Remembering the B-47 Stratojet ... the way it was.

An excerpt from the book CLOUD COUNTRY, by Tom Curtis USA ARR.

 The airplane on the ground was an unbeautiful charade of flight potential, with its bicycle gear and little stick-like outriggers holding up the wings. The machine seemed to be a conglomeration of afterthought; an ongoing experiment with pasted up solutions to unforeseen problems. Designers never calculated enough fuel for the mission to be undertaken (bombing the Soviets), and after installing tanks in what had originally been space for payload, resorted to hanging extra tanks externally. Preflight checks by the aircrew initially took longer than time in the air, but were gradually shortened as systems were found to be reliable, or not needed. For example, there was a camera compartment in the tail section which the navigator was supposed to check to insure circuit breakers were set. Eventually, the camera was removed from the bomber configuration, since there was little reason to believe it would ever be used. If the primary mission were accomplished, the aircraft and crew would probably not be returning.

 A typical training mission for aircrews in the ’60s involved a seven-hour flight that simulated a war mission. The normal sortie profile after takeoff could include a rendezvous with a tanker, a low-level navigation leg terminating with a ground radar scored bombing attack, followed by a high altitude celestial navigation leg and Last Resort simulated bomb drop. The bombings did not involve any actual hardware release; the probable detonation point of the hypothetical explosive was computed, or determined by film records of the navigator's radar indicator (’scope). Once a year each crew was allowed to visually drop one 100-pound bomb using the optical sight instead of radar. That was usually the same flight that started with a rocket assisted takeoff, and during which the copilot actually fired the guns. He didn't shoot at anything; he just expended some rounds.

 A full eight-hour mission planning was required the day before the flight. Each crew, each annual quarter, was required to accomplish a number of training tasks, i.e., so many tanker hookups, landings for each pilot, hours of instrument flight, navigation legs, types of bomb attacks, etc. A mission planning day began with an eight o’clock briefing for all the crews flying practice missions the next day, when the outline for each crew’s expected accomplishments would be set. Of course, all crews knew what training requirements were needed, so the briefing was really just a muster to insure everyone was showing up for work.

 During mission planning the Aircraft Commander (the pilot) usually only sat and drank coffee, to be available to assist the other two officers. His responsibility was to review and approve their efforts after they completed the necessary paper preparation for the flight. The copilot’s main responsibility was to insure the planned flight fuel was adequate, and that a proper balance of the aircraft could be maintained with the tank loadings. He was provided with a special slide rule to calculate the variances , and inflight would be able to compare the actual fuel situation with a proposed fuel log  prepared at the planning session. The navigator did everything else; prepared maps, calculated celestial precomputation, studied film of previous attacks against practice targets, ordered the inflight lunches, checked the weather, and double-checked the copilot's work.

 Most of the flights, except those dedicated to maintaining pilot proficiency, originated or ended in darkness. Crews would show up for missions several hours before the scheduled takeoff time to inspect the aircraft and tidy up last-minute details. The navigator usually stopped by the  base Inflight Kitchen for boxed lunches, while the Aircraft Commander completed military  clearance forms at Base Operations. The copilot was first on the flight line at the aircraft.

 Seen at night under a cloudless western sky by starlight pooling from infinite points of reference, the vague outlines of white underbodies nested on acres of concrete gave an unreal remoteness to the alliance of men and machines. In the space designated for Alert aircraft, those loaded with nuclear devices, their switches prepositioned for immediate engines start, the aura of repose was skewed by peripheral clues to an action status. In front of the underground facility which served as quarters for the Alert Force, ramps led to the line of parked blue station wagons, reflected numbers on rear plates casting back the floodlights. In the darkness an occasional glimpse of a sentry might be seen behind perimeter lights pointed away from the aircraft. At the entry point to the area, one could have seen a cigarette’s glow within the supervisory guard’s shelter, and a slowly moving taillight would betray the patrol vehicle which continuously circled the parking area. The night was busy.

 Down the line somewhere, an MD-3 ground power unit might be heard as the copilot started his preflight checks, flashlight poked into the many orifices of the beast at rest. Across the field, red-lighted fingers of antennas dominated distantly; while closer, blue taxiway lights made a strange pattern of regularity. And from far above, a passing jet sound wafted down over an inert bomber being readied for launch into that sky.

 The mythical Lieutenant Slade’s flying day might finally have begun and progressed after strapping himself in and arranging his tools around his confined workspace. The six J-47 engines would have been running, the ground service crew fire guard unplugged from the external intercom port, and the copilot's checklist reading completed. Then the radio scratched to life.

 "Doggy One-Eight, John’s Clearance."

 "Doggy One-Eight, ready to copy."  Copilot Captain Gerald Miller acts as the principal talker.

 "ATC clears Doggy 1-8 to the John's airport via the Weatherby V-O-R, then Amarillo one-five-six slash eighty nautical miles, flight planned route. Weatherby Jet Three departure approved, maintain flight level two-six-zero, squawk four-three-two-two. When cleared by Westex Departure Control, contact Fort Worth Center, two-six-niner-decimal-four. Read back."

 "O.k., Doggy 1-8 to Weatherby, Amarillo 1-5-6 slash 80, Weatherby 3 to 2-6-0, 4-3-2-2, Fort  Worth 2-6-9-4."

 "Doggy 1-8, read back correct. Cleared to tower frequency."

 "O.k., here we go," advises the pilot-in-command, Captain James Lester. Contact among the crewmembers is only through the intercommunications system.

 "Brakes and steering," from the copilot, continuing to read the Before Takeoff checklist.

 The nose of the slowly moving aircraft rocks downward, then side-to-side.

 "Needle right, ball left, DG tracking." The checklist continues. The navigator sits mute, waiting for his radar to "warm up." At the end of the takeoff runway, with all systems apparently operating normally, the crew waits for their scheduled takeoff time. The radio voice is startling.

 "Doggy 1-8, change now to Westex Departure Control, frequency two-three-eight decimlal six. Wind one-eight-zero, variable two-six zero, ten knots, cleared for takeoff."

 "Roger," replies the copilot, "Doggy 1-8, rolling now."

 Captain Lester releases the parking brake, shoves throttles forward until six tachometer needles indicate eighty percent of available thrust. As the aircraft starts to roll, he concentrates on turning it on to the departure runway. When it is aligned with the center stripe, the copilot pushes the throttles to full open, and both pilots monitor the tachometers for availability of maximum power. The pilot's eyes scan the exhaust gas temperatures as the man in the rear seat reports,

 "Hundred percent across the board," and then, in the same breath, "Sixty knots," warns the copilot.  "Seventy knots ... NOW!"

 "Hack!" from the navigator, who at that instant starts his stopwatch. The second hand winds down the face of his timer as the airplane slowly increases speed. The wings start to raise from their drooping position, and the airspeed needle passes 100 knots. The stop watch approaches 19-1/2 seconds, at which time the navigator says into his mask, "S-1... NOW!"

 Lester glances at the airspeed indicator, and noting the reading of 127 knots, says, "We're going."

 If the airspeed had been below the critical speed of 121 knots at the expiration of the nineteen and one-half second timing from 70 knots, the pilot would have aborted the takeoff. At S-1 he made the decision to continue the takeoff, or abort. Once the decision was made, he was committed to complete the action elected.

 The aircraft continues to accelerate, the copilot watching the airspeed indicator needle climb toward S-2, the computed takeoff speed for the aircraft’s gross weight. The machine begins to have a more positive response to the pilot's input on the controls. The copilot reports,  "Approaching takeoff speed, one-six-one, ready, ready, NOW!"

 Captain Lester pulls firmly on the control column, and one hundred-ninety thousand pounds of aircraft lifts from the runway.

 "Gear up," he says.

 "Four intermediate," reports the copilot. The Aircraft Commander is concerned with keeping the heavy machine in a positive climb, a level attitude, and in constant acceleration. He notes the altitude above ground at three hundred feet, and says to the copilot, "Start the flaps."

 "Roger, flaps coming up." A pause. "Holding at fifty percent for two-oh-five."

 The pilot rolls the elevator trim wheel to balance out control pressures as the flaps retract into the undersurface of the wing. At 205 knots, the copilot starts the flaps past 50% down. As they pass 25%, he notes the airspeed is above a critical 230 knots. There is a slight yawing motion as the extra thrust from the water alcohol augmentation is no longer available. 75 seconds have passed since the copilot called for water injection.

 Four hundred feet. The navigator may now if necessary safely eject downward in the unhoped for event of an emergency.

 "Coming full up," the copilot says.

 "Roger." The pilot continues to trim. As the flaps come full up, the navigator feels a slight sinking. The airplane is clean. He sees with satisfaction they are more than one thousand feet above the ground, and that airspeed is increasing.

 "Departure this is 1-8."

 "Roger, 1-8, radar contact four miles south of John's airport. Continue climb to six thousand."

 "One-eight."

 Climbing at an indicated airspeed of 310 knots, Doggy 18 would be more responsive to its environment, eventually settling on its prescribed course over six miles high, cruising at a standard 430 knots (close to 500 mph). Most of the flight for a proficient crew would consist of enduring boredom. Those who had flown together as a team for over a year usually proceeded efficiently through aerial refueling, and suffered silently through turbulent low-level routes. The end of a close-to-terrain portion of a training mission was always a simulated bombing attack, approaching a target masked by terrain, and popping up at the last minute for a Short Look and release with minimum exposure to theoretical retaliatory efforts.

 "Big Blast bomb plot, this Doggy 1-8, I.P. inbound."

 "Doggy 1-8, big Blast bomb plot, roger. Understand you are a B-47 aircraft, crew number Romeo Niner-niner, for releases against targets Alfa and Bravo, navigator’s name Slade, a one-lieutenant. What will be your bombing altitude?"

 "Bombing altitude, both releases, three-decimal-nine, Doggy 1-8."

 "Roger, 1-8, understand three-decimal-nine both releases. Call at twenty miles."

 "1-8."

 As the copilot completes his call to the scoring site, the navigator is busy setting his computer to the current geographic position of the aircraft. Then he switches his computer function to a reference position, and sets the first target coordinates. Looking at the radar 'scope, he sees an electronic crosshair imposed over blobs of returns that he does not recognize. He is too far from the target, at too low an altitude, to identify the specific aiming point studied the day before. The pilot is concentrating on maintaining the proper airspeed, heading, and altitude, while the copilot listens for an audible signal from his electronic countermeasures equipment that will indicate the scoring site is tracking their aircraft. The Pilot Data Indicator points straight ahead.

 "Check list?" queries Slade.

 "Bomb," the pilot responds.

 The navigator sets his equipment for an automatic function of the bombing system when the computer determines the aircraft is at the bomb release point.

 "Bomb," confirms the navigator. The radar picture is now confined to a pie-shaped portion on the 'scope, with the cross hair resting, he hopes, in the target area. There is still no significant return available for refinement. The computer shows he is thirty miles from the first target.

 "I don't see a damned thing, Ace," he tells the pilot. In vain he looks for some familiar shape he has studied. He wonders if he is in the right county, if there is something wrong with the radar, if he has entered the correct data in the computer. How much time to go?

 "TG driving," says Lester. "What's the range?"

 "Twenty miles."

 "Big Blast, Doggy 1-8 is two zero miles."

 "Roger, 1-8. Radar contact." The ground radio operator sounds bored. The copilot hears a tone in his headset that indicates the groundr is locked on.

 "One-eighty TG," advises the pilot.

 Suddenly, the pie on the navigator's scope turns to spaghetti-like bright stripes emanating from the vertex, obscuring the blobs he is studying. Quickly he twists a knob on the radar control panel to change the frequency, and the ’scope picture clears momentarily.

 "They're jamming," he says. "But I have the target. Center P.D.I. and give me Second Station."

 "O.k., Nav, ten left."

 The aircraft banks slightly to the left, but Slade is engrossed in refining his computer and changing the radar frequency each time the screen blanking occurs. He carefully checks everything he can see on the radar presentation to make certain he has the cross hair on the correct aiming point.. Satisfied, he checks the computer counters.

 "Centered," reports Lester. "You have the aircraft."

 A green light comes on in front of the navigator, indicating he has directional control of the plane's autopilot through the tracking control of his bombing computer.

 He acknowledges, "I have Second Station."

 "Ninety TG, K-2 auto," from the pilot.

 The navigator throws another switch, the last necessary to effect an automatic activation of the bomb release system. The copilot reminds the crew that time to climb requires forty seconds. Slade checks the TG indicator.

 "Seventy TG. Advance power," he calls.

 The back-seater advances the throttles for an increase to 100% thrust, and the pilot initiates the climb. The navigator is at last confident of the aiming point, for with a slight increase in altitude the radar picture improves significantly. He moves the tracking handle to adjust the crosshair, and the aircraft rolls slightly in response.

 "Thirty TG, leveling off."
 "Roger."
 "Twenty TG, tone on."

 The navigator takes his eyes from the target presentation to the tone switch. He  flips it up, and the crew hears it in their headsets.

 "Note true heading," reminds the copilot.

 Slade checks the true heading indicator on the computer. He takes a last look at the radar picture, pleased with the cross hair position that remains stationary on the center leading edge of a blob which represents a hangar on the abandoned airport over which they are about to pass. The aircraft lurches as the bomb doors come open, the tone stops, Second Station light goes out, and then the noise of the open bomb doors ceases with the thud of their return to the closed position.

 "Bombs away, 1-8," reports the copilot.

 "Roger, 1-8."

 Slade is already busy with the second target. He sets in the coordinates of the new aiming point, sees the expected presentation, and tells the pilot,

 "I have it, center P.D.I."

 "Roger. P.D.I. is centering, thirty right. Bomb?"

 "Bomb. Give me Second Station." The airplane is banked to the right, rolls abruptly level. The green light glows.

 "Your aircraft."
 "Thirty TG."
 "Roger. No sweat."
 "Twenty TG. Tone on. Note true heading."

 Tone on. Check true heading indication. Note airspeed. Refine crosshair. Bomb doors open, turbulence, tone off, light out, doors close. Thump. What was that?

 "What was that noise?" from Slade.
 "Bombs away, 1-8. "

 "Roger, 1-8. bomb plot copies your three-six and three-seven releases. Standing by info."

 "What was that thump?"
 "I don't know, Nav. See anything, Jerry?"
 "Looks all right back here."
 "Spoiler doors, maybe?"

 "Copilot, the wind was North two-five, West zero-seven. Drift correction angles, minus one, minus one. True headings zero-three-one, zero-five-nine. True airspeed, three hundred."

 "Big blast, Doggy 1-8 with information ... . "

 Captain Miller relays the on-board information to the scorer below as Doggy 18 climbs away to its planned altitude, a great albatross streaking upward in the night. Before the cruise to home base is established, the bomb plot will have radioed the crew’s encoded scores, the theoretical distance the imaginary bombs landed from their intended points of detonation. What each crew wanted to hear was a read-back of the day's classified additive, a six digit figure to be subtracted from the reported score for the true error. A report of the additive meant zero error; in bombardier terms, a shack, as in putting the bomb down the single hole of an outhouse. The last thrill of successful mission completion was always the arrival at destination.

 "Approach, Doggy 1-8 is high cone, starting descent."
 "1-8, report penetration turn."
 "1-8."

 "Gear down." Miller places the landing gear lever to the DOWN position. "Four intermediate," he states.

 As the landing gear comes down, the vibration of the aircraft increases. The extra drag creates a rumbling noise.

 The copilot reports: "I show three down. The left outrigger is intermediate."
 "Roger. Starting descent."

 The aircraft pitches downward, and the whine and rumble increases. To the navigator, the sensation is like riding a giant sled down a rough ski slope in the dark at high speed. The altimeter starts to unwind.

 "Fifteen thousand ... now. Two-sixty-five."
 "Roger. Forty-six hundred feet per minute."
 "Check."

 "Thirteen. Two-sixty-three."
 "Check. Left turn at twelve."

 "Twelve thousand, now."
 "Roger, starting turn."
 "Approach, 1-8 is penetration turn."
 "Roger, 1-8. Continue descent to four thousand, cleared for a V-O-R approach to Runway three-four. Will this be full stop?"
 "1-8 is full stop."

 "Ten thousand, two-six-two."
 "Check."

 Fifty tons of airplane is dropping out of the night toward the earth, and the inclination of the crew is to hold on to something. It seems a long time, but the dive from 20,000 feet only takes three minutes.

 "Five thousand, two-sixty, one thousand to level off."
 "Check. Breaking glide."

 The nose lifts, engines power up. Slade begins gathering his tools to put away in his briefcase.

 "Full flaps."
 "Flaps coming down."
 "Doggy 1-8, Johns Approach Control. Radar contact ten miles south of Johns airport. Descend now to thirty-five hundred. Suggest final landing cockpit check."
 "Roger, Approach. Thirty-five hundred for 1-8." Then, "Flaps full down."
 "O.k. Recycle the gear." More rumbling. A brief smoothness. More rumbling.

 "Four down, four green, no red," reports Miller.
 "Doggy 1-8, Johns Approach Control, position now eight miles south, approaching glide path. Standby for Final Controller. Remain this frequency."

 "Doggy 1-8, this is your Final Controller, how do you hear?"
 "Loud and clear. How me?"
 "Loud and clear. Position now seven miles south, approaching glide path. No further responses necessary. No contact any five seconds, execute published missed approach procedures and contact Approach Control two-three-eight decimal two. Heading should be three-three-eight. Prepare to start descent in ten seconds ... start descent ... now. Recommend best rate for your type aircraft on three degree glide slope. On course, 3-3-8 the heading, on glide slope. Falling fifteen feet below glide slope ... 3-3-8, now twenty feet below. Correct your rate of descent. On course. Now four miles from G-C-A touchdown. Correcting nicely. 3-3-8. On course, on glide path. Tower has cleared you for full stop. On course, on glide path. Now two miles to touchdown. Approaching G-C-A minimums ... "I have the field." ... On course, on glide path. G-C-A minimum. Three-quarter miles to touchdown. On course. Dropping slightly below glide path. Over approach lights. Over end of runway. Approaching touchdown. Take over visually and complete your landing. G-C-A out."

 "Airspeed!"
 "Yeah ... ah, shit!"

 The airplane flares high, shudders, and falls. The crew experiences the sinking sensation of a stall, and the navigator grabs for a handhold just as the craft hits the runway. It jars him, snapping him forward in his seat straps. His books fall, and the table lamp snakes down. The bomber bounces once, then trundles down the runway.

 "I got the brake chute," says the copilot. There is a slight forward tug on their shoulder straps from deceleration. "And it's a good one."
 "Seven hours, fifty minutes, Ace."
 "Roger, Nav. Taxi detent, copilot."

 "Doggy 1-8, Tower. Right turn next intersection, speed permitting."
 "1-8. Leaving your frequency for Command Post."
 "Return Ground Control, 1-8."
 "Roger, 1-8."

 "Doggy Control, Doggy 1-8."
 "Control, go."
 "Doggy 1-8 is on the ground, seven plus fifty."
 "1-8, roger. Park in Hotel Two."

 And so it ends. Of course, there was another hour and a half of debriefing; advising maintenance personnel of difficulties (What was that thump?), filling out mission accomplishment forms, all to be done before getting in the car and driving home to Mama.