quickly answered, and replaced by a thousand more, as I
looked down and saw a sight that I will never forget: the top of the canopy,
close enough to touch, and through the canopy I could see the top of my pilot's
helmet. It took a few moments for this image to sink into my suddenly overloaded
brain. This was worse than I ever could have imagined - I was sitting on top of
a flying A-6! Pain,
confusion, panic, fear and denial surged through my brain and body as a new
development occurred to me: I couldn't breathe. My helmet and mask had ripped
off my head, and without them, the full force of the wind was hitting me square
in the face. It was like trying to drink through a fire hose. I couldn't seem to
get a breath of air amidst the wind. My arms were dragging along behind me until
I managed to pull both of them into my chest and hold them there. I tried to
think for a second as I continued my attempts to breathe. For some reason, it never occurred to me that my pilot would be trying to land. I just never thought about it. I finally decided that the only thing that I could do was eject. (What else could I do?) I grabbed the lower handle with both hands and pulled-it wouldn't budge. With a little more panic induced strength I tried again, but to no avail. The handle was not going to move. I attempted to reach the upper handle but the wind prevented me from getting a hand on it. As a matter of fact, all that I could do was hold my arms into my chest. If either of them slid out into the wind stream, they immediately flailed out behind me, and that was definitely not good. The
wind had become physically and emotionally overwhelming. It pounded against my
face and body like a huge wall of water that wouldn't stop. The roaring in my
ears confused me, the pressure in my mouth prevented me from breathing, and the
pounding on my eyes kept me from seeing. Time had lost all meaning. For all I
knew, I could have been sitting there for seconds or for hours. I was
suffocating, and I couldn't seem to get a breath. I wish I could say that my
last thoughts were of my wife, but as I felt myself blacking out, all I said
was, "I don't want to die."
Someone
turned on the lights and I had a funny view of the front end of an A-6, with
jagged plexiglas where my half of the canopy was supposed to be. Looking down
from the top of the jet, I was surprised to find the plane stopped on the flight
deck with about 100 people looking up at me. (I guess I was surprised because I
had expected to see the pearly gates and some dead relatives.) My first thought
was that we had never taken off, that something had happened before the
catapult. Then everything came flooding back into my brain, the wind, the noise
and the confusion. As my pilot spoke to me and the medical people swarmed all
over me, I realized that I had survived, I was alive. It
didn't take me very long to realize that I was a very lucky man, but as I heard
more details, I found out how lucky I was. For example, my parachute became
entangled in the horizontal stabilizer tight enough to act as a shoulder harness
for the trap, but not tight, enough to bind the flight controls. If this had not
happened, I would have been thrown into the jagged plexiglas during the trap as
my shoulder harness had been disconnected from the seat as the parachute
deployed. There are many other things that happened, or didn't happen, that allowed me to survive this mishap, some of them only inches away from disaster. These little things, and a s-hot, level headed pilot who reacted quickly and correctly are the reason that I am alive and flying today. Also, a generous helping of good old-fashioned Irish luck didn't hurt. Follow-Up, Feedback and Related Information Lt. Keith Gallagher's Describes His Injuries: My most serious
injury was that 1/2 my right arm (the shoulder, bicep, and
forearm) was paralyzed due to a stretched nerve in my shoulder. In addition, my
left shoulder was damaged as well. I have all of the damage of someone who
dislocated his shoulder, but it was not dislocated when I landed. My supposition
is that it dislocated, and popped back in upon landing. Other than that, I was
just extremely beat up. Via physical therapy, I recovered within 6 months. My
right shoulder "came back" in about 1 month, my forearm in about 2-3
months, and my bicep returned in about 4-5 months. I had to re-do all of my
physiological qualifications (swimming, etc) to prove that I was OK, but I flew
again 6 months to the day after the accident. You can contact Keith Gallagher at Keith.Gallagher@mail.sprint.com * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * View Log of the Activities of the Lincoln in 1991 by Frank Beierly, a retired AZC who was on flight deck control on the Lincoln at the time of the incident described above. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * E-mail from Dalton Wright to Keith Gallagher (1/02/01) Inadvertent Ejection from an A-6 in 1971 A friend and former naval aviator Bob William's forwarded the story and photos of your ejection seat malfunction and chute deployment that occurred in 1991 and I thought you might find my experience of interest. On Nov. 15, 1971, I was on a maintenance test flight for VA 42 in an A-6 A out of NAS Oceana. While leveling off at 10,000 feet, my seat fired leaving my BN LT. John Adair without a pilot and forcing him to eject. The cause of the ejection was determined to be a faulty drogue gun that fired and ripped the drogue chute out the top of the seat pulling the two ejection seat cables, which initiated the ejection. After I was ejected, I thought I had a midair as I was tumbling through the air and did not know why I was there and assumed the airplane had been torn apart. I did not get automatic chute deployment because the chute was shredded or fouled due to it being pulled through the ejection cables. As I fell I wanted to give up, but something inside kept me working on the problem. After a period, I realized I had the chute pack on my back, but I could not find the D ring due to the wind buffeting, tumbling, and confusion. In desperation, I grabbed the parachute bag and I could see the steel pin and rigging. I grabbed it and gave it pull and the chute deployed. During the
accident investigation the seat was found and it was determined that the drogue
gun caused the problem. After my accident, the safety center identified
five or six other flight accidents that had resulted in fatalities and one
probable hanger incident that could have been caused by the drogue gun problem.
The A-6 fleet of GRU-5 (Martin Baker Back breaker) seats were inspected for
excessive play/tolerances in the drogue gun firing mechanism and were replaced.
John and I were very fortunate in that we survived and were not |
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My
scan continued right. Instead of meeting my BN's questioning glance, I saw a
pair of legs at my eye level. The right side of the canopy was shattered. I
followed the legs up and saw the rest of my BN's body out in the windblast. I
watched as his head snapped down and then back up, and his helmet and oxygen
mask disappeared. They didn't fly off; they just disappeared.
As
I watched, the indexers move from on-speed to a green chevron I worked the nose
to keep the plane as slow as possible and still flying. The plane was holding at
around 160 knots and descending. My BN's legs were kicking, which gave me some
comfort; he was not dead. But, watching his head and body jerked around in the
windblast, being literally beaten to death, made me ill.
I
was driving it in at about 300 feet. I had been in a slight descent and wasn't
willing to add enough power to climb back up to a normal straight-in altitude
for fear I would have to accelerate and do more damage to my already battered BN.
I watched the ball move up to red and then move slowly up towards the center.
Paddles called for some rudder and told me not to go high. My scan went
immediately to the 1-wire.