Yorktown aviator survives crash with both ankles broken
as his three crewmembers die-- 90 seconds after launch
On Feb 3 1960 at about 0130 I was the MAD/ECM operator on a flight from the Yorktown in an S2F with squadron VS23. We were about 40 miles off of Oahu, Hawaii on an operations training mission.
Less than 90 seconds after the free-deck takeoff we winged in to starboard at full power. The next thing I knew was being pulled under water, still strapped into my seat with no aircraft, nothing around me. I freed myself and came to the surface to find nothing but lit retro bombs, and a hardhat floating some distance away. The rest of the crew perished; Lt James Baldwin, Pilot; Ensign James Everett, Co-Pilot; and AT2 Alfred Wright, Radar-Sonobouy Operator.
They died and how did I stay alive? I don't know. I really don't know. I do know that there must have been some kind of divine intervention on several levels. I remember the impact although there was no anticipation of it. I flew forward and to the right. That's the last thing I remember until I came to (back to consciousness) in the water. I remember seeing the Yorktown, from aft, steaming off to my right and remember cussing it. The only reason the Yorktown knew that the plane even crashed was he only was some of the pyrotechniques lit off when the plane broke up as it hit the water.
I had no time to think about the crash, no forewarning. We hit and survival instincts
took over. I remember no fear, I felt no pain - maybe a little panic when I found myself in that big ocean, alone, with no apparent help in sight.
My Head Hit the Radar Screen in Front of me and I saw stars
The next thing I knew I was under water and realized that I was still strapped into my seat. My whole seat had broken free of the deck and the lap belt and shoulder harness did their thing to hold me fast to it.
How many times had I been through the drill - but for the life of me (almost) I could not remember how to reach down and pull the quick release on the lap belt. I pulled the harness off my shoulders - no good. Finally the lap belt was released. I'm sure it was my right hand that did it. What guided it I could not say. I do not recall
remembering how to release it.
After I felt the seat drop away it was then I realized something was wrong with my legs/feet. They felt like lead and were useless for swimming to the surface. I reached down and pulled the inflation lariats on the Mae West (inflatable life vest) and felt bubbles come up past my face and into my helmet. I swam to the surface with my arms, inflated my vest with the oral inflation tube, hoping that some of the chambers hadn't been ripped. It held. Enough to keep me afloat.
My brain screamed at me, "Ok, get back to the surface, Klaus. Pull the CO2 lanyards and inflate your Mae West. But why are the bubbles beating you to the surface past your face and nose? Your Mae West is cut." My training kicked in and my brain instructed, "Swim, dammit, your a good swimmer- GET TO THE SURFACE. Your lungs are about to burst. It seems an eternity - this must be your all time best record for holding your breath. Legs are like lead - not sure there are feet at the end of them
- they don't work for swimming. Use your arms just get to the surface."
In reality I probably was underwater not more than 15 or 20 seconds. It seemed like fifteen or twenty minutes and that I was at least thirty feet down. I broke the surface heaving air. Treading water was strictly up to my upper body - legs still didn't work. I sculled with one arm and pulled out the oral inflation tube to blow up the vest with my lung power.
These chambers held. Here I was, lots of water and nothing else. But looking around more I spotted the crash helmet of Ens. Everett and made an unsuccessful attempt to swim to it - no legs. I had to let somebody know I was here and was still alive. With nothing else around they could assume nothing had made it out alive. How I did I'll never know but I knew I didn't want to just float around out here until I died. Not after what I had just come through. So I used my .38 survival pistol to fire off tracer rounds hoping they would be spotted. I had time to load my .38, fire off rounds and return it to the holster before I saw the Brush come to a full stop about 200 yards away.
When I pulled off the tracer rounds I just knew that the .38 had to be faulty - I could barely pull the trigger. Discovering later this was due to a deep cut across the top of my wrist that had cut some tendons. I also thought that the rounds had gotten wet because the report from the shots just sounded like 'poofs' even though I saw the tracers streaking up into the blackness. This strange phenomenon was because my ears were full of water being held there by the padded earphone inside my helmet. Strange thoughts that shock can bring to your mind.
Unlucky number 13? (By the way, before the fatal flight when I came to the gunner's mate to check out my sidearm he gave me Pistol #13. I said "no way", or probably something not as kindly, and the gunner's mate took it back and gave me Pistol #28. The reason this is so vivid in my mind still is that when I got on the flight deck and found my plane by bureau number, the tail number was 13. I had an inkling that this was not going to be a good night.)
Once I got to the surface of the Pacific I saw the area was awash with bright light from the full load of retro bombs bobbing in the water. As I turned a 180 in the water I saw, what I later learned was, the co-pilot's crash helmet. I didn't know if there was anything under it or not but my lack of legs to swim wouldn't let me find out.
I remember yelling at the Brush for stopping dead in the water so far from me. A back up rescue swimmer on the Brush says that my yelling for help to the Brush was a sound he will never forget, not even 40 years later.
Sharks didn't even enter my mind. Another intervention. If I had thought about sharks I would most likely still be in therapy! However, a little over a year after the accident I received a letter from a shark researcher from the Smithsonian wanting to know if my crash experience had included any sharks. He wrote to me because he had read a Navy report of the crash which revealed that shortly after I was pulled from the water there were a large number of sharks in the area. How lucky can a guy get . . . not luck, just in the hands of guys who cared and risked their own lives to save a shipmate.
I was picked up by a swimmer from the USS Brush (DD745) I could see the Brush and then I couldn't. There was just enough sea state so I was rolling from imminent rescue to black nothingness every 10 seconds or so. I caught glimpses of the swimmer - I remember seeing him go over the side. Then blackness. I thought 'you crazy bastard, am I ever glad to see you!' and probably said so.
The destroyer Brush would not come in close to the crash site so my rescuer was pretty far off when I saw him go over the side and swim toward me. I was immobilized in that I couldn't swim because both of my ankles were broken - they actually felt like lead weights on the bottom of my legs. I wasn't sure my feet were still there.
The USS Brush swimmer was wearing only his skivvies. His name is James A. Jordan GM3. He pulled me by the 'collar' of my Mae West as he swam so as not to risk kicking my legs or feet. When we reached the Brush, Gunners Mate Jordan held on to me from the back with me facing the hull. As the ship rose and dipped in the swell, which wasn't much, two guys on deck grabbed my arms, as the ship dipped down, and hauled me up to a waiting stretcher.
From there they took me to the ward room table, laid me out and the ship's doctor sewed up cuts and lacerations to my legs, arms and mouth. I was patched up and stashed until daylight when I was highlined from the Brush to the Yorktown in a stretcher.
From there I was flown to Tripler Army Hospital on Oahu, Hawaii where I spent the next six months recovering from broken ankles. The morning after the deadly crash, when I found what was in store for me, true fear set in. The anticipation of pain and disaster wreaks much greater devastation on the psyche than actual physical trauma could ever do.
My "shipmates" on the USS Brush certain went above and beyond the call of duty. The pistol I was carrying came back to the Squadron cleaned and oiled from the Gunner's Mates on the USS Brush. However, what happened after the crash with my rescue, the search and investigation of the accident site and getting me to the care needed to put me back together are all stories in themselves which involved many brave and talented sailors meeting the challenge of their jobs and going above and beyond. I'd like to know and tell those stories. The Cold War Medal, AT2 Klaus is entitled to wear
The cause of the accident was never revealed to me. Vertigo was mention as I talked to people over the years. That night was black as ink. There was no horizon, you couldn't see a hand right in front of your face.
I never did talk to or correspond with the families of the other victims. I regret this deeply. Perhaps my story and www.YorktownSailor.com website will bring them out of obscurity and I will have an opportunity to express my condolences. Two months would pass after the accident until I was able to write a letter or card. My right wrist had a deep laceration across the top and fearing nerve damage they put an immobilizing cast on it. I have always wanted to write about the experience and now that I have 'time' away from the work-a-day world I would like to gather others impressions, memories, experiences of that fateful day.
Why did I live and 3 others die that night? Every time I think about the accident I think about "why me? Why did I get to live?" Those thoughts even create pressure to seek a path in life that pays back for my good fortune. Maybe we did what we were meant to do - raise sons and daughters that will leave a positive mark on our society. I really can't think of a more lofty and necessary pursuit. I never knew if the swimmer who saved my life in shark infested waters got a medal for what he did. Or, if it was just part of the duties for a US Navy sailor like James A. Jordan GM3.
The Yorktown is now a museum, not a vibrant warship
About 26 years after this fatal Yorktown accident I visited "The Lady" in Charleston Harbor - the first time I'd seen her since early 1960. I had expectations that going aboard her once again would provide a flood of memories. Those special feelings you get at being aboard a vital, powerful war machine, and being a part of her mission.
I was a bit disappointed and didn't realize why until I'd left her and was driving away - what was missing was the smell of av-gas (aviation gas) and hydraulic fluid! I've been trying to figure
out since then how they could pipe in those odors!
Regardless, it was a great experience to see her again and feel her history.
Dale Klaus AT2 Ret.
USS Yorktown/VS23 1960 article © 2001 Dale Klaus
Where is he now? Dale Klaus is a photographer for a daily newspaper in Nashville - The Nashville City Paper - and his wife is a writer/columnist. (June 2001)
and contact with more details
Editor's note: The USS Brush was transferred to the Taiwan Navy in 1969