Free Hero Found: The Greatest POW Escape of the Vietnam War by Bruce Henderson

if the ball appeared below the lights, the plane was too low. The idea was to line up the orange ball with the green lights. In addition to “calling the ball” to determine whether they were on the correct glide path—and learning to react instantly and make necessary adjustments in speed, altitude, or line-up—pilots were taught to follow the directions of a landing signal officer (LSO) on the ground. The LSOs were experienced carrier pilots specially trained to provide landing guidance to the pilot by handheld radio (they had used colored paddles for many years), advising of power requirements and position relative to the glide path and the flight deck. A moment before touching down—and only if the LSO decided that the aircraft was in position to make a simulated carrier landing—the student pilot was given the “cut” order both verbally and with flashing green lights. The pilot pulled back on the throttle, which was manipulated by his left hand while the right stayed on the control stick. As soon as the tires hit the pavement, the flaps were returned to the takeoff position, full power was added, and the plane took off again. If the LSO determined at the last second that the aircraft was not in proper position for a landing, he activated two vertical rows of flashing red lights on either side of the meatball to indicate a “wave-off” and gave the same order by radio. In that case the pilot would add power, regain altitude, and go around to try again. For eight days the students made endless touch-and-goes—the first two days with an instructor in the plane and the rest while flying solo—all with their plane’ssteel tailhook in the up position because there were no cables stretched across the runway like those on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier.
    The day arrived that all naval aviators in training looked forward to with a mixture of excitement and anxiety: their first carrier landing. The thrill came from knowing that this was what set navy pilots apart; and the apprehension came not only from the potential danger—one mistake could send them crashing into the sea—but also from the realization that if they failed to pass carrier qualifications, they would not earn their naval aviator wings. In most cases, fear of failure trumped fear of death.
    In a flight of four T-28s, Dieter and three other student aviators departed from Saufley. They flew solo, sans instructors, on the most important day of their training. They headed in formation for a rendezvous at sea with USS Lexington (CVS-16), an aircraft carrier with a storied record. Launched in 1942, Lexington had been reported sunk by the Japanese no fewer than four times. Each time, it returned to fight again. Tokyo Rose called the ship—the only U.S. carrier painted blue rather than in camouflage colors—“The Blue Ghost.” Now operating out of Pensacola, Lexington had a new mission: serving as the aviation training carrier in the Gulf of Mexico to qualify new pilots and maintain the proficiency of active and reserve aviators.
    Soon after the planes crossed the coast, the carrier’s wake came into view—a long, whitish line on a big blue canvas. Then, the pilots saw what looked like a postage stamp from the air but was Lexington steaming westward into the prevailing trade winds. Air-traffic controllers aboard Lexington radioed clearance for the T-28s to enter the landing pattern and make their first approaches. Procedures that the students had memorized in classrooms and practiced on the painted runway seemed different now as they flew the downwind leg, parallel to the ship but in the opposite direction, and then began a long turn on final approach, aiming for the ship’s squared-off stern. Even when they drew closer, the aircraft carrier looked absurdly small in the immense sea.
    Their first two approaches were touch-and-goes with tailhooks still retracted. At touchdown they went to full power and zoomed off the angled deck that jutted from