Strike Damage on Take Off, Adak - 1969

Robert Hartl was at Adak, Alaska on June 2, 1969!

It was early in the morning . My squadron,VP-45, was returning from Sangley Point, Philippine Islands, where we had been deployed for six months in support of the Vietnam conflict. I was in the lead aircraft of a three aircraft formation departing from Adak, Alaska, in the Aleutian Island chain and returning to NAS Jacksonville, Florida, our home base in the United States. Sixteen men were onboard each aircraft, all P-3A Orions. I was 26 years of age and the crew’s normal co-pilot, but on this day I was a passenger occupying the navigator’s seat. The crew’s aircraft commander was in the right pilot seat and the pilot-navigator occupied the left seat.

The pilots positioned our aircraft on the runway for takeoff. Looking out the window from my seat, the navigator’s station, the sun’s first light was illuminating the hills. Knowing this was the last leg in a six month deployment filled all of the crew’s minds and was reflected on all of our excited faces. We were strapped into our ditching stations as the pilots advanced the power levers to takeoff thrust. 12,000 plus shaft horsepower came on line as the four big props bit into the morning air. There was a lurch and a roar as we began our acceleration up to an airspeed of about 140 miles per hour, our takeoff speed. Suddenly, there was an unexpected explosion followed shortly by silence as the engines were transitioning from full forward thrust to reverse thrust. As I looked over my shoulder toward the cockpit I saw that our second flight engineer "Frenchy" Lavigne had unfastened his seat belt and was attempting to assist with the emergency. As suddenly as "Frenchy" got up he just as suddenly whirled and returned to his ditching station wearing a terrified face. I could feel the aircraft decelerate slightly and I fearfully sensed that the cockpit situation was deteriorating rapidly. Almost simultaneously there was a lurching of the aircraft. Later, I learned that at that time we were leaving the runway at about 120 miles per hour. My heart stopped as I saw orange flashes of light illuminating the inside of the cabin. The flashing was caused by electrical sparks and fuel when it ignited into a tremendous fire as the right wing of the aircraft was being ripped off of the aircraft. Finally, the movement and noise stopped and there was silence.

The adrenaline was flowing as I spotted one of my fellow crew members running toward an overwing exit. My friend, tactical coordinator Bill Dailey, and I ran toward the same door and we arrived in the opening simultaneously. As we attempted to squirm through the small exit I realized that one of us had to take a step back. The slapstick scene ended when I gave him a push out of the door onto the left wing. There was still a tremendous roar as the two engines on the remaining wing were running at near full power. Bill was immediately blown off of the wing on to the ground. What I had not realized was that the power levers were in full reverse. Fortunately, the props were in a forward thrust situation, the result of a pitchlock condition. Had the props been in reverse, we would have been pulled into the blades instead of being blown off of the wing. I also jumped on the wing and was blown off the wing on to the tundra.

I tried to stand up but was immediately blown down on the ground by propwash. I crawled about twenty feet, until I could stand up and then ran about another seventy-five feet away from the airplane. I looked back and saw the huge furrow marks the wheels and landing gear had made in the ground. The aircraft was being consumed by flames as huge columns of black smoke rose up into the air. Fire trucks arrived in a short time. The firemen shot great streams of white foam on the flaming wreckage in front of our stunned faces and in a short time extinguished the fire.

A bus was dispatched to the crash scene and the crew (all survived with no injuries thanks to a strict PPC who insisted on every man occupying a ditching station) was whisked off to the hangar from which we had departed earlier.

Ours was the lead aircraft in the three ship takeoff, so our fellow squadron mates had watched us depart the runway and transition into a ball of fire. Slowly, they taxied their aircraft back to the same hangar where we had been taken, anticipating solemn funeral arrangements. What joy on their faces as they saw us all, alive! There was euphoric hugging and tears as they greeted us, "back from the dead."

Naturally, I have reflected on this incident from time to time. I have thought of the men and how they felt; the sadness of loosing an airplane and the righteous looks from some of my fellow squadron mates as it came time to assign the blame. However, what stands out to me was the camaraderie of most of the men in the squadron as they helped the crew overcome our fears of returning to flying. As the aircraft we flew are now being crunched into scrap metal in the "Boneyard", that redemption seems small in comparison to the inspirational behavior of my fellow squadron mates who helped us on with our lives.

P.S. It took several years for my fear of flying to dissipate. I resumed my flying duties shortly after the accident with VP-45 and later became an airline pilot for Delta Airlines, Inc. I am presently flying as Captain on the L-1011 in Atlanta… and 2 June 1969 is only a memory.