Incredible

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BAILOUT!: FROM HITTING THE SILK TO PULLING THE HANDLE
Flight Journal, Feb 2004 by Tillman, Barrett
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IT WAS THE 303RD BOMB GROUP'S NINTH MISSION. ON JANUARY 3, 1943, the group contributed 14 of the 8th Air Force's 68 bombers that attacked the German submarine base at St. Nazaire, France. Seven planes were lost, including four from the 303rd. One of the missing aircraft was a B-17F named Snap! Crackle! Pop!, which was set afire by German flak and then exploded. Three men were blown out of the Boeing. Only two had parachutes.

Ball turret gunner Staff Sgt. Alan E. Magee's chute was shredded by flak. He was looking for a spare chute, standing near the bomb bay, when he was ejected into space. From 20,000 feet, he plummeted toward the ground, asking God to spare him. Then he passed out.

Magee regained consciousness surrounded by men speaking German. One of his arms was badly mangled and he had other injuries. A sympathetic German army doctor told Magee that although they were enemies, as a doctor he would do his best to save the American's arm. He was true to his word. Sadly, Magee never learned the surgeon's name.

How Magee survived his four-mile fall was another matter entirely. By sheer coincidence, he made a bull's-eye landing on the skylight of St. Nazaire's train station. The shattering glass slowed his descent, and he fell to the floor. It was enough of a drop to kill a man.
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Fifty-two years later, Alan Magee and his wife, Helen, dedicated a plaque to the seven crewmen who died in Snap! Crackle! Pop! The citizens of St. Nazaire still pay tribute to the American airmen who lost their lives liberating France; no one can forget Alan Magee's providential survival-surely an answered prayer.

Falling through space without a parachute-or with a failed chute-is too horrifying to contemplate. Such falls usually start at high altitude, so the descent offers enough time-occasionally as long as two minutesto think about the horrible impact. Accelerating at 32fps (feet per second) per second, humans reach terminal velocity at between 110 and 120mph, depending on weight and body position. Some lose consciousness as they fall but not because of gravity's acceleration. Some skydivers relish the sensation and don't suffer ill effects, especially if they have two parachutes-and therein lies the difference. Those who somehow survive a fall seldom recall the shattering moment of collision with earth or sea.

Emergency parachutes date from France in the 1780s, and in the U.S., their aviation use was proven in 1912. Despite their life-saving potential, during WWI, only Germany issued chutes to aircrew; the most common usage was by balloon observers. The American record for emergency parachute jumps is probably still held by Lt. Glen Phelps, who bailed out of five balloons under enemy attack during 1918.

¼ combat survival

Tens of thousands of lives have been saved by parachutes: the exact number is unknowable. But the survival of some fliers, such as Alan Magee, defies explanation. Among the most notable survivals was that of Soviet Lt. I.M. Chisov, whose Ilyushin Il-4 bomber was shot down in January 1942. After falling nearly 22,000 feet, Chisov hit the edge of a snowy ravine and rolled to the bottom. Though badly injured, he recovered.

Two years later, German night fighters near Berlin shot down RAF Flight Sgt. Nicholas Alkemade's Lancaster. When the bailout order came, tail gunner Alkemade looked around to find his stowed parachute afire. He chose to jump rather than burn and rolled out of the turret. He fell 18,000 feet, crashing through trees, underbrush and drifted snow. Other than a twisted knee and some cuts, he was safe.

Another Bomber Command flier was even luckier, according to RAF historian Chaz Bowyer. In November 1944, Handley-Page Halifaxes of No. 466 Squadron, Royal Australian Air Force, attacked targets in Germany's industrial heartland, the Ruhr Valley. Flight Lt. Joe Herman, who turned westward toward Britain after the bomb run, flew one of them. While descending through 18,000 feet, however, the plane took three direct hits. With his plane afire almost from wingtip to wingtip, Herman called for a bailout.

The upper gunner, Flight Sgt. John Vivash, was going overboard when he saw Herman reach for a chute. Then the bomber exploded. Vivash was flung into the dark night and opened his chute. Moments later, as he descended swinging beneath the canopy, he felt a bump and noted an increased descent. he called out, unable to see much in the darkness. A familiar voice responded; Vivash was astonished. "Is that you, Joe?"

"Yes, but I haven't got a chute. I seem to have bumped into you on my way down."

After having fallen from about 17,000 feet, Herman had miraculously collided with the gunner and, equally miraculous, had been able to hold on to him, literally for dear life. With twice the normal weight on the canopy, their landing was unusually hard. Herman suffered two broken ribs, but despite their injuries, the two Aussies were ambulatory. They spent four days walking toward presumed safety in Holland before the Germans captured them. Following six months in a POW camp, they returned to Australia.

Perhaps the most horrifying parachuting ordeal ever recorded was that of Lt. Sam Logan of Marine Fighting Squadron 112, who was shot down in a dogfight over the Solomon Islands in June 1943. Logan abandoned his burning Corsair at about 18,000 feet (a remarkably consistent altitude) but pulled the ripcord too soon. Dangling in midair, he attracted a murderous Zero pilot who made repeated firing passes, trying to kill the Marine in midair. Out of ammunition, the Japanese resorted to butchery.

As Logan desperately yanked on the risers, trying to spill enough air to increase his descent, the Zeke bored in close-too close to miss. Parts of Logan's feet were sliced off by the propeller. Trying to ignore the incredible pain, Logan continued tugging on the lines as the Zero banked around for another pass.

Providentially, a New Zealand P-40 arrived to chase off the Zero. Logan was rescued, and once rehabilitated, he was able to fly again.

Peacetime perils

One typical problem inherent in a manual bailout occurred over the Chesapeake Bay in 1952, when Marine Lt. Col. Marion Carl conducted a spin test on the single-engine AF-2S Guardian. Carl forced the big Grumman into a right-hand stall at 11,000 feet. He let the spin progress to two turns and then initiated recovery procedures. On the second turn, the nose came level with the horizon. "I was in a flat spin and knew I had real trouble," Carl explained.

"I tried the standard remedies: neutral controls, full power, stick forward, everything-no good. I rode it through several turns; I had to get out of that airplane."

The Guardian had side-by-side seating with the pilot on the left; however, the centrifugal force of the starboard spin prevented Carl from bailing out his side. "I had to crawl across the empty seat and try the far side. But the force of the spin made this take too much time. The water was rushing up to meet me, as the dizzying spin held me inside. I was trapped.

"I pulled myself across the cockpit into the swirling slipstream across the starboard wing. Somehow I avoided snagging my parachute on anything, and as soon as I reached the wing, I pulled my D-ring. There wasn't one second to spare."

Circling overhead, two more Navy test pilots saw the AF-2 impact the water. With no visible chute, they concluded that Marion Carl-triple ace and survivor of Midway, Guadalcanal and the upper Solomons-was dead.

In fact, Carl's parachute deployed at the last possible second. He didn't even swing once in his harness but splashed down close beside the Grumman. He concluded, "Had I been on land, I would have broken both legs."

Manual bailouts remain the only option for many military aircraft well into the jet age. In 1973, Ensign Louis "Seadog" Fodor was on a combination ferry/navigation training mission from Guam to the Philippines. He was one of three navigators, including an instructor and another student, aboard an EA-3B Skywarrior. Long story short: despite Fodor's warnings, the senior instructor and the pilot ran the "Whale" out of fuel somewhere east of Japan. Finding a Japanese ship, the crew made a manual bailout via the A-3's escape hatch. Three good parachutes blossomed over the Pacific expanse. Seadog Fodor kept falling.

By his own description, Fodor found himself in midair "... with a ripcord attached to nothing in particular." With seconds to live, he unsnapped one of his koch fittings and wrenched the backpack off one shoulder. Ignoring the water looming toward him at more than 100mph, he tore open the webbing and tossed yards of nylon into the air. Enough of the canopy inflated to save him from fatal impact.

That was the good news. The bad news: the errant A-3 made two descending orbits overhead and then boresighted Ens. Fodor. With no escape, Seadog watched with proverbial bated breath. The twin-engine bomber missed him by perhaps 30 yards; his friends were sure he was dead.
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