Although risks were always present, years of experience with seaplane launch and recovery operations carried out by cruisers and battleships in World War II produced a standardized routine. The captain and the officer-of-the-deck were responsible for regulating the speed of the ship, and heading the ship into the wind, so that the catapult had as much head wind as possible for the launch.
After the pilot and the radioman/gunner had climbed into their seats and were given a "thumbs-up" sign by the catapult officer, the pilot revved the engine up to full power. The pilot would then turn the ignition switch to each of the two magnetos, measuring the revolutions-per-minute (RPM) fall off on each. If the fall off was more than 60 RPM, this was an indication that the engine wires were damp with moisture and the pilot would have to wait a few minutes until they dried off. If each magneto did not drop more that 60 RPM, and the instrument panel did not warn of any problems, the pilot would give the final ready signal to the catapult officer.
For all practical purposes, the pilot's ready signal represented the point of no return. After seeing this gesture, the catapult officer pulled a lanyard to detonate a powder charge (the same as a five inch gun) in the firing chamber of the trolley fastened to the aircraft's main float. This trolley then rocketed along the 30-foot catapult rail, coming to an abrupt stop at the end of the rail. The seaplane, now traveling at 80 miles per hour (70 knots), was hurled clear of the ship just as the initial high G-forces had slackened enough to allow the pilot to take control of the airplane. A pilot not properly braced for the "shot" could come off the "cat" with the throttle closed by the force of acceleration and plunge into the sea; or the pilot could find the joystick had been pulled back too far by the force of acceleration, and the plane would flutter into the sea after stalling on too steep a climb.
Depending on sea conditions, all ships routinely roll back and forth 10 to 15 degrees. On the down-roll, the catapult points down at the water, slightly below the horizon, whereas, on the up-roll, the catapult points up at the sky, slightly above the horizon. The catapult officer must judge the roll of the ship and activate the catapult on the up-roll. If the plane was shot off properly on the up-roll of the ship, the pilot would then have a few more feet of altitude over the water when he took control. In minimal wind conditions, this could mean the difference between a successful launch and an accident.
I recall that, on one occasion, when I was shot off the catapult by Ensign McGregor, a non-flying officer, he sent me off on the down-roll of the ship. I remember seeing the airplane heading for the water after I took control, but I held the nose up as much as possible without stalling the plane and skimmed over the waves. To show my displeasure at the way I had been catapulted, I put the airplane in a flipper-turn, made a full 180 degree turn, and zoomed the catapult where McGregor was standing. He later apologized to me for his poor performance. Shortly after the war started, we pilots took turns acting as catapult officers. This was a much better situation because we each knew how important it was to catapult on the up-roll of the ship.
Catapulting, to me, was equal to any landing and I always marveled at the tremendous forces that took that big machine and hurled it airborne in about thirty feet. Once you salute the catapult officer, you are going flying - there's no changing your mind! The thrill, the excitement, the slight unknown factor, the power and the cleanness of a catapult shot is something that never becomes routine.
Night Launches
Night launches are a different story! Once on the catapult and at full power, the signal for your willingness and readiness to go aviate is to turn on your external running lights. Your head is back firmly against the headrest; your left arm has an immovable hydraulic lock on the throttle; your right is gripping the stick. The eyeballs peer ahead into an absolute black nothingness, and your brain is asking the question "why am I doing this at 0400 on a cold overcast night 7,000 miles from my new bride?" Once airborne though, the answer comes from the soft light of your instrument panel which tells a familiar story. Altitude, angle of attack, rate of climb, airspeed, engine instruments, and so on. And you mutter to yourself how you love it all!