Crews were briefed on the technical elements of the problem. The early design alternators were supposed to shut down automatically when over-speed conditions arose, as when the airflow regulating valves allowed too much high pressure engine bleed air into the alternator turbines. Unfortunately, on some recent flights the regulator valves failed to close and the bleed air kept coming into the turbines, driving them faster and faster.

Eventually the turbines or other alternator parts simply failed, shattering and throwing material everywhere. One of those places happened to be the fuel tank immediately above the alternator. Bad news. Planes were destroyed and crews were lost or injured.

Officials briefed us on the situation and we were told to be alert for unusual electrical system problems while on one of our early training flights. We were told that the probabilities were very low that we would experience difficulties, but that was only of minimal reassurance. We were still nervous. No, we were downright fearful. At least the navigators and the electronic warfare officer (EWO) were. Maybe the pilots didn't seem so apprehensive (or wouldn't admit it ).

Three hundred miles off the California coast on a routine daytime navigation mission, we were just about to alter course for a practice bombing run with a turn east toward San Francisco, when it happened. It was a loud screeching noise that seemed to shake the whole forward crew compartment.

"What was that?", our navigator blurted over the interphone. He was the only one who vocalized what we all felt, but the five of us up front surely knew something not good had just happened. The sound was loud, penetrating, and really got our attention. We just knew it had to be alternator-related.

The co-pilot calmly told us that the right forward alternator had come off line. His cockpit instruments showed that it was no longer powering the main bus. The rest of the crew sat silent. Nobody said a word for several seconds, though it seemed longer.

"The other alternators are okay. Power on the bus is coming from the remaining alternators," the co-pilot added. "We appear to have lost one though."

"Nav, you better go back and take a look," the pilot suggested. He wanted the navigator on the lower deck to get out of his seat and move toward the hatch leading to the forward wheelwell and the bomb bay. A window in that small door would let him see into the equipment area where the alternators were. "Nav? Did you hear me? Go check those alternators."

A pause and the lack of the navigator's response was deafening. Soon the radar operator, sitting just to the left of the navigator responded. "I'll go, pilot. The Nav is a little shook up."

The radar operator put the pins into the proper slots to safety his downward ejection seat, then unbuckled his lap belt and harness, before easing out of his seat and moving toward the starboard side, in the galley area. He carried a flashlight and pointed it through the small window of the hatch, allowing him to look aft into the equipment bay.

He connected his interphone cord to the adjacent galley area jack. Then he acknowledged that he was looking through the window. "Don't see much, pilot," he reported. "There's no fire or any sign of an explosion. Wait a second. It does look like there's a little smoke back there. It's hard to tell."

"Okay, Radar. Look carefully to your right and up a bit," the pilot urged. "Do you see anything out of the ordinary?"

"Nope. Just a little smoke, and I'm not sure where it's comin' from."

"Nav. Give me a heading straight back to Castle," the pilot quickly ordered.

By then the navigator had settled down a bit and responded, "Have it for you in a second, pilot." Then in less than two minutes he called, "Heading one-two-five to Castle." And a few seconds later he gave the pilot an estimated arrival time.

We were back on the ground at Castle Air Force Base in about an hour, greeted by an armada of fire trucks with flashing lights and two ambulances. The blue station wagon of the squadron commander greeted us too.

We were instructed to park the plane just off the main runway and not to taxi all the way to the parking ramp. The pilot set the brakes and began to shut down systems and the six engines. He did it in record time and then said, "Crew, let's evacuate the airplane. Now!" That command was really not necessary, for we intended doing just that.

The navigator's hatch opened, exposing the short ladder for crewmembers to scamper down to the ramp below. The co-pilot was quickly followed by the radar operator and then by me, the EWO. We all expected the navigator to be the first one out of the airplane, but he didn't come for what seemed an eternity.

Then the pilot come down the ladder, followed slowly by the navigator. The fire department urged us to get back away from the plane, for they too observed light smoke coming from the forward wheelwell and the alternator area. But the navigator wasn't moving very well. He walked awkwardly.

The pilot began laughing, despite what could have been disastrous. He watched his navigator and soon laughed uncontrollably. Something about the navigator was not right.

"What's so funny?" the co-pilot asked. "It sure can't be that we missed being blown to bits by a failed alternator."

"He crapped in his pants," the pilot said, haltingly and with some difficulty because he was laughing so hard. "He's okay, except for that."

The fire department told us that the alternator had indeed failed, but we were lucky that THIS time the regulator valve shut it down before it disintegrated. That was our fourth flight in the new B-52's. It was quite an introduction to the StratoFortress, and one that our navigator would probably never forget.