The message I’d been waiting for finally arrived so I scrambled over to the Naval Station Norfolk Tour and Information Center on the public side of Gate 5 (map). I met the rest of the people invited to this excursion and we climbed into a 15-passenger van. Guards waved us through and we drove onto the base and over to Chambers Field where we would catch a flight to aircraft carrier CVN-74 the USS John C. Stennis.
Chambers Field
We didn’t go to the airport terminal where most military flights departed. Rather, we went to a much smaller building designated for Distinguished Visitors (map). The waiting area looked like a living room in a nice house, with leather couches, a coffee table, a television and touches like that.
I got acquainted with the rest of the group. Several people worked for a defense contractor designing jets for the carrier. Two others belonged to a leadership program for young entrepreneurs. Others were friends of the captain of a different carrier. We numbered a dozen total. Everyone seemed very nice.
An unofficial military motto might be “Hurry Up and Wait.” We experienced some of that as we rushed to the DV terminal and then sat. I even had enough time to fire up my phone for one last hit of the Internet — we wouldn’t have access out to sea — to research the namesake of Chambers Field. It honored Captain Washington Irving Chambers who pioneered the use of ships for airplane takeoffs and landings in 1910. I also didn’t realize this would be our last little moment of inactivity and probably should have appreciated it more. Every movement aboard the ship would be tightly planned and choreographed, and we would be extremely busy.
C-2 Greyhound
We would fly to the carrier on a COD, an acronym for Carrier Onboard Delivery, specifically a C-2 Greyhound. Loading took place through a door that dropped down in back, conveniently opened when I took this photograph. These planes could carry either passengers or cargo depending on the need, with seats inserted or pulled out as necessary. The Greyhound served a very utilitarian function designed solely to shuttle back-and-forth to aircraft carriers.
Arresting gear would keep us from sliding off the deck when we landed and a catapult would propel us with enough force so we could later take off. I’ll admit I wanted to experience both. The Navy was about to replace the Greyhounds with V-22 Ospreys, tilt rotor aircraft that could take off and land like a helicopter. That didn’t sound nearly as exciting.
The Flight
A Greyhound flight didn’t have a lot of the conveniences of a commercial flight. It was completely spartan, fit for a single purpose, and nothing else.
Passengers sat backwards in a stuffy space, sweating as the air conditioner struggled to keep up. Two tiny porthole windows allowed the only outside view from the cargo bay. By chance I sat near one although I couldn’t see anything other than the Atlantic below. We all wore headphones to protect our hearing and receive crew instructions.
Flotation devices called “horse collars” hung over our necks and down our chests. Items that couldn’t fit into our pockets had to be stowed separately lest they turn into projectiles during takeoff or landing. We remained like this in our dark stale tube, belted in by four-point harnesses for about an hour.
The patch the crew member wore in the photo above corresponded to Fleet Logistics Support Squadron 40 (VRC-40), the “Rawhides,” based at Naval Station Norfolk.
Landing on the Aircraft Carrier
Finally the COD began to descend, and much faster than a commercial airliner. I caught a fleeting glimpse of the Stennis through the tiny porthole and then our plane banked hard left and dropped. That actually felt more like riding a roller coaster than when we later hit the deck. The crew waved their arms to let us know we were about to land and we crossed our arms over our chests as instructed. Arresting gear stopped us so quickly that I didn’t even have time to process it mentally. We were moving one second, felt a quick jerk, and then we were completely stopped.
The Greyhound, taxied away from the runway, turned a couple of times sharply to squeeze into a safe spot, and the pilots cut the engines. The back door dropped and we could see nothing but open ocean ahead of us. We were on deck.
Next came a flurry of activity. We were told ahead of time to move with purpose and not stop for pictures. There would be plenty of opportunities for that later. We needed to get off the deck right away. It all seemed a blur from the time I unhooked my harness, climbed out the back, and followed everyone down steep ladders and claustrophobic corridors.
Mobile phones didn’t work out there although GPS did so I successfully captured our coordinates: 35.013341,-73.794198. That put us approximately 100 miles (160 kilometres) southeast of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. I can reveal that location now because the ship returned to port before I posted this. No secrets have been revealed.
Welcome Aboard
Then we entered a completely unexpected world, a surprising luxurious space. A captain or admiral on an aircraft carrier had to have a place to entertain dignitaries, and that’s where our handlers took us. It seemed so strange, having transitioned from an open flight deck to narrow metallic tunnels to a well-appointed salon that looked like it had been transported directly from a fancy hotel lobby.
Here we got our welcome briefing. The Public Relations crew — yes, an aircraft carrier is so large and specialized that there are people who focus solely on public relations and social media — offered snacks and water. Lots of water. They warned us that dehydration could become a problem with the many ladders, hallways, and decks we’d cross along the way, and much of the ship did not have air conditioning. We’d seen the only lavish space onboard and now it was time to see how things really worked.
Articles in the Aircraft Carrier Series:
- Getting to Norfolk
- All Aboard
- Air Power
- The Island
- Living Aboard
- Feeding Time
- Always Working
- Other Spaces and Places
See Also: The Complete Photo Album on Flickr
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