Fling Wing: How Much Does A Pound Of Milk Weigh Again?

[Hedley]

Got this emailed to me by a friend, thought you might enjoy it:

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Milk Run
by Chris McKenna

The Captain of a Navy ship at sea is perhaps the closest thing to an
absolute dictator left on Earth. While this is certainly true of most
ships, it is not quite the whole truth aboard an aircraft carrier. The
Captain rules the ship absolutely, but he leaves the Air Boss to run the
flight deck. As a Naval Aviator, I saw the Air Boss as larger than life.
He was the voice of authority crackling in my headset, a tyrant with a
hair trigger who lashed out at anyone foolhardy enough to disregard him.
He used strong language and demanded immediate compliance. He was a man
with immense responsibility and an ego to match. And he was addressed by
everyone aboard, including the Captain, simply as "Boss."

I flew the CH-46 Sea Knight, a tandem rotor helicopter typically deployed
on supply ships within the battle group. It was our job to deliver "beans
and bullets" to the fleet. While not actually stationed on the carrier
itself, we "hit" it at least every other day, restocking everything needed
to keep a small "city at sea" running. It was exciting, challenging
flying, requiring great precision and skill, and I loved it. I was in my
early twenties and in command of a four-man crew and a multimillion dollar
aircraft. But always there, just below the surface, was the aura of the
Air Boss. It would lead me to one of the biggest blunders I have ever made
in my flying career. But for a matter of a few feet, excellent training,
and some dumb luck, it could well have claimed the lives of my crew.

It was a day like most others for a Sea Knight pilot. We launched before
dawn on a vertrep mission, the vertical replenishment of ships at sea that
was our specialty. In a synchronized aerial ballet, we flew maneuvers
called side-flairs and button-hooks, moving tons of cargo, attached
externally to a heavy gauge steel hook beneath the helicopter. Whether it
was ammunition, food, machinery, or mail - referred to as "pony" - the
ships in the Battle Group depended on us for sustenance. Vertrep allowed
the Battle Group to disperse over more than a hundred miles of ocean, and
still receive the daily supplies necessary to operate.

By noon we had completed the vertrep, and only had a load of internal
cargo left for the carrier. At ten miles out, I keyed the microphone and
called the Air Boss for clearance into his domain.

"Boss, Knightrider zero-six, ten miles out for landing."

"Negative Knightrider, recoveries in progress. Take starboard delta," he
mono toned, referring to the holding pattern designated for helicopters.

Sometimes I thought he put us there just to show his disdain, as there
often seemed to be no reason for it. But today he actually was recovering
jets, and we took our interval in the delta pattern with the carrier's Sea
King helicopter already orbiting. I watched as the jets made their
approaches and either "trapped" - caught one of the four arresting cables
on the flight deck, or "boltered" - missed the wires and went around. As
many times as I saw it, I never lost my fascination for carrier
operations, and my admiration for those guys. With all the jets aboard, I
anxiously awaited our landing clearance. We hadn't eaten since around 3am,
and wanted to get back to our ship for chow. But the voice of authority
had other plans.

"Knightrider, I've got another cycle fifteen minutes out. I'm going to
recover them first before I bring you aboard," he said matter-of-fact-ly.

"I haven't got the fuel for that Boss," I shot back.

"Then you'll have to bingo," he replied, without a hint of sympathy in his
voice.

"That cocky so and so," I thought. I could land, offload, and be airborne
again in less than five minutes, and he knew it. But he was the Air Boss
and his word was law, so I shut my mouth and turned for home. But then I
remembered those big orange bags on the cabin floor behind me - the ones
with "U. S. Mail" stenciled on them - and realized that they represented
my landing clearance. As any sailor knows, "mail-call" ranks just below
"liberty-call" in a mariner's heart. Not even the Air Boss could resist
the powerful lure of his mail. I keyed the mike, and played my trump card.

"Be advised Boss, we have pony aboard."

I knew that everyone in the tower was staring at him right then, silently
willing him to reverse himself. And if he didn't, word would spread like
wild fire to each of the six thousand sailors on that ship that he had
denied them a mail-call. He couldn't say no.

"Ok Knightrider, you're clear to land, spot three," he spat, specifying
the area all the way forward on the angled deck.

He was obviously annoyed, but what did I care? In minutes we would be out
of his airspace and on our way back home for chow. I flew a slow, shallow
approach, careful not to let my rotor wash disrupt the activity on the
flight deck. As soon as I touched down, my aircrewmen lowered the aft deck
and began pushing pallets down the rollers to the waiting forklifts. It
was like clockwork. Only minutes after receiving his grudging clearance,
we were empty and buttoned up.

"Boss, Knightrider zero six is ready to lift, spot three," I transmitted.

"Hold on Knightrider," he ordered. "I just got a call from supply. They
want you to move a load of milk back to home plate for dispersal. How many
gallons can we load max?"

It was a question I had never gotten before. I knew we could lift about
seven thousand pounds with our current fuel load, but I hadn't a clue how
many gallons of milk that equated to. I looked over at Dave, my copilot,
and wondered if he had any more insight on the nature of milk than I did.

"Got any idea what a gallon of milk weighs?" I asked.

He just looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and turned his palms upward
in what is commonly referred to as the Ensign's salute.

"Come on Knightrider, I need a number. I've got Tacair inbound," the voice
of authority growled.

I could feel my palms starting to sweat as the forklifts came off the
elevators with pallets of milk.

"Come on Knightrider!" he snarled.

I pulled the calculator out of my helmet bag and input 7000. Now I just
needed to know what to divide it by. The supply officer usually did all
this for us. But here on the carrier I was on my own, and for some reason
it was important to me to impress the Air Boss. I was determined to take
the biggest load we could.

"Hey Knightrider!" he barked. "I need a number and I need it now. How many
gallons?"

"I guess milk weighs about the same as fuel, right Dave?"

He rendered another Ensign's salute.

I knew that jet fuel weighed 6.5 pounds per gallon. We used that figure
all the time. Even though that voice in my head told me it was a mistake,
I convinced myself that a liquid was a liquid, and milk must weigh about
the same as jet fuel. I plugged it into my calculator and, just as the Air
Boss started to growl again, closed my eyes and gave him his number.

"One zero five zero gallons Boss," I transmitted with far more confidence
than I actually felt. It was meager comfort that I had actually left a
twenty-seven-gallon "cushion," just in case milk was a little heavier than
fuel. How much heavier could it be?

"Ok Knightrider. Here it comes. Be ready to go as soon as we button you
up," he ordered. "I have Tacair inbound."

The forklifts dropped the pallets on the ramp, and our aircrewmen pushed
them up the rollers and secured them to the deck. In minutes the cabin was
filled with enough milk for the entire Battle Group, the ramp was closed,
and I was ready to lift.

"Boss, Sabre Seven, five miles out for the break."

"Cleared for the left break Saber Seven. Caution for a Helo lifting spot
three. Break, Knightrider you are cleared for immediate takeoff."

That was it. My welcome, as tepid as it was, was officially worn out now
that the fighters were on station.

I had hoped to do a thorough power check while hovering in the ground
effect cushion of the flight-deck before transitioning over the deck edge.

Ground effect, or the extra lift derived from operating close to the
ground, can be a blessing or a curse. Given a long hover run, a pilot
could accelerate in ground effect until reaching flying speed, thereby
lifting far more weight than would be possible from a standard climbing
transition. The carrier however, presented the opposite situation. From
our position forward on the angle, I would take off into a ground effect
hover, and then transition over the deck edge ninety feet above the water,
to an immediate and complete loss of ground effect. It would require
tremendous power at max weight . . . every ounce the aircraft had. The
little voice inside my head kept telling me about it as I slowly raised
the collective to hover, but the big voice in my headset kept drowning him
out.

"Come on Knightrider, I need my deck!" he bellowed.

I stabilized in a ten-foot hover and glanced down at the torque gauges to
evaluate the power required. Back on my ship, I would have taken thirty or
forty seconds in the hover to evaluate a takeoff this critical. But this
wasn't my home deck. It was the Air Bosses deck, and he wanted it back.

"I want that damn Helo off my deck Knightrider, and I mean now!" he
screamed. So without ever getting a stabilized torque reading, and against
all my better judgment, I eased the stick forward and the aircraft
lumbered across the deck edge.

As soon as I saw blue water through the chin bubble, I knew we were in
trouble. The aircraft immediately settled, and I instinctively countered
by raising the collective to add power. But instead of checking the sink
rate, the helicopter only settled faster. The steady whirring noise of the
rotor blades changed to a distinct "whump, whump, whump," and the familiar
peripheral blur slowed to the point where I could clearly see each
individual rotor blade. A quick glance at the gauges confirmed that both
engines were working normally. I was simply demanding more power than they
could produce, and the rotor speed was decaying under the strain.

I should have predicted what would happen next. With a perceptible jolt,
both electrical generators "kicked" off. Powered by the rotor system
itself, they had been designed to "shed" at 88% of optimum rotor speed.
Thankfully it was daylight, so lighting wasn't an issue, but the jolt I
felt was the loss of the flight control stability system. The helicopter
was still controllable, but it was far more work without the stab system.
Things were starting to go very badly.

As the rotor speed continued to audibly and visibly decay, I realized the
only chance we had was to somehow get back into ground effect. If I
continued to "wallow" like this, the helicopter would eventually "run out
of turns" and crash, or simply settle into the ocean and sink. Neither of
those appealed to me, so I determined to try a maneuver the "Old Salts"
called "scooping it out."

Any pilot will understand when I say it is counterintuitive, when faced
with an undesirable sink rate, to decrease either power or pitch. But
"scooping it out" required both. In order to dive back into ground effect,
I lowered the nose and the windscreen filled with the sight of blue water
and white foam. To preserve some of the rapidly deteriorating rotor speed,
I lowered the collective and descended. The ocean rose fast. Remembering
my crewmen, I managed to blurt out "Brace for impact!" over the intercom.
Dave immediately sensed what I was attempting, and began a running
commentary of altitudes and rotor speeds.

"Fifteen feet, 84% "

I needed forward airspeed and knew I had to trade some more altitude to
get it, so I eased the stick forward a little more.

"Five feet, 85% "

I stopped descending and stabilized in the ground effect run.

"Three feet, 85%."

"Ok," I thought. "We're not settling anymore, and the rotor speed has at
least stopped decaying." But I couldn't seem to coax any acceleration out
of it, and this close to the water, even a rogue wave could bring us down.
That's when I decided that I really hated milk.

"Three feet, 86 %."

With just the pitiful speed I had brought from the dive, and no sign of
any acceleration, I began to despair. What else could I do? I thought
about asking Dave, but didn't think I could bear another Ensign's salute.
Then I remembered those Old Salts in the ready room again. "Remember, this
aircraft has no tail rotor. If you ever need just a little something
extra, try a fifteen-degree right yaw. The increase in drag is negligible,
but it feeds undisturbed air to your aft rotors."

Well, what did I have to lose at this point? I gently pushed on the right
pedal and the helicopter yawed. Again, it seemed counterintuitive. If I
was trying to accelerate, shouldn't I streamline the aircraft? But I was
out of options.

"Two feet, 85%."

I began running through the ditching procedures in my mind. But then I
noticed that the waves were gliding by slightly faster than they had been
only seconds before. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, we were accelerating.

"Three feet, 88%."

I glanced down at the airspeed indicator and my heart leaped; it had moved
off the peg and was passing through forty knots. The next thing I felt was
that beautiful shudder every helicopter pilot knows as translational lift
- the point where the aircraft is flying more like an airplane than
hovering like a helicopter.

"Five feet, 92%."

Then I felt another jolt, and knew the generators had come back on the
line, bringing the stab system with them. We were a fully functioning
aircraft again. I accelerated through our normal climb speed, remembering
those Old Salts once again. "Speed is life."

"Ten feet, 100%."

At ninety knots and all our turns back, I finally felt confident enough to
climb. Passing through one hundred feet, and over a mile from the carrier,
the voice of authority spoke.

"It's great to see you flying again Knightrider. We were all holding our
breath up here. I hope I didn't talk you into doing something ugly."

Well what do you know. The guy was human after all. Who knew?

Turning for home, I passed the controls to Dave, and sat back. For the
first time, I took a deep breath and noticed that my hands were shaking. I
had made a rookie mistake, and very nearly paid for it with four lives and
a helicopter. I had allowed myself to be intimidated by the Air Boss, and
sacrificed my judgment as a result.

I did some checking the next day, and found that the weight of a gallon of
milk is 8.7 pounds, a far cry from the 6.5 I had estimated. So even with
my little "pad," we took off from that carrier more than 2,100 pounds
overweight. And that doesn't even consider the weight of the pallets and
packaging. All in all, I was very lucky to get away with it.

That was almost twenty years ago, and I guess I'm the Old Salt now. I've
accumulated thousands of flight hours and more than a few gray hairs since
then, but I try never to forget the lessons I learned that day. Besides a
life-long loathing for milk, I came away from that episode with two rules.

First, never allow external pressures to force a rush to judgment on any
matter of safety. There's simply too much at stake. If I ever feel rushed,
I make a conscious effort to step back, slow down, and think the matter
through.

And second, I never, ever ignore that voice in my head when he tells me
something just isn't right. I've learned over the years that he is
frequently the only one in the conversation making any sense.

Oh yeah, and when the guy at the supermarket asks me if I want my milk in
a bag, I always ask him if he would mind double bagging it for me - just
in case.

[CarbIce]

Great read - Thanks Hedley

[. ._]

Machismo- taking on as much as he could to impress.

Invulnerability- thinking an imprecise W and B should be good enough, nothing will happen to me, I'm a hot shit navy pilot

Impulsivity- not taking the time to do a proper post take off

A great study of human factors, Hedley. Good post.

-istp

[Lommer]

Great story, and more than a few lessons applicable for fixed wing pilots in there. My only problem with that little voice in my head is that I usually know when it's talking, but it's difficult to figure out exactly what it's saying which makes it way too easy to ignore.

[l_reason]

Reading that story reminded me of all the little things you remember from your training or little tid bits of information you pick up along the way while conversing with one of the “old boys”. One day what you thought could be just another useless fact comes back to save your life. I wonder how much time passed between lift off and knowing he wasn’t going to get wet? Only after the fact, when you get home and refresh your memory with a few stiff drinks can you remember what it was you ended up doing to save your own ass. Many of us have had a hart in throat moments due to a close call with another aircraft. I would much prefer having to act quickly then watching the shit hit the fan slowly and waiting to see if your decisions were the right ones.

Some how sphincter clenching moments seem to get more infrequent as the hours pass.

[Character]

That was a great story Hedley...thanks for sharing.

[invertedattitude]

Fantastic read, thanks!

[Edelweiss air]

Awsome read thanks for posting

[Pratt]

Good one Hedley, thanks for sharing.