Grumman F-14 Tomcat: Bye-Bye Baby. . . !

of the shuttle as it moves aft for the next launch.

The exhaust from the powerful and reliable F-110 engines fills my nostrils until we drop the canopy and bring our jet to life. Air roars through the ECS. Systems power up. Soon we’re parked behind the cat, waiting our turn. I roger the weight board – 68,000 pounds, Baby, 68,000 pounds! Grasp that if you can.

The jet blast deflector comes down and we taxi into place, my pilot deftly splitting the cat track with the twin nose tires. And then – even after decades of doing the same thing – the adrenaline starts to flow as we start into the deck ballet unique to the Tomcat. The nose strut compresses, giving the fighter the look of a rail dragster. The launch bar drops down. Wings motor forward. Flaps lower. Outboard spoiler module circuit breaker is engaged – an old RIO gotcha. Our four hands go up as the ordies arm the missiles, bombs and gun.

The cat officer’s arm is raised. My pilot puts the throttles to mil power and wipes the controls – stick forward, aft, left, right, rudder left, rudder right.

Mooch, you ready? he asks.

I run the fingers of my right hand across the top of the lower ejection handle – just for orientation purposes, of course – and answer, Ready.

He trades left-handed salutes with the cat officer. We both lean forward slightly into the straps – no self-respecting Tomcatter would take a cat shot with his melon against the headrest, a good way to get the old bell rung because of the way the airplane surges down before it jerks forward. A couple of potatoes and we’re off.

Airborne.

And we’re getting paid to do it.

And for the next few hours we stand ready to bring this machine, this amazing manifestation of American know-how and industrial will, to bear in whatever way required. Maybe today isn’t our day to save the world. So we accommodate one of the small boy’s requests for a fly-by. Or we break the sound barrier just because we can – and we’re far enough above our fuel ladder to get away with it.

Of course I speak of days gone by. What remains of what once gave my working life such purpose will soon be found in aviation museums and on sticks in front of main gates. In the blink of an eye I’ve become the duffer with the ill-fitting cap and the weathered flight jacket who bores young ensigns – or any other fool who makes eye contact – with tales of derring-do. And don’t. VF, Baby...! I rail. Those were REAL fighter squadrons. And by God, they were. Swordsmen, Pukin’ Dogs, Grim Reapers, Diamondbacks – mascots of an adventure. At the center of it all was the airplane itself. And when an airplane has so much heart, personality, and character it ceases to be inanimate to those who are privileged to strap it on.

So it’s good-bye to a dear friend. Forgive my depression. I’ve heard the promises of a brighter technological future, and I’ll give the new birds – named for an insect! – the benefit of the doubt. But my time in the arena was with you. I watch you zorch into the sunset and I wonder how it all could have passed so quickly. It doesn’t seem that long ago when we were together, inextricably linked, one defining the other. Ours was a world of unlimited possibilities and missions accomplished. Ours was a world of victory.

So long, Big Fighter, blessed protector of the American way and our hides. We who knew you will miss your swagger, your raw power, your sheer class. Even in the face of technological advances you bowed to no other.

Thanks for the memories, Baby...!

WARD MOOCH CARROLL

The Tomcat had a hell of a time getting itself born. It was the era of McNamara’s Whiz Kids in the Pentagon, and they were fixated on a new fighter that could be flown in common by the Air Force and the Navy. That unfortunate bird was the TFX, which became the F-111. The F-111B was the Navy variant. Some wags called it the deviant.

The thing was so underpowered, it couldn’t generate the specified acceleration in mil power on approach to the ship. All the Navy tests were dismal, but the damn thing was on the track anyway.

A true American hero named Tom Connolly shut the project down in a Senate hearing. Called upon by Armed Services Committee chairman Senator John Stennis, Connolly bluntly reported,

Mr. Chairman, all the thrust in Christendom couldn’t make a Navy fighter out of that airplane.

The deviant died at that moment, and the Tomcat was born. VADM Connolly knew it was a career-ender, which it most certainly was.

But he did what had to be done.

PAUL GATOR GILLCRIST

Back in my earlier fighter pilot days, there was always much huffing and puffing about who was the best air combat stick, often in the form of a challenge by the less-established younger guys. My stock response to any such impudence was

Any Time, Baby...!

As the basic Tomcat decal was developing, we figured we’d be needing come catchy words to accompany the cartoon cat. Thus was ATB revived, much to the consternation, we learned, of that upstart aviation group then trying to bolster its gold-plated, overpriced Sparrow-shooter, the F-15.

NORM GANDIA

Major credit for the success of the F-14 should be given to Grumman’s initial F-14 Project Pilot, Bill Miller. As a Navy test pilot at Patuxent River he had been deeply involved in the testing of the nightmarish F-111B, and he carried the knowledge forward with a determination to avoid the problems plaguing that luckless design. I have never met a more talented, hard-working yet unassuming individual. His dedication of the airplane was such that had he been able to foresee his accidental death in F-14 Number Ten, I believe he wouldn’t have wavered one bit.

KURT SCHROEDER, GRUMMAN CHIEF TEST PILOT

During World War II the Grumman F7F night fighter was originally named for another outstanding night fighter, the tomcat. Some admiral cut that short, with a note saying the name ’Tomcat’ denotes feline promiscuity and is not fitting and proper for a Navy fighter aircraft. So that superb bird became the Tigercat as a follow-on to the Wildcat and Hellcat programs. In 1969 Grumman again submitted the name Tomcat, and this time it passed muster.

I suppose it didn’t hurt that the three flags at the top who headed up the competition were all named Tom.

CORWIN CORKY MEYER

That’s me flying the Tomcat for the Flight of the Cats display at the Miramar air show. I wanted the wings back, and it was gruesome. It was a rudder dance with AFCS. Before we hooked up with the photo bird, we were limited to about 200 knots by the Hellcat. You think these WWII fighters were fast – well, they weren’t. Then we form up with the B-25 bomber for pictures. Tumor is hanging out of the waist with a camera. The bomber is firewalled, and he’s doing 180 knots. You can see how much AOA I’m cranking in. The nose was doing the cobra wiggle big-time. But it was such an honor to fly wing on those great fighters of the past – I would have done it for free.

STEVE WEB KOEHLER

When we were testing the very first jets, we often flew single-seat with a weighted dummy in back. I came from a single-seat background, so it didn’t bother me. I remember my first flight out with a real-deal RIO. He fired up that radar, and I nearly fell out of the seat. It seemed like you could see the whole east coast. I started to get the feeling for the power the Tomcat would bring to the fight.

As part of the test program I dropped the first bomb that ever came off a Tomcat.

Actually came off is not quite accurate. We hadn’t done the separation testing that is normal today. I punched off the bomb and it just hung under the jet like a puppy. Lots of yelling and screaming from the safety chase birds; one guy was yelling Abort! Abort! as if that meant anything under the circumstances. I pulled pretty good positive to get away from it, and it followed right along underneath. As I recall I had to pull a high-G snap roll to escape the little devil.

CURT DOZO DOSÉ

Two guys were named to be skipper