An Ejection Story

This may be a little off topic, but it’s a fascinating read about an ejection from a T-6A Texan II. The author, Italian Air Force Major Angelo “Joe” Piscopo, is a personal friend of mine. We were both T-6A Texan II IPs at Sheppard AFB in the Euro-NATO Joint Jet Pilot Training (ENJJPT) program from 2011-2014. This is Joe’s story in his own words:

The flight was scheduled for a 09:15L takeoff with an 08:00L briefing time. It was supposed to be a combined Contact and Instrument profile. Specifically, this sortie would have included instrument approaches and VFR patterns as well as instrument area maneuvers in addition to stalls and dual only maneuvers. It was the sixth ride in my Instructor Pilot (IP) training on a T-6 Texan II at Sheppard Air Force Base (AFB). Thirty minutes before briefing time, the weather conditions appeared to be marginal for visual patterns and I was not sure if they would be better in the area (we still hadn’t received any pilot reports on the weather conditions, no one was airborne yet). I decided to change the profile by starting with an IFR departure, practice instrument approaches at KLAW (Lawton OK, about 40NM north of Sheppard AFB) and then try to go to the military operating area (MOA) and fly, weather permitting, both visual and instrument maneuvers. The return to KSPS (Sheppard AFB) was planned to be via an instrument procedure.

This was my second assignment at Sheppard AFB as a T-6 Instructor pilot for the ENJJPT (Euro NATO Joint Jet Pilot Training) program. The instructor I was flying with that day was basically a friend of mine; we used to fly together often on my previous ENJJPT assignment five years prior. I had already accumulated about 1,300 hours flight time on the T-6 prior to this sortie, so this training was for me, more of a refresher course rather than initial qualification training.

Briefing, ground ops and departure were uneventful. During the short navigation to KLAW and the following three instrument procedures, the frequency of the OPS-SUP (Flight Operations Supervisor), which is always monitored by the aircrews for any urgent/needed communications, was a constant chatter about possible flying status changes, worsening weather conditions and possible recovery windows in case of a weather-recall. The OPS-SUP had a very operational approach (continue flying your missions as planned, there are no major weather phenomena other than a ceiling reduction), while the SOF (Supervisor of Flying), a higher authority than the OPS-SUP, had a much more conservative approach. The SOF was considering a possible weather-recall for all T-6s and T-38s airborne due to potential weather deterioration. The SOF won the tug-of-war and all the aircraft, including ours, were recalled back for an immediate landing. RAPCON (Radar Approach Control) frequency became, as expected, overcrowded. Obviously, the T-38s are given landing priority due to their limited fuel endurance, while the T-6s received long vectors or extended time in holding. In our case it was not a problem, we had only been airborne for 20 minutes, so we could count on at least 45 minutes of play-time before reaching Bingo fuel (the lowest possible fuel remaining before being forced to divert to the intended divert airport). We silently carried out the instructions received, everything went as planned for about 10 minutes until, just prior to being established on final for an ILS at Sheppard AFB, completely unexpected, we were told to, "Turn right heading 090°, climb at 6000ft and DIVERT.” My instructor/friend started to protest, asking why we needed to divert so soon, since we had enough fuel to stay in holding and wait. The answer, which sounded a little too hasty, was something like, "we have too many T-38s to recover, SOF decided all T-6s need to divert.” Absurd!?! To our utter disbelief we diverted to KAFW (Forth-Worth Alliance), along with 13 other T-6s, where we landed without further complications.

After refueling and a short lunch break, we decided to take off and try to complete the mission by doing the area work we had skipped during the previous flight. The weather conditions had not changed much, just a low ceiling. A bad front was expected in the afternoon with risk of severe thunderstorms, but later than our flight window, so all looked good. Navigation to the working area was smooth, except to note that a large storm cell was already forming to the east moving towards us. Area work proceeded quickly and uneventfully; the instructor in the rear cockpit had not touched the controls up to that point. Due to my previous experience as a T-6 IP, there was not much to correct of my performance. At that time, I transferred aircraft control to him in order to, as the last part of the mission profile, allow him to set up the unusual attitude recoveries for me. He was truly grateful to finally have some stick-time. The following two minutes passed with him doing some cloud-chasing over the cumulus that were slowly forming (who wouldn't?) while I, pretending to be "distracted" before recovering from the unusual attitude, was setting up my iPad for the instrument procedure we would fly for the RTB (return to base). He was flying around the clouds, nothing extreme, nor did he pull many G's while I, totally confident in his ability to handle the aircraft, was deliberately paying little attention to our flight parameters.

Suddenly though, I felt light in my seat and, casting a glance at the altimeter, I realized we were at 13,400ft, only 100ft below the top of our assigned airspace and no more than 100-200ft above a thick gray cumulus. Without too much alarm, I broke the silence in the cockpit with a, "hey check the area," just to point out something that he would certainly have already noticed but which, however, was strangely unanswered. A moment later my brain, still trying to justify that sensation of light seat, was looking for answers in the airspeed indicator and the ADI. To my enormous surprise they were reading 65KIAS and 60° nose up, respectively. I knew well at that point that the actual conditions were not ideal to keep the airplane flying (slow flight speed with no-flaps is 90-95KIAS, spin entry speed is 80KIAS). Honestly, I would have expected something simpler as an unusual attitude to practice the recovery, but I was still convinced that the conditions we were in were intentional. The reality, however, was different; my instructor was completely disoriented by the absence of a discernible horizon and not realizing how pronounced the pitch attitude and how low the airspeed was. While trying to bring the aircraft back to level flight, he probably accepted  entering the cumulus clouds, but with a stalled aircraft and a slight right bank angle.

I, for my part, was still kind of serene; already imagining the good-natured jokes that would follow this flight for his somewhat gross error. I still expected, although in IMC, the instructor would regain control of the aircraft and return to VMC as soon as possible. Unfortunately, that’s not how it went, the situation became more complicated. My instructor was now cussing in the back seat, fighting to regain control of the aircraft. Not even two seconds after entering the clouds, the airplane suddenly entered an inverted spin. It was like riding the end of a whip. Under negative G forces, bewildered and still intent on figuring out what was happening and why, I spent the next six seconds listening to, in this order: two seconds of cursing from the IP, two seconds of deafening silence, and two seconds of, "BAIL-OUT, BAIL-OUT, BAIL-OUT" commanded from the rear cockpit instructor pilot, in a tone I would describe as somewhere between pained and impaneled. Well yes, the infamous three little words that we always "brief" before the flight and that you wish you would never hear in flight. An order which, of course, is given by the aircraft commander and no one else (if we are all conscious on board). The fact is, upon just hearing those words spoken, my blood froze in my veins, something didn't add up, it was a hasty decision, I was not ready. In a millisecond, I cast my eyes to the altimeter, 12,000ft, regained clarity and coolness, and with an ounce of remorse for something I would never have dreamed of doing, I shouted a "NO WAIT" on the intercom. In retrospect I keep telling myself that maybe I shouldn't have, that the aircraft commander on that occasion was not me and that, as "briefed", when the order is given, there is no questioning it. But the situation was also very unusual, extreme in some ways. It was still unclear what was going on, and, most importantly, we were still at 12,000ft. Minimum ejection altitude for the T-6 in an out-of-control situation is 6,000ft AGL (7,000ft MSL in our local area). As it happened, the instructor, once he heard my request, did not pull the ejection handle. Instead, he replied with a peremptory, "you have the aircraft.”

As he confirmed to me later, he was actually completely crushed against the canopy with his head bent down and totally disoriented by the spin, the clouds, and the negative Gs. He was not even able to read the instruments, so had absolutely no chance to control the airplane and the ejection was the only viable course of action given his condition. My words gave him some hope, he correctly thought that the condition I was in was better than his, and he promptly relinquished the aircraft control to me hoping I could do something. Having taken control of the aircraft, I immediately applied the proper spin recovery procedure, set the engine power to Idle (it was still in Max), and tried to neutralize stick and rudder. I say tried because even though I was firmly strapped into the seat, due to lateral and negative accelerations I had my torso tilted to the left and my legs floating above the pedals. In addition, being in IMC gives a very strong sense of disorientation so, while everything around me was dancing, I tried to move the stick in the position that I perceived as neutral at that moment. Simultaneously, I tried to find some grip on the pedals to keep them centered but with less than satisfactory results on the latter task. Note that no more than 12 seconds had passed since entering the clouds up to this point. I had been in control of the aircraft for no more than five or six seconds when all of sudden, the same pained and impaneled voice I heard before, breaks the silence again with an even more peremptory tone and yells again, "BAIL-OUT, BAIL-OUT, BAIL-OUT.” Even if, in that moment, I had been successful in achieving controlled flight (but I had not), he probably had no idea of what was going on and what I was trying to do to solve the situation. Almost certainly he did not have any idea of how much altitude we had left before  impact since he had no ground contact and was not able to read the instruments. In that moment it became clear to me I didn’t have any more time to try to recover the aircraft to level flight, that it would not be possible to avoid the bail-out this time and that indeed, I must waste no more time, assume the proper pre-ejection body position and pull that handle ASAP.

The ejection selector switch in the rear cockpit was set on BOTH so whoever had pulled their handle first would have resulted in both pilots being ejected with the proper engineered sequence. I clearly remember how it was actually impossible to get my back straight vertical, because of the induced centrifugal forces, so I had to accept an ejection in  a less than ideal body position and face the possible consequences later. I was just barely able to touch the ejection handle with the fingertips of my right hand though, before a sudden flash of light on the right bottom of my seat announced that the launch sequence had already been activated from the back seat. This was followed by three seconds of: dull explosion bangs, gray vision and finally a tug, a straight pull over my shoulders… the parachute had opened. Less hard than I expected, but also much more passive. From the flash of light, the next sharp image I recall was the perfectly inflated canopy above my head shrouded in the fog in which I was immersed (the cloud). After the chute check, a quick body check. I only had a sharp pain in my right ankle, like a sprain. The right boot however was dirty on the right side, so I guessed it was blood and probably the pain was from some broken bone. Other than that, everything seemed to be fine to me, just breathlessness, agitation, and silence. An unreal silence, immersed in a giant grey cotton ball and the survival-kit attached with a rope, 12 feet below my harness, that wouldn’t stop swirling and twisting around my legs.

I don't know how long the descent lasted, I estimate at least 8 to 10 minutes since we ejected around 11,000ft MSL, but it seemed like an eternity… in hell!! The gusts inside that cumulus cloud were making the parachute roll left and right with me underneath rolling in the opposite direction. At the same time, I was kicking with my feet trying to untangle from the survival-kit cord. After few minutes some ice was forming on the parachute lines, I was soaked and cold. It felt like being inside a washing machine and I was nauseated by all that spinning and rolling. A nightmare in short, my only hope was just that it would end soon. To try to stabilize the descent, I pulled the red “Le Moigne” lanyards designed to open the two small slots on the rear side of the canopy for improved steering control, but it didn’t make a noticeable improvement. I only had to wait and pray that the parachute would remain inflated and that the cloud bottom was not very low, in order to have at least some time to check the ground and prepare for the landing.

When I finally came out of the clouds, around what I estimated was 2000ft AGL, the descent became immediately smoother and more stable. I could start thinking straight again and my first thought was for the other pilot. I looked below me for his parachute, because theoretically he was sequenced to bail out before me, but he was not there. I feared the worst, something may have gone wrong with his ejection, the parachute might have not opened at all. I actually saw the two white drogue-chutes still attached to the ejection seats just about to land, but I still did not see him. Meanwhile, I removed the oxygen mask from the helmet, discarded it as prescribed, and started looking for a possible landing area. At that moment everywhere around me seemed to be just grassy and flat, apparently nothing to be too worried about, so I just let the wind push me in the direction it was blowing. Probably a minute later, I finally saw the other pilot coming out of the clouds, well above my position. He must surely had caught some thermal that pushed him upward into the clouds. I didn't know how he was doing yet, but just seeing his figure gave me a great relief and I could finally begin to focus on the landing. I forced myself to draw back from memory all the classes and rehearsals of how to do a good PLF (parachute landing fall) that I had learned 20 years earlier as an ENJJPT student at Sheppard AFB. The refrain came back to mind as if I had learned it the day before and I repeated it to myself like a mantra: "...eyes on the horizon, feet and knees together, bend your knees ....”

I then tried to get a better sense of where exactly I was about to land and, much to my dismay, found that the landscape below me had changed substantially. The endless expanses of green grass was gone and I now saw, in the direction the wind was pushing me, some brown ponds and a powerline running along a dirt road. The latter certainly worried me more than the former. I was only few hundred feet above the ground with not much time to react at that point. I started pulling the parachute line on one side, trying to steer and have the wind on my back hoping to get past the obstacles. We were trained, If you land over powerlines, you should first try to offer the skinniest possible profile (like an Egyptian figure) in order not to touch multiple lines and get electrocuted with a good chance the chute will get stuck anyway with you hanging underneath. If you land in water instead, you might get stuck in the mud, or if deep enough, you might end up drowning after losing contact with the surface, or because all your clothes and boots get heavy, or simply because the parachute covers the surface above your head not allowing you to properly breath. While thinking of all these unfortunate possibilities, I went back to focusing on the mantra, staring at the horizon with my feet and knees together and slightly bent. The landing was soft, on my back (not on my flank as the training would have had it), over wet and thick grass. I quickly disconnected the parachute before the wind could inflate it again and pull me over. I was immediately on my feet, standing, breathing deeply, with my heart beating hard… and smiling. Smiling like someone could smile that was about to lose everything and is instead untouched. The powerline was about 20 feet from me, the pond no more than 10..I had been lucky, I thought to myself. Despite all that just happened, I really felt lucky. It’s finally over. My right boot had no blood on it, it was burned on the outside from the rocket pack of my ejection seat.

I looked up, the other pilot was still in the air, I followed his flight with the eyes while I grabbed my cellphone from a side pocket and turned it on. I felt the need to call my wife, I wanted to hear her voice before alerting the rescue team. But a siren started immediately blasting from the phone speaker, a warning message appeared on the screen. The smile disappeared from my face when I read: "TORNADO WARNING IN YOUR AREA, TAKE SHELTER NOW!!!!" When I gave a closer look to the weather surrounding me, I could actually spot various rain showers around me. The sky was dark and the wind was howling. Unfortunately no, I had to reconsider, the day was not over yet ... and in the middle of Texoma there was actually nowhere to take shelter.

Eventually the other pilot landed about a quarter of mile from me with no major issues. We ran towards each other, we hugged, we cried, we laughed, we were just happy to be alive. We were first found by a couple of local farmers attracted by the sight of parachutes. We were then joined by a police officer who took us to the aircraft impact site, about six miles away from our location, where the military fire crews and the ambulances were waiting for us. Fortunately, the T-6 crash site did not cause any damage to property or persons.

I spent the rest of the evening at the base hospital going through various investigations, tests, samples and dozens of x-rays. In the end, all turned out good, nothing broken, a slight sprain in the right ankle and dozens of mini scars around my neck, arms and hands due to the fragments of the explosive cords from the exploded canopy. Yes, I was wearing gloves and my flightsuit was not rolled over my arms. I found scars also on my chest, probably the tiny hot metal shards from the canopy explosion could have penetrated tissues. It took weeks for the skin to heal.

I had to wait two weeks before I could get the approval to fly again. The safety investigation board attributed the cause of the accident to an unintentional inverted spin induced by bringing the aircraft in those flying conditions that the aircraft manual describes as very favorable to produce an inverted spin. A severe spatial disorientation, mainly induced by being in IMC conditions, caused the crew to decide to eject, no further actions were taken against them. The total time elapsed from losing control of the aircraft to the ejection had been a mere 20 seconds. The aircraft eventually recovered from the inverted spin after we ejected. What a shame! This experience has obviously been seared into my mind, but has not bent for a single moment my passion for flying and my desire to jump in the seat of an airplane every time I have the chance to fly. I am currently still at Sheppard AFB – TX flying the mighty T-6 Texan II.

My name is Angelo Piscopo, I am an Italian Air Force Major. Joined the Air Force in 1998, graduated as Military Pilot at Sheppard AFB Oct 20th, 2000. My first assignment was at 46th Air Brigade (Pisa – IT) flying G-222 (C-27A for the USAF) where I flew for 6 years. I was a copilot for the entire time and flew tactical airlift and airdrop missions during multiple operations to include UN mission for Ethiopia and Eritrea as well as NATO missions in Bosnia, Former Yugoslavia and Kosovo. In 2006 I decided to become an Instructor Pilot with the sole purpose of being able to transmit my passion for flying to young aviators and forge the next generation of military pilots. For 5 years I was stationed at 70th Wing (Latina – IT) flying the SIAI Marchetti SF-260 for initial screening and basic instrument/aerobatic/formation training as well as the Piaggio P-166-DL3 for multicrew/multiengine training. In 2011, I moved to the United States to become an IP at Sheppard AFB for the Euro NATO Joint Jet Pilot Training. I flew the T-6 Texan II for 3 years in one of the most rewarding experiences of my career. Working shoulder to shoulder with the NATO partners has been challenging and truly inspiring. Back in Italy in 2014, I was assigned as an IP at the 61st Wing flying the MB-339 A and CD model. They are 2 different versions of the same jet trainer. One for more basic training and the second for a more advanced training, to include Air-to-Air refueling and live ammo range operations. In 2019 I decided to come back to Sheppard AFB for another tour flying the T-6 and it’s where I am still currently assigned.

In my career I have so far accumulated almost 5,800 flying hours (more than 2,200 on the T6). I have been awarded with the USAF Commendation Medal for Meritorious Service, 2 NATO medals for air operations In Former Yugoslavia and Kosovo, 4 Italian medals for air operations in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Ethiopia and Eritrea.