Flying Blind

Flying Blind

By Edward O. Dayley (RET MAJ/USA)

As told to Beth Dayley

As an operations officer in the Americal Division, and one of the few instructor pilots, I often would give check-rides or evaluation flights during my second tour of duty in the Vietnam War.  I was assigned to Chu Lai; the mountains rise straight up above the smooth, serene beach.  The terrain is thick with vegetation hiding all kinds of animal life. 

Early each morning we’d all meet together in the operations center to receive our missions and be briefed about their specifics.  One memorable morning in March 1971, I plotted out my flight plan for the check-ride and inspected my helicopter.  I was frustrated when I discovered that the skids on my aircraft weren't right.  It was a minor problem, but because running landings were required on check-rides, I needed good skids.  A nearby pilot heard my complaint and offered to switch aircraft with me.  He was dropping troops into a site high in the mountains.  It was a dangerous mission because of the locale and terrain; however, he wouldn't be doing any running landings, so the bad skids wouldn't be a problem for him. 

The check ride was routine and smooth and as the pilot flew, my thoughts slipped back to the past and how close I almost came to not being a helicopter pilot at all.  I’d grown up in a small town in Southern Idaho with an alcoholic dad and a working Mom.  I had learned to work hard, and had to earn everything thing I’d received in life, so compared to my teenage years, flight school had been a snap.  But towards the middle of the nine-month course, we got into instruments and I hit a mental cement wall. 

A lot of flying is trusting your instincts, "flying by the seat of your pants," and I excelled at that.  Instruments meant "flying blind" which was just the opposite.  I was put in a flight simulator which blacked out all outer sensations.  Then I had to learn to trust not what I felt or thought, but what the lighted panel told me.  Time after time, I messed up because I felt I was flying straight and level, yet the instruments showed I was in a tight descending turn!  I fought and fought against the necessity to trust something other than my own instincts. 

Finally, when I had become resigned to the fact that I would probably fail the course and end up in Vietnam as a foot soldier, I stopped caring what happened and loosened up enough to overcome my problem.  I started trusting the instruments more than my own gut feeling and I passed the course and became a pilot.  

Now here I was in Vietnam flying a predictable, boring check-ride on a clear, warm day.  Just then there was a loud explosion in the back of the helicopter and the aircraft lurched to the right.  I wrenched the controls from the other pilot and wrestled against the aircraft’s tendency to roll over.   Chaotic thoughts flashed through my mind. Simultaneously I was assessing the situation. Had we been hit by mortar?  Had we had a mid-air collision with another aircraft? 

Normally in any emergency when there is a loss of power, the pilot puts the aircraft into auto-rotation and cuts the throttle.  This common procedure is repeatedly drummed into pilots until we do it without thinking.  My actions that day over the South China Sea were neither normal nor natural, and I can't explain them logically.  I felt as though I was "letting go" and trusting something higher than myself or my instruments.  I was flying blind.

I did not cut the engine as a pilot's reflexes would dictate.  I did not know what was wrong.  I wasn't even sure I had rotor blades above me that were turning.  All I knew is that I didn't want to go down over the sea or we'd drown.  Helicopter pilots who hit the sea go down with their aircraft into a watery grave.    As the rotors miraculously continued to turn, I realized our only chance was to reach the beach.   With the engine screeching like a banshee and the controls jerking like a mad bull, we somehow landed with one skid on the beach and one in the water.  As the skid touched ground, the rotor blades seized up and stopped with a snap. 

Safely on the shore, we examined the aircraft and discovered that our transmission had disintegrated during the flight. Why we survived I still don't understand.  One thing is definite—if I had followed the normal emergency procedures drummed into me during flight school, as soon as I cut the engine, the transmission would have locked up and the rotors would have immediately ceased.  We would have dropped like a stone from the sky. I think, too, of the men that were originally scheduled to be aboard that aircraft I flew that day. What would have happened to them on their rocky mountain terrain if they had been flying that aircraft when the transmission ceased?

          Trusting in something other than one's experience or training is very rare in this world.  Why did I ignore the normal reflexes and procedures and do the only thing that could have saved our lives that day?   Was I a tool in the hands of the Lord that spring day half way around the world?   Was it coincidence that we switched aircraft that morning?  Did some of those men on the other flight still have missions to fulfill? 

          I believe that the Lord was with me that day; I know that he guided me and the other pilots to safety. If we trust the Lord, he will lead us and guide us.