SennaP1 said:
Now how do you "forget" to lower your gear in a 747, WTF!
In defense of the pilots, I thought this true story told by an old JAL 747 pilot would be appropriate. It can happen to anyone.
Boring Nights Over the Ocean
Those long, late-night, back-of-the-clock, oceanic flights are killers. The radios are generally turned down, position reports occur more than an hour apart, the conversations run dry, and the big event is the crew meal -- sometimes two of them. One Japan Airlines flight I used to fly was a cargo flight from Tokyo to San Francisco, arriving about midnight, San Francisco time. This particular night the assigned crew consisted of three very senior captains -- possibly the three most-senior in the system -- and two very senior flight engineers. All were Americans, all good friends, and if I may toot my own horn a little, the three pilots were probably the three highest-time 747 captains in the world, as well as very, very good pilots. No hamburgers, here! One of the engineers had looked around the cockpit and observed, "You know, there's more than 100,000 hours of flight time in this cockpit, right now." The five of us were good enough friends to watch each other very closely, hoping for a small mistake, so that we could have a good tease and a story for the rest of the bunch in the bar. Everyone got a turn in that barrel!
I was the PIC, and I was in the left seat for the landing. The out-and-back trip only has two takeoffs and two landings, so it's impossible to share equally among three pilots, but this was my lucky night, my turn for the landing, which I love most of all. The cockpit usually starts coming to life about an hour out. By 30 minutes from landing, everyone is usually in a cockpit seat, with everything tidied up and stowed. The strongest thought is, "Let's get this thing on the ground, and head for the beds." The thought of having to clear U.S. Customs is enough to make everyone grumpy.
Arrival routing then, as now, is usually over Point Reyes, descending to cross over the SFO VOR (on the airport) at 10,000 to 12,000 feet, speed 250 knots, then a long, eastbound descent over Oakland, then a right teardrop reversal to join the ILS to 28R at SFO. Easy enough, but I like to play little games, and set myself little challenges. My usual game on this approach was to make several things happen. One was to cut to idle thrust beginning the descent, and never touch the thrust levers again until 1500 feet on final. Then I do everything very smoothly, playing altitude, airspeed, flaps, and the all-important reversal turn to arrive at precisely the 3D spot in space that was my target. Variables are the altitude at which the descent begins, the distance either side of the VOR, when flaps are extended (five steps, each with a maximum and minimum speed, some of those with small "windows"), where the turn is started, angle of bank, airspeed in the turn, etc. In all those years, I never did it perfectly, but I used to come awfully close a lot.
A Perfect Hole In One
All this was going very well this night. The cockpit conversation had stopped (sterile cockpit rule, a good one), and full attention was on the job. I remember pulling the thrust back to idle over the VOR at 10,000 feet, which sounds the landing gear warning. The FE let it sound (as a test), then silenced it. It would not sound again unless the thrust levers were advanced somewhat, then pulled back again. Started bleeding off a little speed, sneaking the flaps out, hitting the half-way points between the max. speed for the "next" flap setting, and the minimum speed for "this" setting. No vectors for traffic (there wasn't any, no one else was stupid enough to be flying this time of night) so I rolled right into the reversal at exactly 6 DME. This blocked my view of Oakland to my left and below, and all I could see in the turn for many long seconds was the inky blackness of San Francisco Bay. I remember clearly thinking, "Boy, this is a black-hole moment," and I double-checked both my altitude and the radio altimeter, both OK. I also looked for the glide slope, now just starting to come in, and we were nicely above it, descending about 2,500 fpm, and out of 5,000 feet. Another constraint that is pretty standard in the jet world is a rate of descent no more than half the altitude, and I was right on track on that, too -- the rate of descent slowing, staying right at half-altitude. Am I good, or what? And was I setting myself up with too much attention on the non-essentials, or what? I doubt anyone else in the cockpit was even aware of my little game. Somewhere in the turn, we hit 20 flaps, the "Approach" setting. Landing flaps are either 25 or 30, usually extended at five miles.
I hit the localizer and glide slope right on, about 7 DME and 190 knots, and as the descent rate reduced, began the final reduction to about 160 knots, the final "Ref" speed that should be held to the landing flare. As the speed dropped, and right at 1,500 feet, I eased the thrust up to catch the speed and maintain the glide slope, and my job was done, as near perfect as I'd ever get.
Passing about 1,300 feet, I glanced around the cockpit: All was well, right side showed the same thing as the left, guy in the right seat was awake, gear handle was off, speed brakes/spoilers were armed ... yup, all set. Watching my instruments, I got a funny little feeling. Gear handle off? Off? Why is it OFF? It's not supposed to be off, it's supposed to be Down. It felt like someone dumped a bucket of ice water down my back. I had forgotten the gear, and the landing checklist!
The only points I'll give myself that night are that I didn't flinch, or look. I just said very quietly, "Gear down, please, and landing check."
The response was as if four cattle prods had been stuck straight up through the middle of each seat. Four men stiffened, then leaned forward, the better to see the gear handle. Four men simultaneously sucked in their breath. And four men watched as the gear handle went down, the green lights came on, and red light went off as the doors closed. I called for the final flaps, the checklist was completed passing 1,000 feet, and the landing was uneventful. Everything was within limits, if a little delayed by customary JAL standards.
We landed, completed the usual drills, cleared Customs, and split up to go our separate ways. No one said a word about the (near) incident, then or later. I knew my knees were shaking, but they didn't. I didn't tell the story for at least 15 years. There is no doubt in my mind that all five of us had slipped a gear somewhere during that approach, and we all thought the gear and flaps were down, and the checklist was complete. No, all five of us KNEW the gear was down – and it wasn't.
Explanations, Not Excuses
How did I do it? It was easy. I made the mistake of paying too much attention to my stupid little game, and not enough to the basics of just getting the job done. So many accidents are caused by distractions outside the essential tasks. This one was because of self-imposed distractions within the job, which are equally dangerous. I'm a lot less willing to add non-essentials to my workload, these days.
What about all the safety devices? Landing gear warning horn? Well, cargo airplanes are often very heavy on landing -- 200,000 pounds or more heavier than passenger flights. Normally, the thrust levers can be reduced to idle when the wheels are still 50 feet off the runway, but with that much extra weight, the 747 tends to crunch the landing if you do that, so most of us kept some thrust until well into the flare. I would have done that, that night, and the warning horn would have been too late to do anything about it.
Red lights? None when the gear is up. GPWS (ground proximity warning system)? Hadn't been invented yet.
I can't help but wonder what it would be like to be the only man in history to ever belly-land a perfectly good 747. When I think about it, I keep getting that funny feeling, kinda like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, back before they built all the protective fences. It's not a nice feeling, either way.
Be careful, up there!
