BODY ENGLISH — The Science and the Art of the LSO
You are standing at the very edge of a steel cliff, high above the Indian Ocean. You look backwards across a hot steel deck shimmering in the 100ºF heat to the vast expanse of pale white-blue ocean. A white churning wake recedes in an arrow straight line, like pale smoke, until it disappears into the steamy haze that hides the line where the warm ocean meets the heat washed sky. A long, quiet ocean swell steadfastly raises and drops you 15 feet through a twenty second period. The soles of your feet burn through your tennis shoes. You do not have the benefit of a wind screen, so you lean backwards against the hot 35-knot wind pushing down the flight deck. Your feet are set far apart to steady your movement and your heart. Behind you, below you and in fact as part of you, lives one of the greatest and most storied aircraft carriers of the Royal Navy—29,000 tons, 1,900 men, 60 fighters and bombers, 750 feet long, nearly 100 feet wide.
120,000 steam driven horsepower hum up from six decks below, firmly vibrating the deck beneath your feet. You feel the rhythmic thrashing of the ship’s screws, the steady pulse forward, the rise and the fall, the push at your back, the sweat in your hands as you grip the two Bakelite handles of your signalling lamps, the heat of the harness you wear with a third lamp strapped to your chest. You smell the acrid, black scent of diesel, your own unwashed clothes, the hot smell of sun-blasted paint and cable grease. You hear the winding down sound of the landing aircraft’s radial engine approaching, the snap of signal flags, the passage of water hissing down the hull 60 feet below you, the twang and crash of the crash barrier going back up behind you. You taste the salty air, the dry bite of stress, the grit of an aircraft carrier in the peak of performance.
You feel the eyes of a hundred men on your back—staring from the catwalks, the flight deck, the goofers* galleries and the bridges—watching, waiting, anxious, half blinded by the brilliance of an equatorial sun. You are the pivot point of a great endeavour, the saviour of 50 weary pilots, the last chance to get home to live another day. A pilot, a squadron, a ship, a battle and a war rest on your shoulders. This day you will never, ever forget. You are a Deck Landing Control Officer (DLCO) of the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm but everyone on board calls you “Bats”, short for batsman. Above all though, you feel the eyes of a single scared, tired Corsair pilot staring at you and your outstretched arms from a mile away, connected in trust.
In the 1950s, James Michener wrote The Bridges at Toko-Ri, a powerful and gripping novel about carrier operations during the Korean War. In preparation for this, he lived on-board a United States Navy fleet carrier for months. It was here that he got to understand the greatness of the naval aviator and in particular the Landing Signal Officer (LSO—the American equivalent of the DLCO). No one has ever expressed the finality of the LSO’s decisions better than Michener:
“There always came that exquisite moment of human judgment when one man—a man standing alone on the remotest corner of the ship, lashed by foul wind and storm—had to decide that the jet roaring down upon him could make it. This solitary man had to judge the speed and height and the pitching of the deck and the wallowing of the sea and the oddities of this particular pilot and those additional imponderables that no man can explain. Then, at the last screaming second, he had to make his decision and flash it to the pilot. He had only two choices. He could land the plane and risk the life of the pilot and the plane and the ship if he had judged wrong. Or he could wave-off and delay his decision until next time around. But he could defer his job to no one. It was his, and if he did judge wrong, carnage on the carrier deck could be fearful.” —James Michener, The Bridges at Toko-Ri (1953)
In the world of aviation, the training and singular purpose of the military aviator is an expression of competency at its finest. Among military aviators, the fighter pilot is the one thought to have the chops, the quick reflexes and the ability to make fast decisions on the fly in a life or death situation. Of the fighter pilots, those required to land on a short length of a moving flight deck in all kinds of weather, day or night, are considered to be the crème-de-la-crème of the breed. Of those carrier-qualified fighter aircraft pilots, there is a small percentage who will make it to the very, very pointy end of the spear. In the Royal Navy during the Second World War, these select naval pilots were called Deck Landing Control Officers (DLCO or Bats). In the United States Navy, they are known today as Landing Signal Officers (LSOs or Paddles).
These highly experienced aviators are trained to help other pilots in landing on an aircraft carrier. Their job is to bring home, or to “recover”, the aircraft of the carrier wing, despite the weather condition, during daytime or in the black of night or in heavy seas. Ever since pilots began landing on aircraft carriers, the ones with the greatest knowledge of the techniques, risks and limitations of deck landing have been called upon to assist their brother and sister aviators. They are required to stand at the rear of the flight deck, exposed to the weather and dangers, facing the landing aircraft, and judge that pilot’s glide slope, airspeed, attitude and lineup and transmit to him corrective orders to ensure a safe recovery.
Author Tommy H. Thomason, in Waving them Aboard, wrote:
“For some reason, the Royal and US Navies developed slightly different techniques for landing aboard. Royal Navy pilots were taught a descending approach and the LSO signal for the pilot being above the correct approach path was lowered paddles, meaning descend. The U.S. pilot made a low, flat approach and the LSO signal for being too high was raised paddles. (The signals for lineup were the same since the US Navy signals for correcting height and lineup were inconsistent, like tilting down to the pilot’s left to ask for tightening the turn and raising the paddles up for descend.) Fortunately, there was very little cross-decking between the services during the war.
In 1948, the Royal Navy elected to change to the US Navy LSO signals and shortly after that, adopted the low, flat approach as well. A reduction in accident rate resulted although it’s not clear why. The British subsequently developed the mirror landing approach aid. The mechanics of the mirror concept combined the original British descending approach and the American signal for being too high, with the ball on the mirror going up when the airplane was above the desired ‘glide’ slope.
Following the transition to the mirror-guided approach, the LSO role was initially downgraded to more of an administrative one in the belief that the pilot no longer needed his guidance. It was soon established that the LSO could detect a trend quicker than the pilot and moreover, had a better sense of deck motion, which affected the validity of the mirror display even though it was gyro stabilized. As a result, the LSO was again established as the controlling authority for the approach.”
War memoirist Norman Hanson (Carrier Pilot) wrote this powerful and simple passage about being brought aboard HMS Illustrious for the very first time by the legendary DLCO Johnny Hastings, himself a highly experienced fighter pilot aboard Indomitable, Avenger and Biter :
“Now we were flying downwind, locking safety harness, locking open the hood, increasing pitch, lowering flaps; first to ten degrees, then to 20. Now I was abeam of the stern of the ship. Turn 180 degrees to port; full flaps. Already Johnny [Hastings] was signalling for me—‘Roger’ as you go. A shade faster—OK. Now come down, down, DOWN, damn you! CUT! I chopped back the throttle, held the stick steady as a rock. Three seconds, then I was on the wire. My body lunged forward against the harness with the deceleration—I was down. A red-capped director of the flight deck party waved me back with both hands. I released the brakes to allow the wind to blow me back a few feet, so that the arrestor wire could be disengaged. Up hook, up flaps and taxi forward over the crash barriers. I jumped to the deck—three and a half inches of armour plating.
The air was loud with tannoy noise. Up there on my left, as I walked down the flight deck, was the great island; and the whole ship, alive with men in a variety of rigs, fairly hummed with activity.
It was one of the greatest moments of my life.
Despite the differences in signals and nomenclature, the LSO and the DLCO were much the same—the best pilots doing the most difficult job on the carrier. One thing however did seem to stick out when viewing the hundreds of photos of “Paddles” and “Bats” posted on the internet, and that is that the Royal Navy batsman seemed to do his task with a little more flourish, more zippidy-doo-dah and more body English than his American counterpart. Here for your enjoyment is a non-definitive, probably incorrect in spots, photo essay of the life, times and indeed styles of the Carrier Group’s pivot point—the Landing Signal Officer.
* A goofer is a sailor or airman spending time in the catwalks or the galleries at the aft of the island, watching for the pure enjoyment of the spectacle. The 5 September 1946 issue of Flight Magazine had a story on the Goofers. The writer who went by the name of Pyfo explained: “At the after end of the island superstructure of our large fleet carriers of the Illustrious class there was a clear bit of deck where, by some oversight, My Lords have omitted to put some gun or other warlike implement. This is known as the ‘Goofer’s Platform’ or the ‘Goofers’. A Goofer in Naval slang—or anyone’s slang for that matter—is a person who stands gazing at some incident in which he is not actively concerned. This platform was where we—for all Naval Air Arm types are goofers—gathered to watch other poor characters landing.”
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From the very beginning, danger stalked the carrier landing.
While Eugene Ely was credited with the first takeoff from and landing on a ship—the modified deck of the USS Birmingham, it would be a Royal Naval Air Service officer, Edwin Dunning, who would make the first landing on a ship underway. In the case of Ely, he was nearly killed when, on his first takeoff from Birmingham on 14 November 1910, his aircraft touched the water before climbing away. Dunning was not so lucky. After successfully landing on HMS Furious in August 1917, he was killed five days later trying to repeat his feat, despite the attempts of a dozen fellow officers trying to catch him before he went over the side.
The danger has never gone away, but the professionalism of deck crews and the experience of LSOs have gone a long way to reducing the injury, damage and death which has stalked the carrier since its inception.
Dry Land Training—teaching the art of Deck Landing Control
Before a Fleet Air Arm pilot or a Deck Landing Control Officer can think about taking his skills to the carrier, he or she must learn on dry land on airfield where a dummy deck is painted on the runway. The Airfield Dummy Deck Landing was an essential part of the training of a carrier pilot and a Deck Landing Control Officer/LSO.
The Dangerous life of the Landing Signals Officer
The United States Navy Landing Signal Officer
There is no doubt that the American LSO is the best in the world today and was among the finest of the Second World War. Though some American practitioners, like the famous Dick Tripp, could be said to be not only uber-competent, but uber-stylish as well, the bulk of the official and unofficial photographic evidence of the LSO and DLCO in action during the war shows us that the British DLCO took his job with an extra twist of lemon, a cinnamon stick, chocolate swirls and a shot of whipping cream, while the American LSO did his job like a cup of straight black coffee—tough, honest and without sweetening.
Of course, style doesn’t matter one whit when it comes to the safe landing of a powerful, dangerous-to-fly fighter aircraft onto a small, moving piece of steel 60 feet above the water. It’s simply an observation I have made from the hundreds of photos I have seen that, while a job may be serious and important and possibly critical to the war effort, it can still be executed with panache and some body English. There are traffic cops and then there are the traffic cops that end up on YouTube with dance-like moves and energetic whistles. Here’s to the British DLCO and their freestyle approach to a demanding art form.
But, it was an American who, according to legend, created the idea of the Landing Signal Officer. From the website of Carrier Landing Consultants, we find a brief history of the LSO, starting at the beginning:
“Landing Signal Officers (LSOs) have had a key role in US Naval Aviation since its earliest days. The very first LSO was reported to be a pilot who waved two sailor’s caps in the air to tell an incoming pilot it was unsafe to land.
The first executive officer of a US Navy aircraft carrier (CDR Kenneth Whiting aboard the USS Langley) watched pilots’ landings with an eye toward improving them, recording individual landings with a hand cranked motion picture camera—the ancestor of today’s in-deck PLAT cameras. Observing landings from the port aft corner of the flight deck, he would often give helpful suggestions through body language of what the pilot on approach should do to effect a safe landing. This worked so well the position was institutionalized as the ‘Landing Signal Officer’ or LSO.
The first LSOs communicated to pilots via hand signals, amplified with large colored flags, or wands. Since these wands were roughly the same shape as large ping-pong paddles, the nickname ‘paddles’ has stuck with LSOs ever since. Despite the retirement of actual hand-held paddles in the early 1960s, the act of controlling an aircraft landing on an aircraft carrier is still referred to as ‘waving’.
Other countries had carriers and LSOs as well. The UK called theirs ‘batsmen’. While the United States was the first to fly an aircraft off and onto a ship (Eugene Ely, 1910 and 1911), the Royal Navy had the first functional aircraft carrier, and was responsible for many of the great advancements in mid-20th century carrier technology, including the angled deck, mirror landing aid, and armoured flight decks. Today, France, Russia, Brazil and Argentina practice arrested landings aboard modern aircraft carriers. Other countries like India and the UK are building carriers with arrested landing capability as well.
Light signals and radios have replaced the hand signals of the early 20th century, but the goal of waving is the same as it was in World War II: get an aircraft safely aboard on center line, the first time, no matter the weather or time of day.”—from Carrier Landing Consultants
Here’s to the American LSO—professional, experienced, trusted and the finest in the world... just not the fanciest.
The jet age reduces the decision time for the LSO
The advent of the jet aircraft and its higher approach speeds shortened to time an LSO had to get the aircraft lined up and forced him to make decisions faster. For instance, jets had to be cut farther out than propeller-driven aircraft because they did not lose speed and settle as quickly. A difficult job just got more difficult. Here are a selection of photographs of some American LSOs bringing home jet aircraft.