by Phil Rowe
Sergeant Ken, our tail gunner, rode facing backwards in the rear of that enormous B-52 StratoFortress, one hundred feet from the rest of the crew in the main cabin. It was not easy being that far back, by himself in the roughest riding part of the airplane taking the brunt of most air turbulence that that big airplane oftentimes made him endure, especially during low level flying. It got so bad that some gunners actually had flight helmets cracked from the abrupt and violent movement back there in the rear compartment.
There were six on the aircrew. Our pilot, Captain Ray, was the aircraft commander. His right hand assistant, the co-pilot, eagerly awaited the day when he would have his own crew. As the ECM officer my seat was on the upper deck eight feet aft of the two pilots. Down on the lower deck the two navigators sat side by side before an array of controls, displays and electrical switches. It always amazed me that the huge B-52 had such small and cramped crew spaces.
SAC aircrew life was one of intense "togetherness", especially when bombers, tankers and their crews went on ground Alert Status. This resulted from the threat of Soviet long range missiles and submarine-based medium range missiles, placing our military airfields just minutes from possible annihilation. Survival of our retaliatory forces meant being able to take off within fifteen minutes of a warning signal.
Togetherness of crews meant emphasized teamwork ... the skillful coordination of people accustomed to working closely together. The watchword was " crew coordination ", a key item on the frequent proficiency evaluations. When Alert duty became the normal mode of operation for aircrews, togetherness took on an added dimension. Aircrews were assigned to Alert duty status for a week at a stretch, and during that time they stayed together as a group day and night. No crewmember was permitted to absent himself from his six-man group for even a few minutes. The joke was often stated that when one crewmember went to the bathroom they all went to the bathroom.
Ken had been in bombers for years and served with Captain Ray in B-50's and B-36's before coming to the B-52. They knew each other well. Both had spent a greater part of their careers in the same unit and indeed at the same base. Ken had been stationed there nearly seventeen of his nineteen years in the Air Force. He lived off-base and had been there so long that he almost paid off his home mortgage. He owned a sideline enterprise which supplemented his military pay, a small used car lot in Spokane which he attended after hours and on weekends. His wife (Ruby) helped with the business and was his best friend and full time companion. They had no children.
They had no human children, but Ken's family did include a hunting dog that he and Ruby adored. Knobby was a fine specimen of the Weimaraner breed, an outstanding bird dog. Ken appreciated the special qualities and abilities of the breed, being convinced that owning Wiemaraners was like owning valuable art objects or jewels. These were dogs worth having and more than one was even better. Ken would do almost anything to own the finest specimen of the breed.
Ken often brought Knobby to work with him. After morning Roll Call at 0730 hours each duty day, when not scheduled for training, Ken would take Knobby across the runways for some bird hunting. Seldom did Ken come to work unprepared to hunt for the ringed-neck pheasant or Hungarian partridge on the fringes of the airfield. Outside the fences large wheat fields offered feed for the birds. Washington State was famous for its bird hunting and the air base was one of the best places.
The only birds that baffled Knobby were Hungarian partridge, wily and elusive critters. They often will not fly when threatened by approaching hunters or their dogs but will outrun their pursuers. On days when the fields were wet with recent rains they squat still and not move until nearly stepped upon by interlopers. Then they explode into flight, dozens of them bursting into the air in all directions. Such behavior is unsettling to dog and man for the bird's sudden rise from hiding places is noisy and instantaneous. I've seen hunters startled by this explosion of birds so that not one was hit as the shotgun was emptied. Ken was a true lover of those beautiful hunting dogs and took every opportunity to take his Knobby into the fields.
We drove radio-equipped Alert vehicles around the base staying in those areas where constant communication with the Command Post was possible. We went from the Alert Barracks to the flight simulator building. Crews could also visit the Base Exchange (BX) store and snack bar because that building was equipped with a claxon horn controlled by the Command Post, the air base's nerve center always in touch with Headquarters SAC. The claxon would send crews racing to their Alert airplanes.
Visits to the Base Exchange while on Alert duty were occasions to meet family members for a few moments. And since all crewmembers were necessarily there together it was also a chance for several families to meet and chat.
One day we were at the BX to get something for our pilot. The whole crew had to go along. Our gunner chose to wait beside a bulletin board near the doorway to look over the For Sale notices posted there. One notice instantly caught his eye. In fact Ken was amazed by one card and could hardly believe what it said.
FOR SALE : Five Purebred Weimaraner Pups
Six weeks old, fine hunting stock. $50 each.
Call 833-5500 after 5:00PM.
After completing his purchases Captain Ray suggested that it was time to go and we all headed for the door... all of us, that is, except Ken. He was taking that card down from the bulletin board and stuffing it in his pocket. "Come on, Ken" said our pilot, "We've got to get back to the Alert Barracks". But Ken paused and asked "Can you give me a minute? I've got to make an important telephone call. These dogs are a real bargain ... a steal at just fifty dollars!!"
Ray insisted that we had to leave now. "You can call from the Alert Barracks", motioning for us to leave. Reluctantly Ken came along. As we rode towards the Alert barracks Ken tried to impress upon us how important it was for him to call that telephone number. He could not let those dogs slip away from him. Oh, what a horrible time to be stuck on Alert.
In the Alert barracks Ken ran to the telephones to call right away, not daring to wait until five o'clock. But all the phones were being used. Soon Ray called to him saying, "Come on Ken, We've got to top off the fuel tanks", waving his arm in a sweeping gesture. In frustration Ken looked back at the six telephones. "Oh all right I'm coming, but just as soon as we get back I've gotta make that call or it could be too late."
After getting back to the Alert barracks Ken again made a dash to the telephones. He placed a quick call to the number listed on the card. No answer. "Damn .. damn, damn", he muttered as he slammed the receiver. Ray came down the hallway and overheard Ken's vented frustration. "The card said to call AFTER five", Ray reminded Ken. "Okay ... all right. I'll call later ... after five", Ken reluctantly responded.
Later as we headed for the mess hall for our supper, Ken noted the five o'clock hour and headed for the phones. We all sat down and were about to eat when Ken joined us. His face reflected consternation, for he told us that he'd gotten no answer. Five times that evening Ken made repeated calls. Five times he kept getting no answer ... and by now he was becoming very frustrated. He was sure that if he didn't get through soon it would be too late.
Next morning Ken tried several more times. Still he got no answer. He could just imagine those dogs slipping away. It nearly drove him nuts. Around 10:30 our navigator asked if we could go over to the BX so that he could meet his wife. She would bring some things he needed and meet us there. We agreed and proceeded once more across the base. Bob's wife and little boy were waiting as we backed the Alert vehicle into the reserved parking space by the front door.
The crew followed Bob and his family inside, all but Ken who paused at the entry area looking anxiously at the bulletin board once again. Soon he joined us waving another card as he reached the table where we had gathered for coffee. "Look at this. Will you just look at this", he said excitedly. "This new card says that there are just three pups left." And look here .. that phone number is different. No wonder I couldn't get ahold of the seller."
Ray leaned over and looked at the card and noted "Well at least there's an address listed now. Look there at the bottom. It says 5500 Price Road. That's up on the north side of Spokane, isn't it?". Our navigator chimed in saying .. " Yeah, that's way out there beyond the aluminum plant, I think."
Ken was sipping his cup of coffee while trying to figure out how he was going to get those dogs ... before they were all gone. He jumped up from the table and said "I'm going to make a call to Ruby. She'll just have to go out and buy the dogs for me. I'll be up at the front entrance making the call." Ken disappeared across the snack bar towards the pay telephone at the front door.
About five minutes later he reappeared at the table. "What's the matter with that woman?", he moaned as he sat down with the rest of the crew. "Why can't she drive out there NOW... and at least look at the dogs ... and make a deposit or something?" Ken explained that Ruby told him she didn't have enough money to buy the dogs ... for Ken had the checkbook with him. There was no way she could buy those dogs. Ken's frustration was almost overwhelming. What was he going to do? He was really steamed about the whole thing and becoming quite unpleasant.
Saturday evening he called Ruby again trying to impress upon her the utmost importance of getting those last three dogs before someone else did. He even suggested that she call Ray's wife to borrow the money (the two wives were close friends). Ruby said she couldn't do that. It wouldn't be right.
Ken decided he would call Ray's wife himself to try to convince her of the importance of getting those dogs. He asked her to please, please get Ruby tomorrow (Sunday) and drive out to Price Road . She reluctantly agreed, saying that she would pick up Ruby after church and go out there around mid-day. Ken sighed in relief and quickly called Ruby back to explain the plan. Ruby was upset and said that Ken shouldn't have done such a thing but she agreed to go with Ray's wife the next day.
Sunday morning came and went. By 2:00 PM Ken tried to call Ruby to see if she'd been out to get the dogs yet. Ruby did not answer. At 2:30 and again at three o'clock Ken called her. It was not until five o'clock that afternoon that he finally got an answer. "Well, did you get those dogs? How many were left ?", he excitedly asked.
Ray happened by the telephones just in time to overhear Ken dejectedly say "You what? You didn't get there ? Why not ?" Apparently Ruby had explained to Ken that they had spent the afternoon stranded along the roadside with a flat tire. The car had to be towed to a gas station and it took hours for them to get the tire replaced. She was sorry, but after all that she couldn't insist that Ray's wife go way out to Price Road. Ken was really fuming and banged his hand on the wall beside the pay phone.
Monday afternoon Ken insisted on going to the BX once more. He had to see if there was any change in that notice about the dogs. By 3:00 o'clock , the soonest that the schedule permitted them to get away, the crew once again parked in front of the BX. Ken made a hasty dash for the bulletin board only to see that someone had marked in red crayon the words "Just One Left" across the card. Ken was a nervous wreck. He could just feel opportunity slipping away from him. He was now sure that there was no way in the world that he could that last Weimaraner pup. Of all the weeks to be stuck on Alert.
When the crew got back to the Alert barracks that afternoon, Ken was really dejected and discouraged. He was also furious with the it all. "If we weren't stuck here I could have gone out there myself and gotten all of those dogs", he moaned.
At dinner that evening Ray said something that began to get Ken thinking that much was fishy about the situation. Ray said to his copilot that the more he thought about those dogs the surer he was that those were Sam Carlson's dogs. "You remember", he said. "Carlson was the fellow that won those field trials last year. Yeah .. those were champions. I wonder why in the world he let them go for only fifty dollars?". Ken overheard the conversation and realized something was very suspicious about this.
Nothing more was said about the dogs for the next couple of days. The crew began to feel that Ken had resign himself to never getting even the last of the dogs. Ray waited until Thursday morning, the day that the crew would get off alert, to bring up the subject of the dogs. He asked Ken, almost casually, if going out to Price Road was still the first thing he would do. But there was something in the way Ray asked the question, an almost too inquisitive way he pressed the subject. Ken was now convinced that he was the victim of a big conspiracy.
"YOU, YOU ... you are the one!!", Ken shouted. "All of this was your doing." Then he pointed to the rest of the crew accusingly. "What in the hell are you talking about?", our navigator exclaimed. "Nobody has done anything. "
Ray could not contain his delight any longer. He began to laugh uncontrollably. The jig was up. Ray had been the culprit all along. The rest of the crew had not been a party to the elaborate joke. "I'll get you ... I'll get you for this", Ken shouted. "You just wait and see."
Ken was indeed true to his word, for that next Saturday morning as Ray was stepped out in his front yard to retrieve the newspaper he got quite a surprise. There in his driveway was a big truck ... its load tilted up and about to be dumped. Before Ray could get to the driver to stop him that entire truck load of seasoned manure was sliding down onto the ground in a neat pile. Ray ran over to the driver and excitedly yelled "What in the blue blazes do you think you're doing ?" It was too late. The truck was empty.
Down the street Ken was watching from his car. He was having his revenge ... and it felt good. It was worth every cent of that ten dollars for delivered manure. He had told the driver where and when to dump the load ... and of course he gave Captain Ray's address.
This was just one of many practical jokes that SAC's finest aircrewmen played on each other.