The Da Nang Glider

Never Before or Never After

I graduated from pilot training at Craig AFB in Selma, Alabama, in 1968 as a member of Class 68F. I chose the Lockheed EC-121 Super Constellation for my assignment, thinking that experience in a large, multi-engine aircraft might help if I eventually transitioned to the airlines after my five-year commitment.

The “Connie,” as it was known, was a distinctive airplane—four piston engines, a triple tail, and a dolphin-shaped fuselage. It was one of the first pressurized airliners, capable of flying above most weather, and it served both civilian and military roles for years.

After training at Otis AFB and McGuire AFB, I was assigned to Korat Royal Thai Air Force Base in Thailand for a one-year tour during the Vietnam War with the 553rd Reconnaissance Wing. Our mission—code-named Igloo White—was highly classified. We flew long, 10- to 12-hour missions monitoring sensors along the Ho Chi Minh Trail to track enemy troop movements in real time. Our call sign was “Batcat.”

A Routine Mission

On June 21, 1969, Crew 31 launched on what was expected to be a routine combat mission. After takeoff, we proceeded to our assigned orbit near Khe Sanh at 19,000 feet.

Once established, the airplane was configured for cruise. It was standard practice for one pilot to occupy the left seat while a navigator sat in the right seat. At the time, I was flying from the left seat, with Lt. Hardee, one of our navigators, beside me. Sgt. Welch was the flight engineer.

Then, without warning, all four engines quit.

Not one. Not two. All four—simultaneously feathering.

No Hydraulics, No Control

In the EC-121, hydraulic pressure from the engines was required to operate the flight controls. With all four engines out, we lost that pressure instantly. The controls effectively froze.

The airplane began to decelerate rapidly. The nose dropped. The left wing followed.

I attempted to correct, but nothing responded.

My first move was to pull the hydraulic release lever beside my right leg, disconnecting the system so the airplane could be flown manually through the cable controls. That worked—but just barely. Flying the aircraft this way felt like trying to steer a fully loaded truck with no power steering.

Within a few minutes, I had the airplane stabilized and pointed toward the coast. But we were still gliding—with no engines.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday”

Lt. Col. January, the aircraft commander, had been resting in the bunk behind the cockpit. He quickly came forward and took the left seat. I moved to the right and began handling radios and emergency procedures.

We transmitted: “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.”

The emergency bell rang throughout the aircraft.

In the back, the crew began preparing to bail out. Classified materials were destroyed. Parachutes and life vests were put on.

There was just one problem—no one had ever bailed out of a Constellation before.

The rear door was partially open but jammed halfway. There was real concern that anyone exiting might strike the tail. The parachutes we carried were chest packs—intended as backup, not primary equipment.

Meanwhile, we continued trying to restart the engines.

A Glider Over Vietnam

The restarts were inconsistent. Some engines would briefly come back, only to feather again. We continued losing altitude.

By the time we reached the coastline, a rescue C-130 had joined us.

Our destination was Da Nang.

Gradually, as we reduced power and descended, the feathering issues with the number three and four engines became less frequent. Slowly, cautiously, we regained some measure of control.

At Da Nang, we executed a circling overhead approach.

And then—after what felt like far longer than it probably was—we landed.

All four engines were running by the time we touched down.

Aftermath

Once on the ground, the crew made its way to the Da Nang officers’ club. There were, as you might expect, a number of drinks involved.

Our airplane remained at the far end of the runway for more than three months while Lockheed engineers and maintenance crews tried to determine what had happened. Components were replaced, systems tested, and eventually the aircraft returned to service.

To my knowledge, no definitive cause was ever established.

For my role in the incident, I was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross.

Never Again

After completing my Air Force commitment, I was assigned to McClellan AFB in California. I accumulated more than 3,000 hours of flight time over the course of my career. I shut down plenty of engines along the way—but never again all four at once.

Today, at 82, I live in Memphis, Tennessee. My wife, Jane, and I have been married for 60 years. We have three children, eight grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren.

And one story that still stands alone.

Watch the Video

I also created a short video about the “Da Nang Glider”:

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Thomas Ezzell

Mason Ezzell, now 82, completed a five-year commitment with the USAF at McClellan AFB in Sacramento, California, and accumulated over 3,000 flying hours. Throughout his career, he continued to shut down engines in flight—though never again all four at once. Mason now lives in Memphis, Tennessee, and went on to own his own business, never flying for the airlines. He and his wife, Jane, have been married for 60 years and have three grown children, eight grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren.

Latest posts by Thomas Ezzell (see all)

• The Da Nang Glider - May 11, 2026