Atticus Finch
Call Me a Cab
- Messages
- 2,718
- Location
- Coastal North Carolina, USA
Here's the story as it was told to me....
One night, back in the early sixties, a young Navy pilot was returning to Oceana in his F-11A when his plane began experiencing serious engine trouble. He briefly thought about ejecting, but just before he pulled his halo, he saw the dim lights of an air field directly below him. It looked to be a very small field...but hell...any size field offered a better option than ejecting into the inky blackness above Lord knows where. So in spite of his loss of power, and in spite of the warning lights blazing on his panel, the young pilot managed to dead stick his jet onto the runway of Oak Grove Air Field. The young pilot didn't know it then, but Oak Grove had been built during the height of WWII. Twenty years earlier, it had been the home of two USMC Corsair squadrons...and both had later seen much action in the Pacific.
By the way, Oak Grove Air Field is my next door neighbor.
A few days later, the Navy sent a ground crew to inspect the F-11A. They determined that the aircraft could be easily repaired, but there was a problem. While Oak Grove's runways were plenty long for WWII Corsairs, they were nowhere near long enough to launch an F-11A. The pilot had saved his plane by skillfully landing it on the old air field’s very short runway. But his F-11A wasn't ever going to fly away from Oak Grove.
So the Navy called the Marines for help. After looking the situation over, the Marines decided that it would be a good idea to strap the crippled F-11A beneath one of their big choppers and fly the jet to Cherry Point Marine Corps Air Station. Cherry Point, only thirty or so miles east, boasted a state-of-the-art aircraft rework facility...and a runway that went on forever. In all fairness to the Marines, it probably was a good idea.
But it wasn't good idea on the day they tried it.
Only a short distance from the end of Oak Grove's runway, the F-11A began to yaw wildly under the chopper. Something had gone wrong. Maybe it was the strong southwest wind. Maybe the straps had been wrongly positioned...nobody knows. But one thing was for sure, the F-11A was threatening to take both aircraft headlong into a dark North Carolina swamp. The Marines had no choice. They wisely cut the jet free.
Now, here she rests. She's in the deep woods, a couple of miles from my house. She's still in the place where she came crashing through the pine canopy almost fifty years ago. Her engine, her guns and many of her other parts have been salvaged...but her pitiful carcass remains.
This weekend, I went with a friend to photograph the old girl. It wasn't an easy trip. Part of the journey was made by Jeep (in low gear, four wheel drive), but the final assault had to be made on foot, through some of the thickest, cat-briar forest in Eastern North Carolina. I've been meaning to go photograph the wreck for years, but in addition to the flesh-ripping briars and blood-sucking insects back there, Mr. No-Shoulders also lives in those dark woods. He is an irritable gentleman and he doesn't much like company. So I have waited until it was cold. I’ve waited for a winter like this winter…so cold that old Mr. No-Shoulders would be in his deepest sleep beneath his forest floor. And let me assure you...
Saturday, I still stepped lightly.
AF
One night, back in the early sixties, a young Navy pilot was returning to Oceana in his F-11A when his plane began experiencing serious engine trouble. He briefly thought about ejecting, but just before he pulled his halo, he saw the dim lights of an air field directly below him. It looked to be a very small field...but hell...any size field offered a better option than ejecting into the inky blackness above Lord knows where. So in spite of his loss of power, and in spite of the warning lights blazing on his panel, the young pilot managed to dead stick his jet onto the runway of Oak Grove Air Field. The young pilot didn't know it then, but Oak Grove had been built during the height of WWII. Twenty years earlier, it had been the home of two USMC Corsair squadrons...and both had later seen much action in the Pacific.
By the way, Oak Grove Air Field is my next door neighbor.
A few days later, the Navy sent a ground crew to inspect the F-11A. They determined that the aircraft could be easily repaired, but there was a problem. While Oak Grove's runways were plenty long for WWII Corsairs, they were nowhere near long enough to launch an F-11A. The pilot had saved his plane by skillfully landing it on the old air field’s very short runway. But his F-11A wasn't ever going to fly away from Oak Grove.
So the Navy called the Marines for help. After looking the situation over, the Marines decided that it would be a good idea to strap the crippled F-11A beneath one of their big choppers and fly the jet to Cherry Point Marine Corps Air Station. Cherry Point, only thirty or so miles east, boasted a state-of-the-art aircraft rework facility...and a runway that went on forever. In all fairness to the Marines, it probably was a good idea.
But it wasn't good idea on the day they tried it.
Only a short distance from the end of Oak Grove's runway, the F-11A began to yaw wildly under the chopper. Something had gone wrong. Maybe it was the strong southwest wind. Maybe the straps had been wrongly positioned...nobody knows. But one thing was for sure, the F-11A was threatening to take both aircraft headlong into a dark North Carolina swamp. The Marines had no choice. They wisely cut the jet free.
Now, here she rests. She's in the deep woods, a couple of miles from my house. She's still in the place where she came crashing through the pine canopy almost fifty years ago. Her engine, her guns and many of her other parts have been salvaged...but her pitiful carcass remains.
This weekend, I went with a friend to photograph the old girl. It wasn't an easy trip. Part of the journey was made by Jeep (in low gear, four wheel drive), but the final assault had to be made on foot, through some of the thickest, cat-briar forest in Eastern North Carolina. I've been meaning to go photograph the wreck for years, but in addition to the flesh-ripping briars and blood-sucking insects back there, Mr. No-Shoulders also lives in those dark woods. He is an irritable gentleman and he doesn't much like company. So I have waited until it was cold. I’ve waited for a winter like this winter…so cold that old Mr. No-Shoulders would be in his deepest sleep beneath his forest floor. And let me assure you...
Saturday, I still stepped lightly.
AF
).
