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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504913584 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 06/03/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 170 |
| Sales rank: | 396,070 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
Read an Excerpt
B-36 Cold War Shield
Navigator's Journal
By Vito Lasala
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2015 Vito LasalaAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5049-1325-6
CHAPTER 1
Routine Fourteen-Hour
12 April 1954
Major Kingby, our aircraft commander, is in the lead as the three of us shuffle out of the 40th Bomb Squadron Operations Building into the predawn dark. The cool air feels good on my sweaty face.
We just completed a weather briefing inside, but Kingby still decides to tell us what we already know: "Weather briefing was short and simple. Looks as if we'll have few weather concerns today."
"Little turbulence and mostly blue sky above," I say. "My kind of day."
I'm First Lieutenant Hall, navigator, and to my right is our radar officer, Major Heller, who gives an approving grunt to my comment. Two Air Force blue stake-bed trucks sit thirty feet away, waiting for us, with engines off and headlights bright. As we walk toward the vehicles, the drivers see us, the truck engines rev up, and they move closer to meet us. Already on board the trucks are the rest of our crew, waiting for us. They are sitting on the flatbed of the vehicles, pressed up against a mound of crew bags, equipment, parachutes, and stacks of white boxes that hold our cold in-flight meals.
Major Kingby swings his map case and flight bag up onto the bed of the first truck, sings out "Good morning," and then walks up to the front of the truck and climbs into the cab. Heller and I hand our chart cases and flight bags up to the men already on the second vehicle, climb aboard, and sit on the truck bed with our legs comfortably hanging off the back end of the vehicle. Heller balls up a fist and slams it twice on the flatbed to signal to the driver that we're ready to go.
The vehicles lumber forward, grinding in low gear away from Operations and onto the aircraft parking apron. This feels familiar and comfortable, as we've done it dozens of times. Maybe with a different truck and driver, but with pretty much the same crew, many of whom are not quite fully awake. The field is quiet except for the noise of the trucks moving through the dark morning stillness. I can hear aircraft engines in the distance, winding up as a B-36 moves toward the runway. Sounds like one crew started its day even earlier than we did.
We're moving across the parking apron of Walker Air Force Base, located in about the center of the state of New Mexico. Walker is located in the middle of an endless flat and arid high desert, and thus the base is typically the target of dry winds that leave an ever-present layer of fine brown dust on every exposed surface. Walker is eight miles from the old, colorless town of Roswell, which clings to the air base for its very survival. Roswell is spoken of, with more than a little sarcasm, as the "Flower of the Desert." Beyond Roswell, Albuquerque is two hundred miles of unbroken desert to the northwest, and Santa Fe is located at the foot of the mountains about two hundred miles across desert to the northeast. To the south is Ciudad Juarez and El Paso, built on opposite sides of the Rio Grande River and both also about two hundred miles away across more of the same desert — with El Paso in Texas and Ciudad Juarez in Mexico.
I blink and bring myself out of my mental geographic wanderings. I take a deep breath through my nostrils, and the truck bed smells of old sweat, oil, gasoline, and diesel exhaust. After being in the vehicle even just a short while, I probably already smell the same.
Streaks of light, soft orange, now start to split the darkness to the east. The sun is just beginning to rise above the cool desert. Early sun rays, always orange, filter through the permanent layer of dust above the desert floor. Would make a fine painting, I consider, and then look to my right.
"Major," I say to Heller, "feels like you've done this before?"
"Too many times before," Heller growls. "I must be getting old."
I only nod and look back to the east. Major Heller is getting old, I think. He's probably forty-five by now. Heller flew in B-29's over the Pacific a long time ago.
At this time of the morning, Heller and I don't have much to say, but the young gunners in the vehicles are all now wide awake and raring to go, joking and chattering among themselves. I have been up for hours. My alarm jarred me awake at 0300, and after a quick shower, I walked through the dimly lit streets of the base to an almost empty Officers Club. Paul Panetta had just entered the Club, and we sat together for a quick breakfast of sausage, eggs, and coffee, and then walked back together to the BOQ — Bachelor Officer Quarters. Paul went to his room to pick up his gear and then waited in front of the building for one of the flatbed trucks to pick him up, but I gathered my flight bag and map case and loaded my gear into my car. I needed to be at the Flight Line Operations Building for that weather briefing at 0430 hours.
Now, sitting in the back of the truck, I imagined that all of the gunners rolled out of their bunks about an hour ago, taken a shower, and had breakfast at the enlisted mess. After loading their gear aboard the trucks, they probably sat waiting for the three of us, wondering why it always took so long for us to make ready for a flight. The gunners' hands-on preflight will start as soon as they board the aircraft, but until then, they have to wait ... and wait.
"Hope nothing interferes with our shootout," says one of the gunners. "After cleaning, loading, and checking my guns under the sun all day yesterday, I want to hear my .50-caliber shells chatter and clunk!"
Tail Gunner Gordon snorts a laugh, then says, "Better get a hundred percent fire out or tomorrow you will back out in the sun again trying to explain to Captain Harris what went wrong."
Our full-crew flight briefing had been at 1400 hours yesterday. The flight is planned to be a routine fourteen-hour training mission around the flagpole, meaning that the flight would take off and land at Walker, not a destination field.
At the previous day's briefing, Major Kingby gave the flight requirements, altitudes in route, and some more information specific to the mission. As navigator, I outlined the flight plan route, and the times and distances to meet the requirements set by Squadron Operations.
Major Heller, Radar Officer, closed the briefing with, "We have solid target information and photos. This mission will be with bomb bays empty. Weapon drop will be simulated and scored by a mobile scoring unit at the target site."
Early this morning, I parked my car close to the Operations Building to cut down on the distance that I had to carry my map case and flight bag. Since my arctic jacket won't fit into my bulging flight bag, I always have to either wear it or carry it separately. This morning, I decided to wear it rather than carry it — and paid the price in sweat the entire time we were in the heated Ops Building for weather briefing.
On every flight, we are required to carry full arctic gear. It is always possible during a flight that, no matter what our mission outline, we could be diverted from our planned flight plan and destination. The Squadron and Wing staff always want to know how a crew handles unexpected changes while in flight. At some of our airfields in Alaska or Greenland, the outside temperature is so low that we have to wrap ourselves in arctic gear just to step out of the aircraft. Cabin heaters could malfunction at 25,000 feet, or we might receive orders to climb to 40,000 feet, where the arctic gear would be more than welcome.
My map case holds navigation charts for the mission, celestial tables, and plotting tools, plus any charts that we might need in case of a change en route called to us after takeoff.
In my flight bag, I always stow arctic boots, an insulated flight suit, gloves, a hat, toilet paper, one clean uniform, and anything else I think I might need before returning to Walker.
* * *
The sun now outlines the mountains beyond the dark desert. I can hear the change in pitch of the engines of that B-36 with an early scheduled takeoff as the aircraft maneuvers toward the runway. Our trucks approach the long line of parked B-36 aircraft, and the dark silhouette of each plane looms larger as we draw close. Our truck headlights reflect brightly off the aluminum skin until we flash by and look to the next aircraft in line. The trucks make a smooth stop at our assigned B-36, keeping a respectable distance from the aircraft. I slide off the stake-bed, lift my flight bag onto my shoulder, and grab my map case. The trucks remain idling as the crew unloads all the gear.
"Have a good flight," calls one of the truck drivers as both men turn their vehicles and drive back toward the Operations Building.
Kingby lifts his arm in acknowledgment, grabs his gear, and turns to the job at hand.
I imagine the drivers would rather be part of our crew, getting ready to fly instead of driving a vehicle back to the Ops Building.
I again hear the change in pitch of the engines of that B-36 across the field. It must be at the end of the runway. The whining cry of the jet engines coming online joins in, and the engine noise grows louder as the pilot brings all ten engines to full power. Should be rolling now.
Following Kingby, Major Heller and I start moving toward the nose wheel of our aircraft. The increasing engine noise in the distance fills the quiet morning as the plane starts its takeoff roll. Routine.
Suddenly, everyone stops moving. Heads snap up to listen. No engine noise! Deadly quiet.
Abort! That B-36 has cut all engines. Aborted takeoff!
We all stand motionless and listen. Across the airfield, a puff of yellow smoke rises from the direction of the runways.
"Shit," someone groans. "She's down and hurting."
Truck sirens wail. From a low, one-story building located close to the far side of the runway, we can hear the sound of fire trucks as they race toward the smoke, quickly followed by the sound of heavier vehicles that are probably fitted with cranes and special equipment.
Then, from behind us, emergency-alert horns blare to life all over the base, drowning out everything else. I look toward the base and I can see flashing red lights on white vehicles from the base hospital moving as fast as they can go. They speed through the now wide-open gates in the chain-link fence located between the flight line and the base, making loud whupping noises that clear the way. Close behind the ambulances stream a cluster of jeeps and a small truck, all full of hospital staff.
Thirty seconds behind them, trucks from base fire protection race through the gates. They are painted a bright yellow, sounding their sirens that demand "Get the hell out of the way!" The dreaded yellow trucks always stir up fear and anxiety. On our field, yellow trucks always mean trouble.
When the base emergency horns squall, every first responder runs full-out to his station and follows the orders that have just arrived at his station seconds earlier. Losing seconds may mean losing lives.
The air is electric. Near our aircraft, we are all still standing in the spots we were when the noise of the aircraft engines suddenly stopped.
"Move it!" Major Kingby finally bellows. "Standing there with your mouths hanging open does no one any good. Do your job."
Everyone jerks back to the here and now, grabs something, and moves toward our B-36 again. Muttered conversations do not slow the activity.
I hear, "Son of a bitch. What a way to start the day. Whose plane is it? Not 40th, I hope."
No one dares to slow down, but heads keep popping up, with eyes turning toward the smoke. I set my bags on the apron as the crew forms two lines in front of the nose wheel assembly.
* * *
A B-36 standard crew numbers fifteen men. Stationed in the forward pressurized cabin are the aircraft commander, second pilot, third pilot, engineer, second engineer, radar officer, navigator, observer, radio operator, and second radio. The aft pressurized cabin has five stations, manned by four gunners located two on each side of the compartment, and a tail gunner. All five gunners rotate into the scanner positions, which are located at small, clear plastic bubbles, one at each side of the rear cabin. From those ports, the scanners can see forward and are charged with monitoring the engines on their side of the aircraft. Highest-ranking enlisted man runs the show in the aft cabin.
For our forward crew this trip, the second engineer and second radio slots are unfilled, so presently we are a crew totaling thirteen.
* * *
Major Kingby stands out front, facing the crew. "At the runway, first responders are doing their jobs, people who are better trained to help than we are and have the tools and equipment they need."
Kingby is career Air Force and he looks it. His flight suit is spotless, ironed, and even has a crease at the legs. No small accomplishment. We all know, including the major, that the creases will be gone ten minutes after boarding our aircraft. Makes no difference.
For early morning flights, Major Kingby is always clean shaven and clear eyed. When we have a night takeoff, Kingby's face looks unshaven by 1700 hours as his black stubble grows in. This annoys the hell out of him, since he is always very particular about his appearance when in uniform. Rarely does he smile. He has a serious job and his responsibilities weigh heavily on him.
Flight suits, worn by all crewmen, are gray, one-piece, long-sleeved jumpsuits with a heavy-duty zipper that runs from collar to crotch. Flight suits need to be oversized and droopy to allow for freedom of movement. One zippered pocket is sewn on the upper-left sleeve, next to the slots for pens and pencils. Two pockets are located at the chest, two at the thighs, and one more at the outer side of each lower leg, all with zippers. When the pockets are stuffed with all that we need or think we might need close at hand, the suits bulge and sag and look like hell.
Of course, after preflight preparation, a fourteen-hour flight, and post-flight debriefing, our aircraft commander looks like the rest of us: tired, sweat soaked, and red eyed, with stubbly hair on his face.
Major Kingby begins his standard pre-boarding instructions: "This is a fourteen-hour training mission. We are carrying no weapon in the bomb bay, but navigation legs, gunner's shootout, radio procedures, optimum fuel consumption, and accuracy of simulated weapon drop will all be scored. Fly safe, stay alert, and maintain intercom discipline. All runways are clear and usable. Let's get on board."
Carrying his flight bag and map case, Kingby heads for the ladder to the forward compartment. The second pilot, Captain Harris, and the first engineer, Captain Cruz, leave their gear on the apron and start their walk-around aircraft inspection. The rest of the forward cabin crew follow Kingby up the ladder, each man carrying his gear, and they begin their individual preflight checklists.
Gunners carry their flight bags to the aft cabin ladder, load in, and then begin their own check of turrets, guns, and remote firing systems.
I push my flight bag ahead of me and struggle up the ladder. Master Sergeant Snell, our first radio, is already on board. With a mournful "Good Morning," he pulls my bag up, then my map case.
"Thanks, and a good morning to you, Sergeant," I reply. "Let's hope for an uneventful ride."
I take a couple of paces forward through the radio room and then bend over so I can stomp down the three steps into the forward lower-deck radar room. My flight bag stays in the radio room against the rear bulkhead, because the radar compartment has no room for it. I reach back for my map case and move forward to my station. The navigator's chair is bolted to the deck. I slide onto the leather seat, and swing to face my work table and instruments, which are mounted on the left side wall of the radar compartment. I begin to run through my preflight checklist.
Panetta is right behind me, and I ask him, "Have you checked the sextant and mount?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from B-36 Cold War Shield by Vito Lasala. Copyright © 2015 Vito Lasala. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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