The B-36 Peacemaker Mechanic
In response to the U.S. Army Air Force’s need for a strategic bomber with intercontinental range, 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,” the B-36, as the largest fighter aircraft ever built, served a crucial nuclear deterrent role as part of SAC. Her father Neal was responsible for maintaining the plane, even during flight. In fact, much attention was paid to the fact that the B-36’s wing was deep enough to allow engineers to step inside and service the engines in flight.
Neal felt honored to be chosen to fly the Peacemaker, but the assignment was no easy feat! His typical route was called a “milk run,” with minimal enemy resistance expected. After gassing in Rapid City, the team flew to Maine. If all systems were functioning properly, the plane would fly a rough circle from Newfoundland to Greenland, through Norway and Sweden, past Russia and North Africa, and then back across the Atlantic. Half the time, Neal didn’t even know where they were!
These simulated bomb explosions lasted fourteen to forty hours, an average of thirty-two hours per week. Neal exclaimed that even after overcoming his initial fear of flying and flying for several months, the tense first hours in the air still “scared the hair off your teeth!” Despite his excellent care of the aircraft, inherent system failures could have brought her down, not to mention the Soviet MiGs hovering below.
A nerve-wracking sound
The sound of the bomber alone was unnerving. A distinctive undulating drone, created by her engines revving at full speed, ripped through his lungs and stomach. He felt the reverberation throughout his body long after he had returned to the ground. It was so loud that Neal could hear nothing else, and his ears rang for hours after a flight. People on the ground knew she was approaching from ten miles away, and their houses and windows rattled wildly to announce her arrival.
The pounding vibrations of the plane felt and sounded like they were going to tear the fuselage apart. Indeed, it looked like they would: Neal could see the light of day as the ‘skin’ and ‘ribs’ were pulled apart and then pushed back together like an accordion playing. After each flight, sheet metal workers spent hours repairing the ‘skin’ and tightening the rivets that had come loose.
The constant tension; gas fumes; lack of food, sleep, and nicotine; and three days of intense airplane convulsions forced Neal and his friends to vomit violently on the tarmac shortly after landing. He hated the shorter weekend flights, which gave the crews only three or four hours on the ground to refuel and acclimatize. To keep the engines from freezing, the men had to jump back into the blue water before their stomachs could settle.
F-1 electrically heated suit
Even after spending many freezing winters in Minnesota as a child, playing in the snow for hours on end in a light jacket and wet mittens, Neal was unprepared for the bitter cold of the stratosphere. It could be twenty to thirty degrees below zero in some parts of the plane where he worked. By contrast, the bunk in the rear compartment could be ninety degrees above and twenty degrees below, making it impossible to sleep on either level. It was so uncomfortable that Neal barely slept in the bunk—he napped or read wherever he could, sitting or even standing.
Neal was equipped with an electrically heated F-1 suit that was plugged into the plane. Unfortunately, it hardly prevented anyone from freezing to death. He wore gloves, boots, an oxygen mask, a heated high-altitude flight helmet with earmuffs and a headset to stay in touch with the cockpit. Most importantly, he wore a parachute and a “Mae West” on his chest (a life jacket named after the curvaceous, daring actress of Vaudeville, theater and film).
A small galley had two mini stoves, but there was rarely time or motivation to cook anything. Typical meals consisted of sandwiches in self-heating packages or C or K rations. The rations usually include some type of meat (Spam anyone?), powdered eggs, cheese and crackers, canned purple plums, chocolate bars, instant coffee and gum (plus toilet paper and cigarettes).
The use of toilet paper was especially problematic. It was often too cold to use the ‘head’, so you could either wear a diaper, which Neal adamantly refused, or use a ‘urethra’ that emptied into a plastic bag. Neal admitted that he was too scared during the flights to try to eliminate anything else!
The tunnel
He couldn’t use cigarettes either, since smoking with the gas and fumes floating around in the air was strictly forbidden. Neal had been a heavy smoker since his teens, and the nicotine withdrawal he experienced every time he flew was debilitating.
The first day in the air without cigarettes made him anxious, restless, dizzy and irritable and gave him severe headaches. The second day resulted in insomnia, difficulty concentrating and a drop in blood sugar levels, causing sudden hunger and cravings for sweets and carbohydrates. Unfortunately, the Air Force’s pathetic snacks didn’t quite satisfy him. On the third day the withdrawal symptoms were at their peak. Just when he couldn’t hold on for a second longer, he hungrily grabbed a saved cigarette from his pocket and inhaled deeply – after landing and regurgitating.
On these flights, Neal started at the front of the plane for a briefing with the bombardier, who was responsible for directing aerial bombs. He then spoke with the navigator, who controlled the plane using radar, charts, and maps. He then moved to the rear area, which was accessed through a pressurized tunnel called the “train.” The tunnel, about a foot in diameter and about sixty feet long, ran along the fuselage and through the bomb bay. Neal brought his parachute to his chest and then lay on his back on a flat sled attached to a monorail. Grabbing hold of an overhead wire, he laboriously pulled himself hand over hand through the tunnel, no easy task while carrying all of his bulky equipment.
B-36 mechanic critical task: keeping the engines cool and the carburetors warm
Sometimes the pilots had a little fun with the rear crew; by pointing the nose of the plane slightly downwards, the men groaned and had to work even harder to maneuver through the tunnel. When they held their noses up, the cries of the crew members as they hurtled backwards at breakneck speed were good for laughs.
Neal’s first task was to climb into the wings of the plane to work on the engines during flight. The enormous wings were more than two meters thick at the root (where they attached to the fuselage) and tapered towards the tips. While securely strapped in, Neal was able to check the fuel tanks and landing gear, observe the engines with an analyzer, check the intercooler settings and landing gear movements, and reset blown circuit breakers on the electrical panel.
A crucial task was keeping the engines cool and the carburetors warm. The stainless steel firewalls surrounding the engines occasionally cracked, causing the cylinders to overheat and starting a fire. The aircraft’s body was made of a highly flammable metal, magnesium, creating a dangerous combination. Three B-36s were lost to fires in flight; one even had an atomic bomb on board that fortunately had not yet been activated.
The least of a B-36 mechanic’s worries
The engines were leaking oil that required constant sweeping and refilling. Sometimes the supply of a 150-gallon engine was insufficient, so it had to be shut down. Neal also completed the dreaded task of replacing hundreds of spark plugs in the engine block. Each of the six engines had 56 spark plugs, and all 336 had to be replaced regularly because the leaded avgas continually fouled them while the aircraft was at cruising speed.
In addition to inhaling the ever-present toxic fumes, Neal often had direct contact with the fuel as he was sprayed through leaks in the injection lines. Additionally, after flexing for several hours, the fuel tanks in the wings released their sealants, causing purple fuel to drip over Neal. Furthermore, as the plane entered a ‘shotgun’ bank and turned quickly and sharply 60 degrees, the gas spewed out, showering Neal with even more toxic liquid. On repeated trips, Neal likely received more than his share of lead and other chemicals. However, such exposure would prove to 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 adult 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, everyday soldiers and airmen who risk their lives to ensure 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 in the B-36 “Peacemaker.” It is available from the author by writing to burtmanlee@gmail.com or Amazon–Waiting in the Wings by Lee Burtman.
Photo credits: Lieutenant Colonel Frank F. Kleinwechter / United States Air Force