was squeezed into a few hours to prepare and then a rushed entry into the aircraft and a sudden
launch in a wave of aircraft. Ironically, crews found that the only place to relax was in the air. Sorties from Guam to Vietnam
took over eighteen hours. It was thought of as eighteen hours of boredom broken up by a few minutes of sheer panic.
Into the midst of this chaotic dance was thrust a young man, a first lieutenant named Justin O. Sommers. He was the proverbial
wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant, his silver bars as new as his navigator wings.
The normal order of integration for a new navigator in the Strategic Air Command was much more relaxed. The new nav usually
finished Combat Crew Training School, where he was introduced to the venerable B-52. He then cleaned up various required units
like water and land survival schools, and reported to an operational unit for more training. His first flight at his unit
was called a dollar ride and usually involved no more than a ride to watch how a fully trained crew operated. He was then
given several flights with his crew to learn his job and, finally, he was evaluated by his friendly neighborhood Standardization
Board instructor to see if he could do the job.
For Justin Sommers there was no gentle breaking-in period. He had been hustled through a succession of accelerated courses
with all the time to breathe taken out. Instead of leaving Castle Air Force Base at this point for his permanent base, he
was shifted down the road to the Replacement Training Unit. The purpose of this unit was to turn the young nav into a steely-eyed
killer capable of navigating the D model of the B-52. The D model had been given the “big belly” modification to allow it
to carry over a hundred bombs and was fast becoming the workhorse of the Vietnam war.
As soon as RTU had scared him to death, the Air Force shipped Lieutenant Sommers to his base of assignment. He was there for
just long enough to set his bags down. He was thrown on the next available cattle car, a charter airliner, headed for Guam.
The air carrier deposited the young man at the base, a taxi took him to the squadron, and the operations officer informed
him that he was happy to have him aboard and that he was late already.
Usually, even in times of war, the squadron was able to give a new man, especially one as new as Justin, time to settle in.
But the war, and especially Andersen’s part of the war, had suddenly intensified. Every man was needed yesterday.
The major apologized but directed Lieutenant Sommers to grab his flying gear and meet a bus in front of the squadron. His
dollar ride was going to be a doozy!
The bus took the dazed lieutenant to the flight line. He was amazed by the activity. Everywhere were trucks, buses, cars,
bomb wagons. In the midst of it all, B-52s were taxiing, taking off, and landing. He drove past row after row of bombers.
They were separated from each other by three-sided boxes made of steel and filled with dirt. They were called revetments and
had a very special purpose. The military found out on December 7, 1941, that parking aircraft close together was not a great
idea. The Japanese learned, to their delight, that they didn’t have to hit every aircraft on the ground. Just hitting one
on either end of a line led to a very deadly chain reaction. The explosion of one plane caused the explosion of the next,
and that caused the next to go up, and so on right down the line. Revetments were invented to stop the possible chain reaction.
At first glance it would seem that the steel-reinforced bunkers were meant to prevent damage. The actual purpose was not to
protect aircraft and crew but to contain the damage to a single aircraft.
The bus drove down the taxiway separating the two long runways. The driver glanced at a sheet of paper and pulled to a stop
in front of a B-52 levered into one of the revetments.
“Here you are, L.T., Charlie
launch in a wave of aircraft. Ironically, crews found that the only place to relax was in the air. Sorties from Guam to Vietnam
took over eighteen hours. It was thought of as eighteen hours of boredom broken up by a few minutes of sheer panic.
Into the midst of this chaotic dance was thrust a young man, a first lieutenant named Justin O. Sommers. He was the proverbial
wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant, his silver bars as new as his navigator wings.
The normal order of integration for a new navigator in the Strategic Air Command was much more relaxed. The new nav usually
finished Combat Crew Training School, where he was introduced to the venerable B-52. He then cleaned up various required units
like water and land survival schools, and reported to an operational unit for more training. His first flight at his unit
was called a dollar ride and usually involved no more than a ride to watch how a fully trained crew operated. He was then
given several flights with his crew to learn his job and, finally, he was evaluated by his friendly neighborhood Standardization
Board instructor to see if he could do the job.
For Justin Sommers there was no gentle breaking-in period. He had been hustled through a succession of accelerated courses
with all the time to breathe taken out. Instead of leaving Castle Air Force Base at this point for his permanent base, he
was shifted down the road to the Replacement Training Unit. The purpose of this unit was to turn the young nav into a steely-eyed
killer capable of navigating the D model of the B-52. The D model had been given the “big belly” modification to allow it
to carry over a hundred bombs and was fast becoming the workhorse of the Vietnam war.
As soon as RTU had scared him to death, the Air Force shipped Lieutenant Sommers to his base of assignment. He was there for
just long enough to set his bags down. He was thrown on the next available cattle car, a charter airliner, headed for Guam.
The air carrier deposited the young man at the base, a taxi took him to the squadron, and the operations officer informed
him that he was happy to have him aboard and that he was late already.
Usually, even in times of war, the squadron was able to give a new man, especially one as new as Justin, time to settle in.
But the war, and especially Andersen’s part of the war, had suddenly intensified. Every man was needed yesterday.
The major apologized but directed Lieutenant Sommers to grab his flying gear and meet a bus in front of the squadron. His
dollar ride was going to be a doozy!
The bus took the dazed lieutenant to the flight line. He was amazed by the activity. Everywhere were trucks, buses, cars,
bomb wagons. In the midst of it all, B-52s were taxiing, taking off, and landing. He drove past row after row of bombers.
They were separated from each other by three-sided boxes made of steel and filled with dirt. They were called revetments and
had a very special purpose. The military found out on December 7, 1941, that parking aircraft close together was not a great
idea. The Japanese learned, to their delight, that they didn’t have to hit every aircraft on the ground. Just hitting one
on either end of a line led to a very deadly chain reaction. The explosion of one plane caused the explosion of the next,
and that caused the next to go up, and so on right down the line. Revetments were invented to stop the possible chain reaction.
At first glance it would seem that the steel-reinforced bunkers were meant to prevent damage. The actual purpose was not to
protect aircraft and crew but to contain the damage to a single aircraft.
The bus drove down the taxiway separating the two long runways. The driver glanced at a sheet of paper and pulled to a stop
in front of a B-52 levered into one of the revetments.
“Here you are, L.T., Charlie
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