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Wilkes County Veterans History Project: Russell Pearson

CDR. Russ Pearson -  July 1992

Pearson Family 1990

L to R back row: Theresa, Russell

L to R front row: Claire, Steve

 

Russ Pearson takes command of

The Gunslingers of Attack Squadron105

 - changing from executive officer to commanding officer - 1980

 #4 slot in diamond formation

A7 Corsair Homeward Bound

A7 Corsair "Okay" 3 Wire - Landing

Russ with his 1967 Porsche

Russ and family - Steve, Claire, Theresa

1980

Theresa (wife), Claire (daughter), Steve (son), Russ

Lila-Tate (granddaughter) and Max (grandson)

 

50th Wedding Anniversary with a view from top of the Kennedy Center, Washington D.C.

L to R: Steve holding Lila-Tate, Russ, Theresa, Max, and Claire

Russ during his Red Cross years - 2010

Russ relaxing on his Brushy Mountain Porch - 2024

Theresa and Russ on their 25th Anniversary - 1990

Russ and Theresa - 2014

Theresa and Russ - Christmas 2010

submitted by Russell Pearson

In the "zero-dark-thirty" hours of 10 June 1969, I was the pilot of a single-engine, single-seat A-7B Corsair II Light-Attack aircraft that departed the flight deck of the aircraft carrier USS Constellation (CVA-64), a.k.a. “Connie”, and plunged into the Pacific Ocean some 60 miles off the coast of Southern California, near San Clemente Island.   

The mishap occurred at the end of a marathon, a twenty-three-hour day, immediately following the first of four scheduled night carrier landings.  The event was to have marked my final night of initial carrier qualification (CARQUAL) training as a Fleet Replacement Pilot with Attack Squadron One Twenty-Two (VA-122) based at Naval Air Station (NAS), Lemoore, California. 

Ejection Underwater: A Short Sea Story

The Landing

The voice of Connie's final-approach controller came through the headset loud and clear, "Corsair Two-Zero-Two is on-course, on-glideslope at three-quarters of a mile, call the ball" - my cue to get off the instruments and fly the final few seconds of the approach visually. 

 A light drizzle was falling from the low-hanging overcast hovering just above the landing pattern, but the visibility was good underneath, and the sea state was calm.  The A-7 Corsair II aircraft strapped around my waist was the Navy's newest Light-Attack carrier jet; I was proud to be in one of the initial classes of first-tour pilots selected to fly it.

"Two-Zero-Two, Corsair Ball, fuel state 4.0," I replied as my scan shifted outside the cockpit to the "ball" of amber light beaming aft from the optical landing mirror on the USS Constellation’s four-acre flight deck.  The seat-of-my-pants told me the plane was too high, but the "ball" centered on the mirror confirmed it was on glideslope. 

Four thousand pounds was a comfortable fuel reserve; it was ample gas to make it around the landing pattern a couple more times and still have enough fuel to "Bingo" back to the divert field at NAS Miramar, a few miles north of San Diego if I didn't get aboard.

"Roger-Ball Corsair, keep it coming", the Landing Signal Officer (LSO) acknowledged from his platform on the port side of the flight deck.  The voice was not as relaxed as the voice of the Squadron LSO who “waved" the class every night for the past month back at NAS Lemoore, the Squadron’s "home plate" in central California.  More than two years of flight training at five bases in four states were riding on this event.

Tonight was the long-awaited "graduation exercise" out of the training environment into the fleet; the final rite of passage into the Navy's elite fraternity of "Tailhook" carrier pilots.  In a few short months, I'd be flying combat missions in Southeast Asia from an aircraft carrier in the Gulf of Tonkin.

Scheduling such a "milestone" event at the trailing edge of a marathon, twenty-three-hour day should have raised caution flags somewhere, but not with me.  The Instructor Pilots had primed the class for months with "sea stories" about night carrier landings separating the "men from the boys" - now it was my turn to prove I could fly with the eagles and the adrenaline was pumping.

This event was the fifth man-up for me in a non-stop day that began back home in Lemoore CA with a 0330 wake-up call -- it had been a test of endurance all right, but what else is new---long days are routine aboard aircraft carriers. 

We were being trained for combat and "hacking the program" was part of that training - this was the Navy, not the airlines!  The squadron’s mission was to train and "pump out" combat replacement carrier pilots for AIRPAC's Light Attack squadrons.  Pilot output was behind schedule and the pressure was on to catch up.

Good “headwork” dictated I take myself off the flight schedule.  But in the "DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR" world of Light-Attack carrier aviation, begging off the flight schedule, especially for “fatigue”, was a sign of weakness and a sure way to be branded a "non-hacker" for the rest of your Navy career -- it just wasn’t done, especially by a “Nugget”.  Besides, this was the “Graduation Exercise” and the Det OIC, LSO, and Schedules Officer were “old salts” at the carrier pilot training game; they wouldn’t let me get in over my head.

The final half mile to the ship was over in a matter of seconds; it happened so fast that the tricky "burble" of turbulent air at the "fantail" passed practically unnoticed.  But the bone-jarring jolt of the 25,000 lb. Corsair coming down at 650 feet per minute and colliding with the ship's steel deck didn't go unnoticed; I knew it was coming and it still got my attention. 

The harness straps dug deep into my shoulders as the plane decelerated from 135 kts to a screeching halt in three seconds flat.  The first-night "trap" had lived up to its billing; a cross between an orgasm and a head-on collision with a fast-moving freight train.

"Piece-of-cake", I thought, "five more and you're on your way to the fleet." 

 The landing was on-speed and on-glideslope and the tailhook had engaged the targeted "three wire".  But the plane was drifting toward the port catwalk.  On this, the fifth man-up, third launch, and eighth trap of the extended day, fatigue had finally overpowered my adrenaline. 

I had become so focused on "flying the ball" that the landing centerline had momentarily dropped out of my scan.  A late lineup correction had set up a right-to-left rollout as the plane decelerated down the angled deck. 

Over The Side

The plane skirted the port deck edge like a tightrope walker on a high wire before stopping painfully close to the catwalk.  I couldn't believe this was happening I could already hear the lineup lecture from the LSO back at the Ready Room debrief - but the debrief soon became the least of my problems.

The cockpit jolted hard as the plane's port main landing gear dropped off the edge.  As luck would have it, the protective steel "scupper" plate that normally guards the deck edge had been removed during the ship's recent trip to the shipyard and had not yet been replaced.  In less than a heartbeat, the plane was perched precariously on the edge of the flight deck.

With no visible horizon, it was impossible to determine the plane's exact attitude, but it was near 60 degrees left-wing-down.  To eject now would be suicide.  The perpendicular trajectory of the ejection seat's rocket motor would shoot the seat across the water like a flat rock on a farm pond.  If the hook remained engaged with the arresting gear cable, the situation might still be salvageable.  As the magnitude of the moment settled in, my mind shifted into slow motion. 

Strangely enough, there was no panic.  My thoughts were surprisingly calm and clear.  Instinctively, I pulled the throttle aft and "around the horn" to shut down the engine.  If the hook did release from the cable and the aircraft went over the side, the prospect of cold seawater being sucked into the Corsair's hot, turning turbine was a recipe for an even more explosive situation.  The engine was useless now anyway.

As the engine spooled down through 65% RPM, the generator dropped off-line cutting off all electrical power - the radio and interior lights went out.  The cockpit was suddenly enveloped in total darkness.  All contact with the world outside was lost.   Except for the pounding in my chest, there was only a deafening silence.  If this was a dream, it was a nightmare!

The momentary stillness was soon shattered as the aircraft lunged forward.  The tailhook had "spit out" the arresting cable.  I was in deep and serious trouble and knew it.  With nothing to hold it on deck, the plane tumbled off the flight deck and plunged downward some 60 feet before impacting the Pacific.  The sensation was like free-falling into a Black Hole. 

In survival training, we learned that a ditched aircraft normally sinks about 10 feet per second and that after 100 feet, crew survival is highly unlikely.  I figured I had about 10 seconds to get out of this mess alive.  Only a miracle would save me now.  I literally had run out of altitude and airspeed and was rapidly running out of ideas too. 

The ejection seat seemed the only chance, albeit a slim one.  In the history of Naval Aviation, only a handful of pilots had attempted, much less survived an underwater ejection.  Theoretically, it was possible in the A-7 but until now, no Corsair driver had tried it. There was also the chance the seat might eject directly into Connie's passing steel hull or even worse, into one of her massive propellers.  The odds for survival were slim and I knew it.

Ejection

I intentionally delayed the inevitable for a split-second for the ship to pass clear.  Then, like a death-row prisoner condemned for throwing the switch and ending his own life, I reached down between my knees for the seat's alternate ejection handle, the one we'd been trained to use when time is the most critical factor. 

Images of Theresa waiting at home with Steve, our nine-month-old son, flashed through my mind.  How would she react when the black Navy sedan pulled into the driveway and the Skipper and Chaplain came to the door?  Expecting the worst and realizing this may be my last thought; I grasped the ejection handle, closed my eyes, and pulled straight up --- Nothing happened - time stood still.  

The delay was only a millisecond, but it seemed much longer.  I decided that the ejection seat was not going to work.   Images of slowly sinking to the bottom and being drowned or crushed to death by the overpowering pressure of the Pacific flashed through my mind. I remember thinking “So this is how it’s all gonna end” The Corsair's tiny cockpit seemed destined to be my coffin.  

 Staying Alive

The sudden blast of brilliant light blinded me. Following a built-in sequencing delay, the seat's rocket motor fired.  In an instant, I was out of the cockpit and clear of the seat, submerged in the cold, dark water of the Pacific. 

I couldn't breathe, there was no oxygen. The water had forced the oxygen mask down around my chin - the emergency oxygen bottle in the seat pan was useless.  For the first time, panic set in ---I was totally disorientated - I couldn't tell up from down.  It was as if I had been shot out of a high-powered cannon into a pool of jet-black ink; a far cry from the "Dilbert-Dunker" simulator in the crystal-clear water of the training tank back at the Water-Survival School in Pensacola.  In under a minute, I had gone from being a cocky, self-assured carrier pilot to a desperate young 25-year-old Navy LT fighting for his life.

I had to do something fast, or it was all over but the memorial service.  Just then, a cluster of lights flickering on the surface caught my eye.  An 80,000-ton aircraft carrier cutting through the water at 30 knots doesn't stop on a dime; the flight-deck directors had tossed their watertight flashlight wands over the side to mark the plane's point of impact for the destroyer escort and the Search and Rescue (SAR) helo.  The lights gave a sense of direction.  Instinctively, I swam toward them.

My helmet broke the surface - I gasped for air-it was great to be alive.  But something was wrong.  An excruciating pain accompanied that lung full of fresh sea air.  It was as if a butcher knife had been plunged deep between my shoulder blades and twisted.  But I couldn’t deal with the pain just then; there was an even more pressing problem.

The altitude-sensing device that automatically deploys the parachute had activated.  As the chute's large silk canopy attempted to open; its nylon shroud lines were streaming aft in the water. The chute was overpowering my frantic efforts to keep my head above water.  I had to stay clear of those shroud lines and get rid of that chute ASAP.

I grabbed the nylon toggles that inflate the MK-3C survival vest.  To my surprise, they weren't where they should be - panic really set in now - time was running out.  I was fast losing the struggle to keep my head above water - it took all the strength I could muster just to stay afloat.  The parachute was winning - I was on the verge of being dragged under.

My body suddenly went numb!  Something below the surface brushed against my feet.  The gash on my arm was even more reason to be alarmed.  During the ejection through the Plexiglas canopy, my left forearm had been sliced and was bleeding profusely. The survival vest contained several packets of shark repellant, but I was too busy trying to keep my head above water to get to them. 

When it brushed against me again, I realized what had happened.  The plane had impacted the water with only minimal force; it had remained virtually intact.  With its wing-fuel bladders and over half of the fuselage fuel cells filled only with air, Corsair Two-Zero-Two was floating upside-down just beneath the surface, still undulating from Connie's passing wake.  I had surfaced alongside the aircraft and my legs were brushing against the outer edge of the horizontal stabilator.

Hanging onto the stabilator for support, I finally located the MK-3's inflation toggles. The survival vest had wrenched around to my side during the ejection.  Grasping a lanyard in each hand, I pulled down and away and WHOOSH, the flotation lobes inflated instantly.

But I wasn't out of harm's way yet - the parachute was still streaming out like a massive sea anchor.  Once it filled with water, even the inflated vest wouldn't help.  I glanced around just in time to see "Small-Boy", Connie's destroyer escort bearing down on a collision course.  From my water-level perspective, "Small-Boy looked anything but "SMALL" and if she didn't change course, they could scratch the rescue part of the mission and commence recovery and salvage operations.

Using techniques learned in water survival training, I rolled over on my back and reached upward along the parachute risers until I located the Koch fittings, the small metal latches that connect the harness to the parachute. I lifted the cover and pulled the latch down; the chute was gone instantly.

The Rescue

Moments later, I was floating center stage in a large beam of bright, white light shining down from the ship's SAR helicopter hovering noisily over-head.  Like most "jet jocks", I had never fully appreciated helicopters; except when they brought the mail, they had always been high on my list of low-priority aircraft - but never again.  Just now, that ugly, wind-blowing, water-churning contraption looked every bit like an angel of mercy sent from above - nothing could have been more beautiful. 

Fortunately, the destroyer escort had yielded the rescue to the SAR helo and "waved-off" clear to starboard. Minutes later, a rescue swimmer from the helicopter was in the water next to me. 

"You O.K. Sir?", he yelled over the din of the helo.

"I'm O.K.", I yelled back, - "but it hurts to breathe"… It also hurt like hell to to yell.

"Hang on sir - all we've got is a 'horse collar' but it'll get you out of here", he shouted as he guided my arms through the opening in the pear-shaped device that came to rest under my arm pits.   

 

As the hoist began lifting us slowly out of the water, my body dangling helplessly from the horse-collar like a wet dish rag.  Weighted down by soaking flight gear and steel-toed flight boots, and whipped about by the helo's turbulent downdraft, the pain became unbearable.  The next thing I remember, I was sprawled-out on the deck of the helo's cargo cabin, heaving salt water.

Moments later, the helo recovered aboard the carrier and I was transported down to sickbay on a stretcher.  The alternate ejection handle may have expedited my exit from the cockpit but at a very painful price. Reaching down between my knees to grasp the secondary handle in an inverted, submerged cockpit had placed my upper body in a dangerously vulnerable, curved position.  The brutal "G" force of the seat firing had broken my back. 

Miracle II

Three days after the mishap, the ship's Senior Medical Officer, a newly selected Navy Captain, arranged to accompany me ashore on a medevac flight to Balboa Naval Hospital in nearby San Diego.  By coincidence, the flight was scheduled with the same crew and aboard the same SAR helo that rescued me earlier.

Just prior to boarding the helo, a casualty on the flight deck created an unexpected dilemma: the medevac helo had been configured to carry only one patient.  The Doc had an instant decision to make. Needless to say, I was not happy to learn my name had been scratched from the manifest only minutes prior to launch.           

About an hour later, a young corpsman came running onto the ward.  He was out of breath.  From the look on his face, I knew some-thing terrible had happened. 

"You're either living right or somebody's looking after you Lieutenant", he blurted out.  "Word just came down from Air Ops that the medevac flight had engine problems and went down about half-way to the beach.  The crew got off a MAYDAY and a SAR helo has found the wreckage but there are no survivors, not even the Doc".

Afterword

I respectfully declined a second chance to medevac ashore, electing instead to ride the ship back into port a few days later.  Shortly after Connie tied up at the carrier pier at North Island, the corpsmen carried me ashore on a stretcher and I was transported by ambulance the short distance to Balboa Naval Hospital  

 Naval Aviation had turned out to be as dangerous as it was exciting and glamorous.  In just three short days, I had cheated death twice and learned firsthand that the thrill of flying a high-performance jet aircraft off of aircraft carriers can demand a hefty personal price.  I was beginning to understand why guys like me get paid for doing a job most of us would gladly pay for the privilege of doing.

The summer of 1969 was spent in a hospital bed at Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego, California, recovering from a broken back following that underwater ejection.  I remember that summer as if it were yesterday.  It was the summer our country landed a man on the moon; Ted Kennedy took a nighttime dip with Mary Jo Kopechne on Chappaquiddick Island, the final span of the Coronado Bay Bridge to North Island was hoisted into place in San Diego, Kenny Rogers begged Ruby not to take her love to town, and Zager and Evans told us in their one-hit wonder how life would be “In the year 2525.” 

Patients on Balboa’s sixth floor were all officers; many of them seriously wounded evacuees from Vietnam, with a sprinkling of other casualties from aircraft and domestic mishaps.   All had stories ranging from the fascinating to the heartbreaking.  My story was perhaps the most unusual of all, although the tale of the CDR who slipped and fell in the ship’s shower and broke his leg was one of the more amusing.  Then there was the young Lieutenant who crushed both his heels at a squadron party while trying to avoid being thrown into the swimming pool.  Seems he climbed lattice work to the roof of the host house, and then jumped off and landed hard on his heels on the darkened concrete patio as his squadron mates climbed up after him.  Need I mention this gent was inebriated at the time?  So much for that Navy career.

Squadron parties are a lot like college fraternity parties, except that squadron mates are proud to do their duty and go to war when their country calls.   Frat boys just apply for graduate school.

 By summer’s end, Balboa grew tired of me taking up one of their valuable hospital beds.  They released me to my home base at Naval Air Station (NAS) Lemoore, in central California.

Once back in Lemoore, my abruptly interrupted aviation career resumed.  Of course, there was the mandatory Field Naval Aviator’s Evaluation Board (FNAEB), the one with the dreaded long, green table that is convened following mishaps to determine if a pilot was at fault in the mishap and whether or not that pilot should be returned to flying status. 

The Board concluded that substantial supervisory errors contributed to the mishap and based on my training record prior to the mishap, recommended I be returned to flight status.  The Board further recommended that I undergo a “back in the saddle” syllabus and transition to the newly introduced, and much advanced A7-E model of the Corsair II.   After that, it was "strap yourself in," the express career elevator was headed upward, and I was along for the ride.

During the next eleven years, my career was non-stop, fast track.  It included five extended carrier deployments, including two combat tours and 293 combat missions with the VA-195 “Dambusters” in Vietnam aboard the aircraft carrier USS Kitty Hawk.  The “Hawk” deployments provided valuable combat experiences for future reference.

While still deployed on Kitty Hawk in the autumn of 1972 in the scenic Gulf of Tonkin, home of the infamously deadly “sea snake,” a set of orders came through the message system with my name on them.  I was reassigned as an Aviation Junior Officer Assignment Detailer at the Bureau of Naval Personnel (BUPERS) in Washington, D.C.

These were fantastic orders, but they were received with mixed emotions.  In addition to having to make a short-fused move across the country, there was the small matter of quickly selling a house only recently purchased in downtown Lemoore, California.  Fortunately, one of my squadron mates, after hearing of my new orders, came forward with a reasonable offer on the house, and he bought it before I departed the ship.