Till Daisd

“I came away with one observation—the more recommendations an applicant had from general officers, the less likely were his chances of getting into the SR-71 program. Flying skills rather than politics were the name of the game!,” Col. Richard H. Graham, former SR-71 Blackbird pilot

The arduous application process to become one of the select few who flew the SR-71 Blackbird is described in detail by Colonel Richard H. Graham, author of The Complete Book of the SR-71 Blackbird: The Illustrated Profile of Every Aircraft, Crew, and Breakthrough of the World’s Fastest Stealth Jet and a former SR-71 driver.

As an applicant, the SR-71 selection process seemed mystical to me. From the “inside,” however, it was a very methodical screening process designed to choose the best crews with the aptitude to fly extremely sensitive reconnaissance missions around the globe. After the applicant put his package together, with all of his Officer Efficiency Reports, Stan/Eval check rides, endorsements, recommendations, biography, flying time history, etc., it was sent to the 9th Wing’s Crew Selection Office, in charge of screening and maintaining the applicants’ records. The application process allowed current SR-71 crews at Beale to look over each applicant’s file and make comments as to their suitability. There was no doubt that the firsthand endorsement from an SR-71 crewmember helped an applicant’s chances of getting selected for the interview and physical. After that, he was on his own.

At Beale, a selection board convened whenever the SR-71 squadron commander determined a new crew would be needed. He was the one individual whose responsibility was to look into the future of his crew force manning and decide if and when another crew would be needed. The board typically met at least once every six months to select one or more crew positions that needed to be filled about seven to nine months down the road. The selection board was composed of all the key officers at Beale. The pilot and RSO applicant folders were placed in separate piles, which contained anywhere from five to ten applications for each position. Board members sat around the table, and all the folders were passed out. Each folder was reviewed in detail by all board members, with every board member taking notes on each applicant.

Each applicant was then discussed by the entire board. It was as fair and unbiased as a selection process could be. Board members ended up selecting what was thought to be the best of the best. Over many years of selecting crewmembers, I came away with one observation—the more recommendations an applicant had from general officers, the less likely were his chances of getting into the SR-71 program. We wanted endorsements from officers who had firsthand knowledge of the applicant’s abilities and airmanship skills—not how good he looked or how well he could push papers. Flying skills rather than politics were the name of the game!

The basic hiring philosophy was to invite the individuals we thought we would like to hire and then look to see if there was any reason not to hire them. In the end, the selection board chose a pilot and/or RSO to bring to Beale for a week of evaluation and interviews. Sometimes, even the informal interviews had dire consequences for an aspiring candidate.

One applicant was at the Beale Officers’ Club on the final night of his evaluation process and had a little too much to drink during happy hour. The old axiom “loose lips sink ships” came true for him. He ended up criticizing SR-71 crewmembers for having their hair too long and not meeting Air Force standards. He might have been right, but he didn’t make it into the program. Another applicant became an obnoxious belligerent, so he wasn’t hired either.

Later on, when I became part of the interview process, my primary objective was to find out why they wanted to apply for the SR-71 training program. After posing a few probing questions to the applicant, it usually became obvious to me when he was using the high-visibility SR-71 program as a springboard to help launch his Air Force career to greater heights. I had little patience for this type of aircrew mentality, and in a heartbeat gave him a “do not recommend” rating. We were looking for candidates who had something to contribute to the SR-71 program—not what they could get out of it. The formal interview was also a good time to let each applicant know about the extensive Temporary Duty (TDY) commitment SR-71 crews incurred. If the applicant were married, now was the time to be sure he clearly understood that he wouldn’t be seeing much of his family and learn how he felt about it. After each formal interview, a comment sheet was filled out on the applicant, as well as a recommendation to hire or not to hire.

Each pilot applicant received a minimum of two evaluation flights in the T-38 with either the squadron commander or an SR-71 stan/eval pilot. We were evaluating the applicant’s general airmanship skills and his ability to stay ahead of the aircraft, a skill crucial to flying the SR-71 at two thousand miles per hour. A T-38 flying evaluation form was filled out on each candidate, becoming part of his selection board records.

Because the SR-71 simulator program was a vital part of the training process, we gave the applicant an SR-71 simulator evaluation to see if he was capable of handling the most basic tasks without falling flat on his face. We knew from his application package how well he performed in the aircraft he had flown but needed to see how he would cope under the stress of flying the SR-71. He received a short but intense briefing from the instructor on the cockpit layout and parameters of the mission to be conducted during the evaluation. The instructor would eventually saturate the prospective pilot or RSO with a whole slew of tasks, evaluating his capability to perform under stress in a completely foreign environment. For some candidates, the SR-71 simulator was overwhelming, while others took things in stride. A simulator evaluation form was filled out on each applicant.

One of the unspoken reasons that kept many good Air Force aircrews from applying to the SR-71 program was the extensive physical examination. Originally, applicants had to take the equivalent of an astronaut’s physical at the Brooks Aerospace medical facility in San Antonio, Texas. In some instances, physical problems were found that permanently grounded several pilots. If you ever want to stop an Air Force pilot from doing something, just tell him it “might” permanently ground him from ever flying again. As soon as the word got around about the physical exams for the SR-71 program permanently grounding applicants, many airmen became reluctant to apply, either because they had something wrong with them that only they knew about, or they were afraid something might be discovered during the physical exam. Many good aviators were unwilling to take such a gamble. “Betting your wings” was something to joke about, though deadly serious in the application.

During the early ’70s, the physical exam was modified to an expanded annual Air Force aircrew physical given at Beale. It required an extra day at the Travis AFB (California) hospital doing various tests that Beale was not equipped to handle. It included treadmill testing of the heart (akin to a modern stress test), an electroencephalogram test of the brain, a lung capacity test, glucose tolerance testing, extensive blood tests, sinus X-rays, and a one-hour interview with a “shrink.”

During the interview with the shrink, many questions were asked about family life, Air Force background, and why the applicant wanted to fly the SR-71. All of this probing was designed to put the pilot at ease and listen to him talk about things close and familiar to him while the shrink tried to determine if the applicant would be a sound and stable SR-71 crewmember. The program demanded level-headed crews who knew how to apply and follow very specific rules. It was important to weed out anyone who just might try something stupid or off the wall while flying highly sensitive reconnaissance missions in unfriendly airspace.

Many fighter pilots consider themselves as God’s gift to aviation and sometimes have an ego so large they might do something foolish. The SR-71 program demanded that you fly the plane under total control of your emotions; if your ego ever got the best of you, you could easily create an international crisis, find yourself in newspaper headlines, or embarrass the United States president, government, or Air Force. Under normal circumstances, there is little room for improvising while flying highly sensitive reconnaissance missions around the globe.

The final selection was often informal and proceeded quickly because we were discussing only one or two prospective aircrews at the most. As expected, most of the discussion revolved around how well the applicant performed on the T-38 flights, simulator missions, interviews, and physical exams. If the candidate was not accepted for SR-71 training, a polite letter was sent to him from the squadron commander restating that the program is extremely competitive, and to be chosen for the interview process is an honor in itself.

After the selection board voted “yes” on a particular applicant, he received a phone call from the squadron commander welcoming him into the program and establishing the timing for his training to begin. It was also a good time to let him know he faced a grueling ten-month training program that had no guarantees with it. When I received my letter of acceptance in March 1974, I was well aware there were many hurdles to surmount.

Most crewmembers arrived at Beale with either an Air Force secret or top-secret security clearance. The SR-71 program, however, was further compartmentalized and called for a Special Access Requirement security clearance, a rare classification reserved only for highly sensitive military programs. The name of the special clearance was called “Senior Crown.” It was issued only to those who were on a need-to-know basis about the SR-71 program, from maintenance troops to the clerk typist in the squadron. The SR-71 aircraft’s flight manual (called the “Dash-1”) and flying checklist were classified as secret NOFORN (no foreign dissemination). To control the large volume of classified documents issued to crewmembers, one entire wall of the squadron administration room was filled with large, five-drawer security safes. This was the crewmember’s first introduction to an increasing maze of combination locks, cipher codes, and secrets he needed to memorize to fly a mission, or in some cases, just to go to the bathroom!

Photo by Lockheed Martin and U.S. Air Force

“Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. I learned later the time from event onset to catastrophic departure from controlled flight was only 2-3 sec. Still trying to communicate with Jim, I blacked out, succumbing to extremely high g-forces. The SR-71 then literally disintegrated around us,” Bill Weaver, SR-71 test pilot

The Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird Mach 3 strategic reconnaissance aircraft maintained its position as the world’s fastest and highest-flying operational aircraft for approximately 24 years. It could survey 100,000 square miles of the Earth’s surface per hour from an altitude of 80,000 feet.

It is therefore not surprising that the aircraft has consistently broken records for both speed and altitude due to its astounding flight qualities.

The Palmdale-based SR-71 flight test program, though, was not without its share of accidents. Aircraft 952 was involved in the first one. Bill Weaver, a test pilot for Skunk Works, and Jim Zwayer, his backseat passenger, were tasked with evaluating techniques for enhancing high Mach cruise performance by lowering trim drag on January 25, 1966. Even though it wasn’t a real expulsion from the SR-71, Weaver related the following incident in Col. Richard H. Graham’s book SR-71 The Complete Illustrated History of THE BLACKBIRD The World’s Highest, Fastest Plane) is invaluable in capturing the sensation of leaving a Blackbird at a speed of Mach 3.2 and a height of fifteen miles.

“Among professional aviators, there’s a well-worn saying: Flying is simply hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror. And yet, I don’t recall too many periods of boredom during my 30-year career with Lockheed, most of which was spent as a test pilot.

“By far, the most memorable flight occurred on Jan. 25, 1966. Jim Zwayer, a Lockheed flight test reconnaissance and navigation systems specialist, and I were evaluating those systems on an SR-71 Blackbird test from Edwards AFB, Calif. We also were investigating procedures designed to reduce trim drag and improve high-Mach cruise performance. The latter involved flying with the center-of-gravity (CG) located further aft than normal, which reduced the Blackbird’s longitudinal stability.

“We took off from Edwards at 11:20 a.m. and completed the mission’s first leg without incident. After refueling from a KC-135 tanker, we turned eastbound, accelerated to a Mach 3.2-cruise speed, and climbed to 78,000 ft., our initial cruise-climb altitude.

“Several minutes into cruise, the right engine inlet’s automatic control system malfunctioned, requiring a switch to manual control. The SR-71’s inlet configuration was automatically adjusted during supersonic flight to decelerate airflow in the duct, slowing it to subsonic speed before reaching the engine’s face. This was accomplished by the inlet’s center-body spike translating aft, and by modulating the inlet’s forward bypass doors. Normally, these actions were scheduled automatically as a function of Mach number, positioning the normal shock wave (where air flow becomes subsonic) inside the inlet to ensure optimum engine performance.

“Without proper scheduling, disturbances inside the inlet could result in the shock wave being expelled forward–a phenomenon known as an “inlet unstart.” That causes an instantaneous loss of engine thrust, explosive banging noises, and violent yawing of the aircraft–like being in a train wreck. Unstarts were not uncommon at that time in the SR-71’s development, but a properly functioning system would recapture the shock wave and restore normal operation.

“On the planned test profile, we entered a programmed 35-deg. bank turn to the right. An immediate unstart occurred on the right engine, forcing the aircraft to roll further right and start to pitch up. I jammed the control stick as far left and forward as it would go. No response. I instantly knew we were in for a wild ride.

“I attempted to tell Jim what was happening and to stay with the airplane until we reached a lower speed and altitude. I didn’t think the chances of surviving an ejection at Mach 3.18 and 78,800 ft. were very good. However, g-forces built up so rapidly that my words came out garbled and unintelligible, as confirmed later by the cockpit voice recorder.

“The cumulative effects of system malfunctions, reduced longitudinal stability, increased angle-of-attack in the turn, supersonic speed, high altitude, and other factors imposed forces on the airframe that exceeded flight control authority and the Stability Augmentation System’s ability to restore control.

“Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. I learned later the time from event onset to catastrophic departure from controlled flight was only 2-3 sec. Still trying to communicate with Jim, I blacked out, succumbing to extremely high g-forces. The SR-71 then literally disintegrated around us. From that point, I was just along for the ride.

“My next recollection was a hazy thought that I was having a bad dream. Maybe I’ll wake up and get out of this mess, I mused. Gradually regaining consciousness, I realized this was no dream; it had really happened. That also was disturbing, because I could not have survived what had just happened. Therefore, I must be dead. Since I didn’t feel bad–just a detached sense of euphoria–I decided to be dead wasn’t so bad after all. AS FULL AWARENESS took hold, I realized I was not dead but had somehow separated from the airplane. I had no idea how this could have happened; I hadn’t initiated an ejection. The sound of rushing air and what sounded like straps flapping in the wind confirmed I was falling, but I couldn’t see anything. My pressure suit’s face plate had frozen over and I was staring at a layer of ice.

“The pressure suit was inflated, so I knew an emergency oxygen cylinder in the seat kit attached to my parachute harness was functioning. It not only supplied breathing oxygen but also pressurized the suit, preventing my blood from boiling at extremely high altitudes. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but the suit’s pressurization had also provided physical protection from intense buffeting and g-forces. That inflated suit had become my own escape capsule.

“My next concern was about stability and tumbling. Air density at high altitudes is insufficient to resist a body’s tumbling motions, and centrifugal forces high enough to cause physical injury could develop quickly. For that reason, the SR-71’s parachute system was designed to automatically deploy a small-diameter stabilizing chute shortly after ejection and seat separation. Since I had not intentionally activated the ejection system–and assuming all automatic functions depended on a proper ejection sequence–it occurred to me the stabilizing chute may not have deployed.

“However, I quickly determined I was falling vertically and not tumbling. The little chute must have deployed and was doing its job. Next concern: the main parachute, which was designed to open automatically at 15,000 ft. Again I had no assurance the automatic-opening function would work. I couldn’t ascertain my altitude because I still couldn’t see through the iced-up face plate. There was no way to know how long I had been blacked out or how far I had fallen. I felt for the manual-activation D-ring on my chute harness, but with the suit inflated and my hands numbed by cold, I couldn’t locate it. I decided I’d better open the face plate, try to estimate my height above the ground, then locate that “D” ring. Just as I reached for the face plate, I felt the reassuring sudden deceleration of main-chute deployment. I raised the frozen face plate and discovered its uplatch was broken. Using one hand to hold that plate up, I saw I was descending through a clear, winter sky with unlimited visibility. I was greatly relieved to see Jim’s parachute coming down about a quarter of a mile away. I didn’t think either of us could have survived the aircraft’s breakup, so seeing Jim had also escaped lifted my spirits incredibly.

“I could also see burning wreckage on the ground a few miles from where we would land. The terrain didn’t look at all inviting–a desolate, high plateau dotted with patches of snow and no signs of habitation. I tried to rotate the parachute and look in other directions. But with one hand devoted to keeping the faceplate up and both hands numb from high-altitude, subfreezing temperatures, I couldn’t manipulate the risers enough to turn. Before the breakup, we’d started a turn in the New Mexico-Colorado-Oklahoma-Texas border region. The SR-71 had a turning radius of about 100 mi. at that speed and altitude, so I wasn’t even sure what state we were going to land in. But, because it was about 3:00 p.m., I was certain we would be spending the night out here.

“At about 300 ft. above the ground, I yanked the seat kit’s release handle and made sure it was still tied to me by a long lanyard. Releasing the heavy kit ensured I wouldn’t land with it attached to my derriere, which could break a leg or cause other injuries. I then tried to recall what survival items were in that kit, as well as techniques I had been taught in survival training.

“Looking down, I was startled to see a fairly large animal–perhaps an antelope–directly under me. Evidently, it was just as startled as I was because it literally took off in a cloud of dust.

“My first-ever parachute landing was pretty smooth. I landed on fairly soft ground, managing to avoid rocks, cacti, and antelopes. My chute was still billowing in the wind, though. I struggled to collapse it with one hand, holding the still-frozen faceplate up with the other.

“Can I help you?” a voice said. Was I hearing things? I must be hallucinating. Then I looked up and saw a guy walking toward me, wearing a cowboy hat. A helicopter was idling a short distance behind him. If I had been at Edwards and told the search-and-rescue unit that I was going to bail out over the Rogers Dry Lake at a particular time of day, a crew couldn’t have gotten to me as fast as that cowboy pilot had.

“The gentleman was Albert Mitchell, Jr., owner of a huge cattle ranch in northeastern New Mexico. I had landed about 1.5 mi. from his ranch house–and from a hangar for his two-place Hughes helicopter. Amazed to see him, I replied I was having a little trouble with my chute. He walked over and collapsed the canopy, anchoring it with several rocks. He had seen Jim and me floating down and had radioed the New Mexico Highway Patrol, the Air Force, and the nearest hospital.

“Extracting myself from the parachute harness, I discovered the source of those flapping-strap noises heard on the way down. My seat belt and shoulder harness were still draped around me, attached and latched. The lap belt had been shredded on each side of my hips, where the straps had fed through knurled adjustment rollers. The shoulder harness had shredded in a similar manner across my back. The ejection seat had never left the airplane; I had been ripped out of it by the extreme forces, seat belt, and shoulder harness still fastened.

“I also noted that one of the two lines that supplied oxygen to my pressure suit had come loose, and the other was barely hanging on. If that second line had become detached at a high altitude, the deflated pressure suit wouldn’t have provided any protection. I knew an oxygen supply was critical for breathing and suit pressurization but didn’t appreciate how much physical protection an inflated pressure suit could provide. That the suit could withstand forces sufficient to disintegrate an airplane and shred heavy nylon seat belts, yet leave me with only a few bruises and minor whiplash was impressive. I truly appreciated having my own little escape capsule. After helping me with the chute, Mitchell said he’d check on Jim. He climbed into his helicopter, flew a short distance away, and returned about 10 min. later with devastating news: Jim was dead. Apparently, he had suffered a broken neck during the aircraft’s disintegration and was killed instantly. Mitchell said his ranch foreman would soon arrive to watch over Jim’s body until the authorities arrived.

“I asked to see Jim and, after verifying there was nothing more that could be done, agreed to let Mitchell fly me to the Tucumcari hospital, about 60 mi. to the south.

“I have vivid memories of that helicopter flight, as well. I didn’t know much about rotorcraft, but I knew a lot about “red lines,” and Mitchell kept the airspeed at or above the red line all the way. The little helicopter vibrated and shook a lot more than I thought it should have. I tried to reassure the cowboy pilot I was feeling OK; there was no need to rush. But since he’d notified the hospital staff that we were inbound, he insisted we get there as soon as possible. I couldn’t help but think how ironic it would be to have survived one disaster only to be done in by the helicopter that had come to my rescue.

“However, we made it to the hospital safely–and quickly. Soon, I was able to contact Lockheed’s flight test office at Edwards. The test team there had been notified initially about the loss of radio and radar contact, then told the aircraft had been lost. They also knew what our flight conditions had been at the time, and assumed no one could have survived. I briefly explained what had happened, describing in fairly accurate detail the flight conditions prior to the breakup.

“The next day, our flight profile was duplicated on the SR-71 flight simulator at Beale AFB, Calif. The outcome was identical. Steps were immediately taken to prevent a recurrence of our accident. Testing at a CG aft of normal limits was discontinued, and trim-drag issues were subsequently resolved via aerodynamic means. The inlet control system was continuously improved and, with the subsequent development of the Digital Automatic Flight and Inlet Control System, inlet unstarts became rare. Investigation of our accident revealed that the nose section of the aircraft had broken off aft of the rear cockpit and crashed about 10 mi. from the main wreckage. Parts were scattered over an area of approximately 15 mi. long and 10 mi. wide. Extremely high air loads and g-forces, both positive and negative, had literally ripped Jim and me from the airplane. Unbelievably good luck is the only explanation for my escaping relatively unscathed from that disintegrating aircraft.

“Two weeks after the accident, I was back in an SR-71, flying the first sortie on a brand-new bird at Lockheed’s Palmdale, Calif., assembly and test facility. It was my first flight since the accident, so a flight test engineer in the back seat was probably a little apprehensive about my state of mind and confidence. As we roared down the runway and lifted off, I heard an anxious voice over the intercom. “Bill! Bill! Are you there?”

“Yeah, George. What’s the matter?”

“Thank God! I thought you might have left.” The rear cockpit of the SR-71 has no forward visibility–only a small window on each side–and George couldn’t see me. A big red light on the master-warning panel in the rear cockpit had illuminated just as we rotated, stating, “Pilot Ejected.” Fortunately, the cause was a misadjusted microswitch, not my departure.”

Photo by U.S. Air Force and NASA