As pilots we’ve all experienced it, that nagging feeling that something’s not quite right. The instruments are all in the green. The navigation is spot on and you know exactly where you are. The weather couldn’t be better but…
Call it what you will. Gut feeling, experience, or lack of it. Even when passengers or crew don’t share that gut feeling, you should pay attention to it. It might save your life.
That was a lesson I learned during my tour in Vietnam as an Army helicopter pilot. Frankly, I had several instances of things that were hard to explain but I had not spent much time questioning my good fortune. I always was grateful, but I was afraid of too much introspection as it might appear to be a lack of gratitude on my part. When the fates have been kind, accept it and move on.
However, one such incident stood out among the others. It was an incident, an experience, a gut feeling that was so strange, so totally unexplainable with such profound consequences I decided it might be worth sharing.
On an early morning in late 1968, I was flying a Huey in a combat assault as part of a three-ship formation inserting troops onto a mountain ridge line. It was supposed to be three lifts on what we called an “admin lift.” No enemy action was expected and there was none. We were just re-positioning an infantry unit from the lowlands to the mountains.
After the lift was completed, the three ships were to disperse for their individual missions for the rest of the day.
Flying Hueys in close formation while heavily loaded with seven grunts in full gear, a crew of four and 1,600 lbs. of fuel to a mountain landing with a high density altitude is somewhat akin to landing jets on an aircraft carrier. You don’t need the enemy to make it dangerous. It is dangerous in and of itself.
The greatest danger is at the bottom, as you need to pull in power to slow the descent. You pick your landing spot at about 50 feet and in doing so you stop flying formation on your wingman. Trust is necessary.
Things happen pretty quickly as you are watching your spot, looking for hidden stumps, rocks, holes, glancing at the engine instruments, making sure you are not carrying too much speed and in danger of overshooting the ridge line and listening for the telltale sound that you are running out of power and getting a low RPM audio warning. When you are on the controls at the bottom, a state of hyperawareness is not unusual. It is required.
We could see the ridge line LZ (landing zone) from the PZ (pick-up zone). It was just a climbing turn to the right to 3,000 feet to set up a final approach to the 2,500-foot ridge line. The pick-up, climb and initial descent were routine.
As we got to the bottom, I started to pull in power and just before touchdown, at the point of greatest power-demand, I heard a strange sound. We touched down, the grunts jumped out and we nosed over the ridge line and took off for the second lift.
I got on the intercom and asked my crew chief, “Frank, did you hear anything strange at the bottom?” He said, “Like what?” I said, “I don’t know. It was a high-pitched, high-frequency kind of sound.”
Frank was proud of his ship and didn’t care for the seeming slander. His response of “No, sir” carried an implied, “You’re an idiot.”
The second lift went just as the first. Load up, climb out, set up the approach, begin descent. Again, when we got to the bottom, I pulled in power and heard the same strange sound. It was nothing like I’d ever heard after hundreds of hours flying a Huey.
And again, on climb out I asked Frank if he’d heard anything strange at the bottom. Again, his “No, sir” was only marginally above contempt. I didn’t blame him. He was responsible for the care and feeding of his ship and he took it seriously. He was a great crew chief.
I polled the co-pilot and gunner. “Did you guys hear anything?”
As we were about to land at the PZ for the last load of troops, I said to Frank, “When we’re on the ground, get out and look at the engine deck. See if you see or smell anything unusual.” I got a curt, “Yes, sir.”
After the troops were loaded, Frank got back in the ship, plugged in his helmet and said, “Clean as a whistle, sir.” He wasn’t kidding. He kept the engine deck clean enough to eat off of. Had there been an oil leak or hydraulic fluid where it shouldn’t be, it would have been obvious.
At this point, I was beginning to question myself, but I was still concerned. As we were climbing out with the last load, I told the crew, “OK, as we get to the bottom I want you guys to listen up. See if you can hear anything unusual.” All three acknowledged over the intercom.
As we were on final approach, I spent a little more time looking at the instruments than I normally did. No worries about the touchdown point as we’d landed there twice. The instruments were all in the green and steady. As we got to the bottom and I pulled in power, there it was, louder and more insistent than ever.
“Don’t you guys hear that?”
“No sir.” I couldn’t believe no one else heard it. I made a decision.
We were supposed to report to one of the infantry battalion headquarters to spend the day as its re-supply ship. I got on my aviation company’s UHF radio frequency and said, “This is Dolphin 14. I think I have an engine problem. I’m going to make a precautionary landing at the Ha Thanh Special Forces camp. Can you send out the Witchdoctor?” That was our maintenance ship.
The operations officer replied, “What’s the problem?” I thought to myself, “good question.”
“Dolphin 14, I’m not sure. Instruments are OK, but it sounds funny.” It wasn’t funny at this point.
I’d now committed. If I called off a mission and called out the Witchdoctor and I was wrong… pilot humiliation that I didn’t really want to contemplate. At a minimum, I’d have to buy several rounds at the O Club bar for the maintenance guys. Worse, I’d have to endure the contempt of my crew chief. Worse still, whispers. Bruises to my reputation as an aircraft commander. Possibly an audience with the Commanding Officer about, well, God knows what, but nothing good.
My crew said nothing. They’d heard my radio call. We flew over to the next valley and landed inside the wire at the Special Forces camp. “The sound” was there but no one said anything.
I shut down the ship and we staked out some shade trees to wait on the Witchdoctor. Frank opened the engine cowling and looked around, but he didn’t have the tools to do any major engine inspection. He came over to the shade and waited with me. I took a nap.
When the Witchdoctor landed and shut down, the engine techs came over to me and asked what the problem was. I explained, as best I could. At that point, it sounded pretty thin, even to me. I was wondering if I was to have an audience with the CO in my near future.
So, I waited in the shade to hear my fate, not knowing that my fate already had been decided.
After about 20 minutes, the engine tech came over and said, “Tell me again what you heard.” I repeated, again, “It was a high-pitched, high-frequency kind of sound I’ve never heard before.”
Frank was there with me. The engine tech said, “Well, the bearings on the 2nd-stage gas-producing turbine rotor melted and were fused.” I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant but I knew it wasn’t good.
He continued, “I’d say you had about 30 seconds to 60 seconds more runtime before the engine exploded.”
And then he added the kicker, “There’s no way you should have been able to hear anything. When that happens, it just goes with no warning.”
Had that engine turbine flown apart, taking fuel lines with it and causing the entire engine to explode, it almost certainly would have taken off the tailboom and/or a main rotor blade. From 3,000 feet, no one survives that.
I’m pretty sure I remember Frank dropping to his knees and kissing my jungle boots. But maybe he just fainted. I remember being a little lightheaded. After that, I just remember the Chinook coming in to sling load my ship back to our maintenance ramp. I have no recollection of how I got back.
I didn’t have to buy any drinks. I didn’t have to talk to the CO. My reputation was intact and I had Frank’s undying gratitude.
Most of all, I was alive. And while I couldn’t explain why, that gut feeling became a standard part of my personal checklist.
- That gut feeling might save your life - August 3, 2017
Great story. In 50 years that hasn’t happened to me (yet),
Score one for the human factor. Thanks for taking the time to share.
I’ve been Monitoring the “gut meter” since 1968 as well. It has saved me from several potentially disastrous outcomes. Maybe more of them than I am even aware. 68/21 Toptiger17 , Smokey, Mustang25. ( Footloose). Great story.
I understand completely. In my 40 years career, I had similar events. The first one drove me crazy, but consecutive ones earned me respect by maintnance people.
Dear Mr Pennington,
You listened to your Inner Voice, the Holy Spirit, and saved everyone and everything.
You are a true hero. Thank you for your story!
I’ve been there a couple time, both propeller related. I noticed something was not right, but others did not.
Amen. Listen to your gut. If you fly the same plane a lot regularly you develop a second sense, a sort of ” mind meld” with your machine, be it fling wing or fixed wing. If something, even undefinaeable or unidentifiable, creeps into your consciousness pay attention. It has worked for me for 52 years home and away, way away. I’ve missed a couple also.
Wonderful story and what great trust in your gut instinct! My instructor always said if you think something’s wrong there most likely is! Thanks for your service.
Frank who? Just wondering… I might have known him.
WOW! I have had the same experiences. The first time I just thought I was being paranoid! However, I listened and have been listening since I was in Vietnam! The “gut feeling” is hard to understand but gphas served me well.
My fingers didn’t work well on the tablet need to correct the spelling to say gut feeling has served me well.
I was once contemplating a short bush floatplane flight from Anchorage’s Lake Hood to a lodge on the Kenai Peninsula. The cloud formation over the Kenai Mountains, a part of the Chugach Range. It seemed to be saying “Come on down, come on down.” It was disturbing to me.
As I finished my walk-around inspection, I walked around the starboard wingtip. Placing my hand on it, I wiggled it up and down. It was so loose that it wobbled, feeling as though only the fabric was holding the wing in place. The main strut was clearly broken! ‘Nuff said —pay attention to that gut feeling.
After 38 years and 19,000 hrs. I can absolutely say that has happened to me more than once. As you experienced, after time has proved your “gut feelings” to be correct, the maintenance folks will respect your opinion and will do all they can to research the problem. Thanks for the story………GO BLUE……
As an A&P, I’m always telling people that, “things mechanical will talk to you … you just have to learn how to listen.” This mantra has served me well over the years. And this doesn’t just apply to airplanes … it’s anything. My wife has strict instructions to bring to my attention anything she thinks isn’t quite right so I can look into it. Just yesterday she brought an unusual operation of our high tech water heater to me and — indeed — it’s built-in-test is indicating a problem. It “talked” and she “listened.” :-)
GREAT story … one I will remember and tell others. Thanks and glad you and your crew are still with us.
Heart + Head = GUT !
You have that soo right. I recall a time when I was flying F-86Hs in the Mass. Air National Guard when I got a ‘Gut Feeling’… I had just completed firing a rocket at the ground target pulling 3-4 Gs during the recovery… my G-suit connection disconnected so I grayed out… no vision…. When I released the back pressure and looked at the G-meter in the cockpit I saw the that the ‘tell-tare’ was pegged at 10+Gs. The ‘redline’ for the F-86H aircraft is 8.4 Gs….. So, I said, … I am NOT going to do any more bomb runs on this flight…. a VERY GOOD THING! …. When parked the aircraft, the crewchief came up to my and said, … What the H… have you done to this aircraft…..see all those rivets on the ramp…you bent the aircraft more than 20 degrees… destroying the aircraft… So I said…. Thank you, THANK YOU, THANK YOU North American for overdesigning and building aircraft beyond the stated limits and allowing me to be still here….alive! Amen, AMEN, and AMEN!
Great story. KUDOS then for listening (deeply), and KUDOS now for telling an important story.
Thanks for a wonderful story of flying and in your knowledge of the Huey. I was in the Army a little later, early ’70’s, but always enjoyed the Huey’s and Kiowas over humping the boonies with a full-load. God was with you in that mission. I know is it some years later, but it is never too late to thank Him and praise him for saving your life, the lives of your crew and the soldiers that you transported to the mountain position. Thanks for serving America and risking your life for me.
Had one these last weekend with mag failure In flight. Precautionary landing confirmed the gut when mag drop on ground check exceeded 200RPM and wouldn’t make takeoff power.
As an old man with a service connected high frequency hearing loss I may have a clue for you. The others in your crew may have been older than you or their positions in the aircraft might have blanked the noise to them. Whatever, good job questioning the noise/feeling despite the pressure of the missions!
This story is complete bullshit. The engine would have quit the moment the bearing seized. Also, complete nonsense about the engine exploding if this happened. This story is a crock of shit.