By Phil Rowe
Our new B-52D StratoFortress took off at dawn for a training flight from our Spokane, Washington air base. The weather was perfect, clear and crisp that October morning. After climb-out we leveled off at 30,000 feet to begin the first of two celestial navigation legs, each planned for about 1200 miles. The first was to end near the air refueling control point (ARCP) for a rendezvous with a KC-135 tanker.
Our tail gunner, Ken, faced aft in his own little cockpit, way back there about 100 feet behind the rest of us in that enormous winged aluminum wonder. His view of the world was where we had been, but at least he had one. The two navigators and the electronic warfare officer (EWO) didn't even have windows from which to view the bright blue skies or the magnificent western mountains of Montana down below.
On the upper forward flight deck the EWO inserted the periscopic sextant into the receptacle next to the bunk. He and his navigator worked as a team on these celestial practice legs, for the EWO took the star, sun or moon observations necessary to determine the plane's position. His measured azimuth and elevation angles were reported to the navigator down below, who would then compute and plot the lines of position on the charts to establish the "fix".
It was Ken's job to regularly initiate routine oxygen and interphone checks, reporting to the pilot, our aircraft commander, every half hour. Ken would declare, "Gunner, oxygen check," to start the process. Then, in turn, each crewmember would chime in with his crew position and the acknowledging words that all was working and the oxygen system was up to par.
After about two hours into the first celestial leg, Ken was remiss in starting one of his oxygen check reports. That was uncharacteristic of him, for he was usually right on time making those interphone reports. But it wasn't until he was about ten minutes late than anyone noticed. That was the copilot, who inquired, "Gunner. You okay back there?"
The AC didn't seem too worried and suggested that old Ken was probably dozing, bored with the view or something. "Hey, Ken? Wake up back there. Are you all right? Oxygen check, Ken." But still no answer. Now the whole crew began to worry. Maybe he was asleep, or maybe he was in trouble. It could be that his cabin pressure had failed and he had passed out for lack of oxygen. Or perhaps his oxygen supply had run out, a leak or some other problem. What was wrong back there?
The AC kicked the rudder pedals. That would shake the huge bomber's tail, tossing Ken left and right in his little rear-facing world. If Ken was asleep that would get his attention. Of course it would also jostle him about so that he's spill his coffee or dump his meal, if he was eating back there.
If Ken was merely asleep, or perhaps temporarily off interphone briefly to go to the "can", that rudder jolt should get his attention and quickly have him inquiring, "What the hell is going on?" Yet all was silent. Not a word from Ken. This could be serious.
"Better let down to low altitude, to where the air is thick enough to breath and support life," the AC declared. "Copilot, you get us traffic clearance for an immediate descent. Tell them that we've got an emergency situation." While the co-pilot got on the radios to request descent clearance, the AC already started down.
We'd have to descent to at least 13,000 feet. "Navigator? What's the minimum safe altitude, clear of the mountains, for descent?" The AC commented too that he sure was glad that there were no clouds below us. He could descend in the clear.
"EWO, Phil. I want you to get ready to go back to check on Ken."
I'd kinda expected that and was already inserting my injection seat pins and doffing my parachute harness. I knew well what the job entailed, and answered, "Roger. On my way down to the lower deck." I would wait down below for word that we were low enough to no longer need cabin pressurization.
It took a few minutes, about 15 in fact, to get down to the safe altitude. I was waiting in the galley area, now on interphone next to the coffee jugs. In fact, I'd already gotten myself a cup of hot coffee and obtained a small portable, walk-around oxygen bottle to take with me.
"Okay, Phil. We're leveling off at 13,000 feet now," announced my pilot. "We're de-pressurizing the forward cabin, crew. Clear you ears, if you need to and stay on oxygen. We may be at this altitude for a while." The AC was reminding us that even at 13,000 feet we'd still need some oxygen for a sustained period there.
As soon as I felt the cabin pressure dumped, actually raising the pressure from 8,000 foot equivalent to the actual 13,000 feet, I opened the small hatch on the starboard side next to the galley. I was about to head aft along the little catwalk in the bomb bays and then climb into the "47 section" behind the aft wheel well. From there I'd work my way all the way aft to the gunner's compartment.
Yes indeed, I was nervous. It was the first time that I'd taken that trip while we were airborne. I'd only done it once before, just for practice. And that was on the ground. But I crawled out there, with a flashlight in one hand and that walk-around bottle in the other, to go see what the matter was with Ken.
It was cold, dark and noisy back there in the bomb bay. I never realized just how noisy it would be, nor did I remember that everything would be so cold from our prior cruising at 30,000 feet.
But my mind was on two things. First and foremost I had to get back to check on Ken, and at that moment it was just as important to me not to fall off that narrow catwalk and plunge onto those bomb bay doors. They were all that stood between me and a heck of a fall.
Finally, and thankfully, I reached the entry to the 47 section. That huge section, of the fuselage between the aft wheel well area and the tail gunner's compartment, was still 30 feet or more long. And that was the noisiest and darkest part of the journey. In the bomb bay, at least, I had some light from the crack between the big doors and a dim bulb on the wall. But back in the 47 section it was pitch black. My flashlight was essential.
I was able to almost stand upright there, as I passed the racks of ECM transmitters, the numerous cables and black boxes which controlled and monitored various aircraft systems. I ducked down below the huge metal boxes holding the chaff meant to confuse radars. And finally I got to the bulkhead and entry door to Ken's aft station. There was a small window in the door with a streak of sunlight.
I peered into the Ken's world, that separate pressurized compartment. I could see Ken. He was in his seat, but he wasn't moving.
Carefully, I reached for the lever which would de-pressurize his compartment, for unless I took that step it would be dangerous to open that door. The lower pressure of 13,000 altitude in the 47 section would suck out the air in Ken's compartment, if I could even get the door open against the differential pressure. I heard the whoosh of air as Ken's compartment de-pressurized and I could safely open the door.
Just as the air began to flow out noisily, Ken suddenly moved. He turned around and looked at me, surprised and startled, as an unexpected visitor entered his domain. We looked at each other for a few seconds.
I shouted, "Are you all right?" but the in the din of noise back there I couldn't be sure that he heard me.<P "Yes," he shouted back, whilst nodding his head up and down. As I got within reach of him, we could talk to each other more easily. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.
"We didn't hear from you, Ken. We didn't know if you were dead or alive. Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes, yes .. I'm okay," he responded. He grinned a little and continued, "My interphone must be dead. I've called and called you guys, but got no reply."
"Well, you'd better come forward with me. The AC and the crew is really worried. In fact, bring your stuff , cause you're riding up front the rest of this flight."
He nodded in agreement. Soon the two of us made the dark, noisy and cold journey forward. The radar navigator was watching us crawl forward from the galley door area. I mimicked the nodding of his flashlight in acknowledgment that all was well. We were both coming forward.
"Pilot, radar. They're both coming forward. Ken's all right," the radar operator reported over the interphone. "Thank god, he's okay."
Soon we re-closed the forward pressure hatch. The pilot once more pressurized the forward crew compartment, and all six of us could relax a bit. We climbed back up to cruise altitude and were able to still make our rendezvous with the tanker, though we took a cut-off direct route, skipping the remainder of the navigation training leg.
All's well that ends well. But I sure as heck never wanted to make that journey aft again. It was no fun at all.