increasing the bank at the same time he hit the throttles. The missile streaked toward
the escaping aircraft.
Down below, the nav team was thrown about by the tight bank. The RN watched his pointed dividers float into the air. He grabbed
at them and leaned way over to follow them as they headed for the floor. Justin turned to watch him try to retrieve his tools.
The SAM didn’t hit the aircraft. It missed. But even its miss was terrible. The enemy soldier had guessed at the altitude
of the bomber and set a proximity fuse. His guess was nearly perfect. The weapon detonated very close to the nose of the aircraft
on the left side of the fuselage.
The RN was leaning over, trying to catch his dividers. The explosion took out his panels where just a few minutes ago he had
put in the settings for the bombs. He missed the wave of concussion and the flying pieces of his instruments. He was untouched.
Justin wasn’t so lucky. He barely had time to see the metal panels flying toward him like lawn mower blades.
The instructor watched in horror from the IN seat. Maybe if Justin had been wearing his helmet, he might have been saved.
Maybe it wouldn’t have made much difference. The exploding panels ended Justin Sommers’ short career as a B-52 navigator.
The young warrior was decapitated neatly by the panels he had spent the last year learning to use.
But that’s not the end of our story. It’s only the beginning.
The war in Vietnam and the war activity on Guam didn’t slow down. They intensified. But as the activity reached a fever pitch,
another activity intensified also. Its effects were slow to advance but relentless.
A load crew arrived at Charlie Fifty-four in the predawn hours of a Sunday not many days after the ill-fated flight of Justin
Sommers.
As the crew prepared the bombs for loading the load chief looked around for the ground crew chief. The young airman should
have met them at the plane, but he was nowhere to be found. They finally found him huddled in the corner of the adjacent revetment.
He was shivering and holding his arms tightly to his body as if the weather had suddenly taken a turn toward winter. But winter
in Guam rarely got below seventy-five degrees and this was the middle of summer.
The load chief was finally able to pry some words of explanation out of the young airman. But what he heard left him more
confused than ever.
The airman had been dropped off at the aircraft around midnight to start preflight alone. When he jumped off the bus he noticed
a helmet bag near the power cart and had assumed that someone had forgotten it. He picked it up, felt the familiar shape of
a helmet inside, and climbed up in the airplane to leave it on board. The inside of the bomber was dark except for the light
from outside that shined up the hatch.
The airman was startled to see the shape of a crew member sitting in the navigator’s seat. The officer was in shadow but it
looked like he was doing some paperwork. He was doing paperwork in almost total darkness. The airman just stood on the hatch
steps in confusion, trying to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The shape turned toward him and reached for the helmet in
his hand. As it moved into the dim light from the hatch the airman was horrified to see that the body ended above the shoulders.
He could clearly see the lieutenant’s bars on the flight suit, but there was no head!
The airman dropped the bag and fled from the aircraft. He had been huddled in the corner of the neighboring revetment for
hours.
The airman was carted off to the hospital. He was listed as a case of battle fatigue. The long hours had just gotten the better
of him. He rotated back to the States early. The load crew found no helmet bag anywhere around the aircraft. And they certainly
found no headless lieutenant.
The next incident at Charlie Fifty-four took place after a flight. The B-52 had landed with a hung weapon in the bomb bay.
A load
the escaping aircraft.
Down below, the nav team was thrown about by the tight bank. The RN watched his pointed dividers float into the air. He grabbed
at them and leaned way over to follow them as they headed for the floor. Justin turned to watch him try to retrieve his tools.
The SAM didn’t hit the aircraft. It missed. But even its miss was terrible. The enemy soldier had guessed at the altitude
of the bomber and set a proximity fuse. His guess was nearly perfect. The weapon detonated very close to the nose of the aircraft
on the left side of the fuselage.
The RN was leaning over, trying to catch his dividers. The explosion took out his panels where just a few minutes ago he had
put in the settings for the bombs. He missed the wave of concussion and the flying pieces of his instruments. He was untouched.
Justin wasn’t so lucky. He barely had time to see the metal panels flying toward him like lawn mower blades.
The instructor watched in horror from the IN seat. Maybe if Justin had been wearing his helmet, he might have been saved.
Maybe it wouldn’t have made much difference. The exploding panels ended Justin Sommers’ short career as a B-52 navigator.
The young warrior was decapitated neatly by the panels he had spent the last year learning to use.
But that’s not the end of our story. It’s only the beginning.
The war in Vietnam and the war activity on Guam didn’t slow down. They intensified. But as the activity reached a fever pitch,
another activity intensified also. Its effects were slow to advance but relentless.
A load crew arrived at Charlie Fifty-four in the predawn hours of a Sunday not many days after the ill-fated flight of Justin
Sommers.
As the crew prepared the bombs for loading the load chief looked around for the ground crew chief. The young airman should
have met them at the plane, but he was nowhere to be found. They finally found him huddled in the corner of the adjacent revetment.
He was shivering and holding his arms tightly to his body as if the weather had suddenly taken a turn toward winter. But winter
in Guam rarely got below seventy-five degrees and this was the middle of summer.
The load chief was finally able to pry some words of explanation out of the young airman. But what he heard left him more
confused than ever.
The airman had been dropped off at the aircraft around midnight to start preflight alone. When he jumped off the bus he noticed
a helmet bag near the power cart and had assumed that someone had forgotten it. He picked it up, felt the familiar shape of
a helmet inside, and climbed up in the airplane to leave it on board. The inside of the bomber was dark except for the light
from outside that shined up the hatch.
The airman was startled to see the shape of a crew member sitting in the navigator’s seat. The officer was in shadow but it
looked like he was doing some paperwork. He was doing paperwork in almost total darkness. The airman just stood on the hatch
steps in confusion, trying to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The shape turned toward him and reached for the helmet in
his hand. As it moved into the dim light from the hatch the airman was horrified to see that the body ended above the shoulders.
He could clearly see the lieutenant’s bars on the flight suit, but there was no head!
The airman dropped the bag and fled from the aircraft. He had been huddled in the corner of the neighboring revetment for
hours.
The airman was carted off to the hospital. He was listed as a case of battle fatigue. The long hours had just gotten the better
of him. He rotated back to the States early. The load crew found no helmet bag anywhere around the aircraft. And they certainly
found no headless lieutenant.
The next incident at Charlie Fifty-four took place after a flight. The B-52 had landed with a hung weapon in the bomb bay.
A load
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