B-36 Peacemaker mechanic
Responding to the US Army Air Force’s request for an intercontinental range strategic bomber, Consolidated Vultee (later Convair) designed the B-36 during World War II. The aircraft made its first flight in August 1946 and in June 1948 the Strategic Air Command received its first operational B-36.
As Lee Burtman explains in her book Waiting in the Wings: Arming the Bomb in a World Gone MAD, as the largest combat aircraft ever built, the B-36 fulfilled a crucial nuclear deterrent role as part of SAC. Her father Neal was responsible for the maintenance of the plane even during the flight. In fact, there was much discussion about the fact that the wing of the B-36 was deep enough to allow engineers to get into it and maintain the engines in flight.
Neal felt honored to be chosen to fly the Peacemaker, but the assignment was definitely no walk in the park! His typical route was called the “milk run”, where minimal resistance was expected from the enemy. After hitting the gas in Rapid City, the team flew to Maine. If all systems checked out, the plane made a rough circle from Newfoundland to Greenland, past Norway and Sweden, grazing Russia and North Africa, and then turned back across the Atlantic. Neal wasn’t sure where they were half the time!
These simulated bombings lasted fourteen to forty hours, an average of thirty-two hours during the week. Neal exclaimed that even after getting over his initial fear of flying and flying for several months, the tense first few hours in the air still “scared the hair out of your teeth!” Despite his excellent care of the aircraft, inherent system malfunctions could bring it down, not to mention low-flying Soviet MiGs.
A disturbing sound
Only the sound of the bomber was disturbing. A distinctive undulating drone created by his motors running at their highest speeds the minute it passes through his lungs and stomach. He felt it reverberate throughout his body long after he returned to earth. It was so loud that Neal couldn’t hear anything else, and his ears would ring for hours after a flight. People on earth knew she was approaching from ten miles away, and their houses and windows would rattle wildly to announce her arrival.
The throbbing vibrations of the plane felt and seemed to tear his body apart. Indeed, it looked like they would—Neal could see the light of day as the “skin” and “ribs” came apart and then came back together at the seams like an accordion playing. After each flight, sheet metal workers spent hours repairing the “skin” and securing rivets that had come off.
Constant tension; gas fumes; lack of food, sleep and nicotine; and three days of intense in-flight convulsions forced Neal and his companions to violently vomit on the runway shortly after landing. He hated the shorter weekend flights, when the crew might have only three or four hours on the ground to refuel and adjust. To prevent the engines from freezing, the men had to go back into the blue before their stomachs settled.
Electrically heated F-1 suit
Even after spending many cold Minnesota winters as a child playing in the snow for hours wearing a thin jacket and wet mittens, Neal was unprepared for the bitter cold of the stratosphere. It could be twenty to thirty below zero in some areas of the aircraft where he worked. Conversely, the bunk in the aft compartment can be ninety degrees above and twenty degrees below, making sleeping on both levels impossible. It was so uncomfortable that Neal got very little sleep in bed – he napped or read wherever he could while sitting or even standing.
Neal was fitted with an electrically heated F-1 suit strapped to the plane. Unfortunately, it barely stopped one from freezing to death. He wore gloves, boots, an oxygen mask, a high-altitude flight helmet with ear clips and a headset to stay in touch with the cockpit. Most importantly, he carried a parachute and a “Mae West” on his chest (a life jacket named for the beautiful and dangerous actress of vaudeville, theater and film).
A small galley held two mini-sabbaticals, but rarely had the time or motivation to cook anything. Typical meals consisted of sandwiches in self-heating packets or C or K rations. Rations usually included some type of meat (Junk anyone?), powdered eggs, cheese and crackers, purple plum preserves, chocolate, instant coffee and chewing gum ( plus toilet paper and cigarettes).
The use of toilet paper was particularly problematic. It was often too cold to use the “head,” so one could either wear a diaper, which Neal steadfastly refused to do, or use a “pee tube” that emptied into a plastic bag. Neal admitted that he was too scared on flights to try to eliminate anything else!
TUNNEL
He couldn’t even use cigarettes, as smoking with gas flowing around and smoke wafting through the air was strictly forbidden. Neal had been a heavy smoker since his teenage years, and the nicotine withdrawal he experienced every time he flew was debilitating.
The first smoke-free day made him feel anxious, restless, dizzy and nervous and gave him severe headaches. The second day resulted in insomnia, trouble concentrating and a drop in blood sugar, creating sudden hunger and cravings for sweets and carbohydrates. Unfortunately, the painful Air Force meals did not satisfy him. By the third day, the withdrawal symptoms were at their peak. Just when he couldn’t take it a second longer, he hungrily took a stashed cigarette from his pocket and took a deep breath—after landing and cleaning up.
On these flights, Neal headed to the front of the plane for a meeting with the bombardier responsible for aiming aerial bombs. He then spoke to the navigator, who guided the plane using radar, charts and maps. He was then directed to the rear access area via a pressurized tunnel called the “train”. The tunnel, measuring about a foot in diameter and eighty-seven feet long, ran along the fuselage and through the bomb bay. Neal would swing the parachute across his chest and then lay on his back on a flat sled attached to a rail. After grabbing a cable up, he would struggle to pull himself hand-to-hand through the tunnel, which was not easy while carrying all his bulky equipment.
The critical job of B-36 mechanics: keeping the engines cool and the carburetors warm
Sometimes the pilots had a bit of fun with the rear crew – pointing the nose of the plane down a bit made the men grunt and work even harder to maneuver through the tunnel. If they tipped the nose up, the screams of the crew members as they dropped it at breakneck speed were laughable.
Neal’s first job was to crawl into the wings of the plane to work on the engines in flight. The huge wings were more than seven meters thick at their root (where they joined the fuselage) and tapered at the tips. While securely tethered, Neal could check the fuel tanks and landing gear, observe the engines with an analyzer, check the intercooler settings and gear movements, and reset the circuit breakers on the electrical panel.
A critical job was keeping the engines cool and the carburetors warm. The stainless steel firewalls surrounding the engines occasionally cracked, overheating the cylinders and causing fires. The fuselage was made of a highly flammable metal, magnesium, making for a dangerous combination. Three B-36s were lost to in-flight fires—one was even carrying an atomic bomb that, thankfully, had not yet been detonated.
The least of a B-36 mechanic worries
Engines leak oil that must be cleaned and refilled constantly. On occasion, the supply of a 150-gallon engine was insufficient, so that it would have to be shut down. Neal also completed the daunting task of changing hundreds of spark plugs in the engine block. Each of the six engines had 56 spark plugs, and all 336 required frequent replacement because lead gas constantly fouled them while the aircraft was at cruising speed.
In addition to breathing in the ever-present toxic fumes, Neal often came into direct contact with fuel as leaks in the injection lines spilled it. Also, after being bent for a few hours, the fuel tanks on the wings came off their joint adhesives allowing purple fuel to drip all over the Neal. Additionally, when the plane did a “shotgun” burst, turning quickly and sharply at 60 degrees, the gas would escape, bathing Neal in more poisonous liquid. During repeated trips, Neal likely took in more than his share of lead and other chemicals. However, such exposure would be the least of his worries.
Waiting in the Wings
Lee Burtman was born and raised in Minneapolis, Minnesota (USA) and lives in a northern suburb with her husband, Greg, and son, Kyle. They also enjoy three other grown children, their spouses and eight grandchildren.
Lee is a retired educator with a passion for telling the stories no one else does—the true experiences of little-known, ordinary soldiers and airmen who put their lives on the line to secure our freedom.
Waiting in the Wings: Arming the Bomb in a World Gone MAD is her third book and highlights her father Neal’s work on the B-36 Peacemaker. It is available through the author by writing burtmanlee@gmail.com or Amazon–Waiting in the Wings by Lee Burtman.
Photo credit: Lt. Col. Frank F. Kleinwechter / US Air Force