The Finality, Loneliness, and Unspoken Defeat in Ill-Fated Crash Recordings
Transcripts and audio recordings of radio calls, air traffic control, or cockpit voice recorders carry raw emotion and deeper stories behind tragic events. Here are the 3 recorded events that haunt me
WARNING: This article contains emotional details of major aviation accidents.
The first aviation radio communication that ever punched me in the gut wasn’t even real. “Tell my wife I love her very much,” from David Bowie’s song “Space Oddity,” hit me hard. I was a little boy, but still, I could feel the song’s character accepting his end. No panic. So final. He used a chance to give his last goodbye. We should all be so lucky when our time comes.
I was young, and I had questions, but I didn’t really ask them. Perhaps I was too nervous about what the answers would be. Was there more to the story? Did he somehow end up surviving in a subsequent song? How long did he drift out into the forever of space before he died? Worse, was this song based on true events?
As I grew, I would learn that the song was based off of a movie. However, there have been other instances of painful words from throughout aviation history that still mentally stop me in my tracks.
Sounds into the Nothingness
“Columbia, Houston, UHF comm check,” carries the same lonely pain as “Can you hear me, Major Tom?” Those words, by Capsule Communicator (CAPCOM) Charles Hobaugh in NASA’s Mission Control during the disaster of Space Shuttle Columbia, were repeated 5 times without reply. By that point, the disaster was well underway, and there was nothing anybody in the world could have done to reverse it.
The Shuttle was doomed the moment they began re-entry on the early morning of February 1, 2003. Damage to the thermal tiles during launch two weeks earlier wasn’t fully grasped by many on the ground, and the only safe place for the Space Shuttle was frictionless orbit. So, not knowing what lay ahead, they went forward with their descent toward Cape Canaveral as per usual.
Once the solid rocket boosters and external tank are shed during takeoff, the Space Shuttle is no longer a thrust producing aircraft (save for minor movements by its Orbital Maneuvering System). Because of this, there’s no option for a go around or aborted landing. They get one chance to land and it’s either a success or a catastrophic failure.
The aircraft, essentially a glider at this point, descended into the Earth’s atmosphere, trying to use the planet’s denser air to slow down from the orbiting speed of 17,500 miles per hour. This friction created incredible heat that the damaged Thermal Protection System was unable to handle. Columbia started to burn up and fall apart piece by piece.
Mission Control began receiving automatic failure messages from the Shuttle’s computers. Tracking signals were lost, and the final, verbal communication from Columbia was from Shuttle Commander Rick Husband at 8:59:32am in a cut-off message saying “Roger, um-” followed by static.
Less than 3 minutes later, after a continuing cascade of reported mechanical failures, CAPCOM sent his first “comm check” transmission that received no response. Continuing to look bleak, another 8 minutes would pass before Mission Operations Director Phil Engelauf heard and relayed to Flight Director LeRoy Cain that Dallas TV news was reporting streaks of debris across the Texas sky. It was the confirmation they feared: Space Shuttle Columbia and its 7 astronauts did not survive re-entry.
Today, CAPCOM’s UHF comm checks are 23 light years away, still unanswered.
Dismissing the Problem, Until You Can’t
Tragedy brings an additional layer of frustration when a preventable accident plays out, just to hear dismissiveness transition to horror, and then disaster, within a minute.
Nine seconds after the clock struck 4:00 p.m., Captain Larry Wheaton downplayed his First Officer’s concern that something didn’t seem right, replying, “Yes it is…”
January 13, 1982 was a snowy day in Washington DC. Air Florida 90 had just begun its takeoff roll, but the accident chain began almost a half hour beforehand. At 3:38pm they ran a checklist where they knowingly kept the engine anti-ice off. Two minutes later, First Officer Roger Petit remarked “Been a while since we’ve been de-iced,” which the Captain completely disregarded, responding with something off-topic.
That’s some very short foreshadowing, but if you guessed that this accident’s leading contributing factors were ice in the engines and on the wings, you are correct.
The ice that had built up in the engine led to false power readings, making it look as though they were generating more thrust than they actually were. Robert sensed something quickly as they headed down the runway. “God, look at that thing. That don't seem right, does it? Uh, that's not right,” he said.
That was their chance. After all the things that had stacked up against them, building up a chain reaction toward a crash, that was their last chance to acknowledge a potential problem, hit the brakes, and play it safe. When Larry blew it off with his “Yes it is,” Robert eventually relented to his Captain’s authority. “Naw, I don't think that's right. Ah, maybe it is.”
Their fate was sealed. The 737-200 would barely climb a few hundred feet and float for a mere 30 seconds. Captain Larry, who was not the pilot flying at the time, asked FO Robert to push the thrust levers up and to not lift the nose too high.
“Forward, forward, easy. We only want five hundred. Come on forward....forward, just barely climb,” he said, knowing they were in trouble. I don’t think he was quite dismissive anymore. He certainly seemed optimistic that they could fly out of this, which I appreciate because they couldn’t just give up.
Seconds later, the aircraft couldn’t maintain altitude any longer. Less than a mile from the end of the runway, and less than a minute after the Captain blew off his First Officer’s engine power concerns, Larry finally accepted their reality.
Larry: “Stalling, we're falling!”
Robert: “Larry, we're going down, Larry....”
Larry: “I know it!”
At 4:01:01, the same second Captain Larry Wheaton said his last words, the aircraft he commanded struck the 14th Street Bridge over the Potomac River, tearing apart a half dozen vehicles and killing four motorists before the aircraft plunged into the frigid water below.
The tail separated from the aircraft, miraculously, because that’s what allowed 5 people to escape and survive the crash in what would be one of the most incredible recorded rescues in aviation history. The other 74 people on the aircraft died.
The Captain fought so hard against the truth until it was undeniable. I wonder if his last statement was not only acknowledging their fate, but maybe also admitting his fault in the crash.
Every time I hear anyone say “I know it,” no matter how excited and enthusiastic the tone or the reason, I think of hearing Larry’s last words.
And the 5-year-old son he left at home.
Anatomy of a Crash Recording
Cockpit voice recorders from accidents often show a specific, 3-part sequence. First is a normal flying experience of going through the motions of their job, monitoring their flight, and performing their day-to-day routine of getting you from A-to-B safely.
Second is the transition toward trouble: Well-trained, and hopefully well-paid, pilots earning their paychecks by responding the way they are taught. Keeping calm, being authoritative, running through their trained processes, and working the problem.
Third is the bottom of the bucket. Every checklist has been run, every switch flipped, every call made, every idea exhausted. Hands still on the yoke, knowing there’s nothing left to do except ride it out to the end.
They resign themselves to their fate and you can hear it in their voices. Whatever the words, they all say the same thing: “That’s all we can do. Here we go,” and it’s been heard in many different forms ever since CVRs began showing up in cockpits in the 1960s.
Sending Home A Message in a Bottle
The weather was nice and warm that fall day in San Diego, but it’s always nice there. It’s a “do no wrong” place where its year-round perfect weather is just one of the things that make it feel like a paradise. Many have said that September 25, 1978, was the day San Diego lost its peace.
The economics of aviation were different in the 1970s, and airlines flew all kinds of routes then that might never be considered today. A lightly traveled intra-California route from Sacramento to Los Angeles to San Diego on a medium-sized airliner wouldn’t make financial sense now, but many companies like Pacific Southwest Airlines were fine with it back then.
For a deeper dive into the crash of PSA Flight 182, including my own story of revisiting the site, read my earlier article, “Remembering the Horrors and Sacrifices of PSA Flight 182.”
Because of how many empty seats there often were, this route was a common commuter flight for the airline’s employees, and Flight 182 had over 30 of its own on board that morning.
When you work for the airlines, and you’re off-duty with coworkers, it’s just a party. Jokes, stories, and the kind of complaints only airline crews understand; I can only imagine the fun mood aboard that short hop to San Diego.
The flight deck was also full that morning: two pilots, a Flight Engineer, and an off-duty Captain, were sitting up front. But even if you’re off-duty, you’re still a part of the crew if you are in the cockpit, even if that just means offering your eyes and ears.
While descending into San Diego, at 8:59 a.m., air traffic control advised Flight 182 of a small Cessna one-mile directly ahead of them. Seconds later, they advised the crew of an additional Cessna also in the area. This led to a little confusion.
For the next 2+ minutes, even when other things were being addressed, such as length of their downwind flying and their clearance to land, all 4 crew members continued to revisit the topic of the Cessna in the area. None of them were dismissive. They kept looking, unsure who had seen what, not in panic, but actively working the problem.
Unfortunately, at 9:01, the transcript notes “sound of impact,” which was the 727 descending right on top of the Cessna, 2,600 feet above the intersection of 38th Street and El Cajon Blvd.
Seeking additional input from his crew to understand what happened, the Captain asked “What have we got here?” to which the First officer could only say “It’s bad. We are hit, man, we are hit.”
The aircraft rolled 90 degrees to the right and was headed down fast. With no time to run checklists, and though seeming futile, they still contacted ATC. “Tower, we're going down, this is PSA.”
Photos of the plummeting, flaming aircraft show the right wing’s leading edge missing chunks, and the plane’s hydraulic systems had been damaged. The crew had nothing left to do or say but “This is it, baby. Brace yourself!”
A mere 17 seconds after the collision, it was about to end as fast as it started for 135 souls on board. An unknown crew member in the flight deck used that final moment on the cockpit voice recorder to send a message home, just like Major Tom.
“Ma, I love you.”
She knows.
NOTE: Online videos claiming to feature the PSA Flight 182 cockpit voice recording are fake or dramatized. The real audio has never been released.
If you have a question about aviation, my career, or a story request, please email me at phildernerjr@gmail.com.
Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are solely my own and do not represent the positions of my employer or any affiliated organizations. This content is for informational purposes only and is not intended as professional advice.
A minor, but important, quibble: friction dod not cause Columbia, or any vehicle, to heat up. It is the intense air compression that raises the temperature.