An RB-47H electronic reconnaissance aircraft of the 55th SRW at Yokota Air Base, Japan, 1967. I got my last fight in #4302 in May 1967, flying offshore along the Russian coastline out of Yokota Air Base over the Sea of Japan and the Sea of Okhotsk.
On July 5, 1952, the Air Staff directed the Strategic Air Command to modify two B-47 bombers for special photo reconnaissance missions if so requested by the National Command Authority, the president. That August, President Truman approved a second overflight scenario reaching from Ambarchik to Provideniya. SAC then gave direction to deploy the two modified B-47s to Eielson Air Force Base, near Fairbanks, Alaska. The B-47 at that point in time was the most sophisticated aircraft of its day, both as a nuclear bomber and as a photo/electronic surveillance aircraft.40
The KC-97 aerial refueling tanker was incompatible with the B-47 jet it frequently refueled. The aircrews made it work. Once the KC-135 jet tanker replaced the KC-97, it was a match made in heaven.
The year 1952 must have driven the Russian military crazy and sowed serious doubt in the competence of its air defense commanders. On April 17 of that year, three RB-45C reconnaissance aircraft penetrated deeply into the European part of the Soviet Union—and returned home without ever being seriously challenged by either ground or air defenses. Then, that September, a lone RB-50 overflew Franz Josef Land in the high Arctic, and that October, not known to the Soviets of course, two RB-47B bombers, the most modern aircraft yet fielded by their adversary, the United States of America, were going to overfly eastern Siberia, right across the Bering Strait from Alaska. Recalls Colonel Donald E. Hillman, “In 1952 I was the vice commander of the 306th Bomb Wing at MacDill Air Force Base, Florida, the only B-47 equipped wing at the time. In late July or early August, Major General Frank Armstrong, 6th Air Division commander, also based at MacDill, asked me to accompany him to SAC headquarters at Offutt Air Force Base in Omaha, Nebraska. There, the commander of SAC, General Curtis E. LeMay, briefed us personally. Intelligence reports from several sources, he said, indicated that the USSR was constructing a number of air bases in Siberia from which attacks against the United States could be staged. In the interest of national security, LeMay said, it was deemed necessary to verify these reports with aerial photography, if possible. I was to lead a flight of two B-47Bs over the Soviet territory in question. The mission itself was identified only as Project 52 AFR-18. Assigned the highest security classification, only a very small circle of LeMay’s staff knew about it. The project called for two B-47Bs to stage out of Eielson Air Force Base in Alaska. Back at MacDill, I began planning details for the flight, spending long hours in my office behind locked doors. Two B-47Bs had been modified with special radar and photographic cameras installed in the bomb bay. My copilot, Major Lester Gunter, recalled at the time that all B-47s had been grounded because of a number of fatal accidents. But we were directed to continue training, underscoring the urgency of the mission. Two KC-97 tankers from the 36th Air Refueling Squadron were designated to transport men and equipment to Eielson and to refuel our two B-47s just as we left Alaskan territory on the outbound leg of the mission.
A MiG-15 fighter on display at the New England Air Museum, Hartford, Connecticut. A stubby little fighter with lots of design flaws, nevertheless it was a terrible adversary for American conventionally powered reconnaissance aircraft such as the RB-29/RB-50.
“The four mission aircraft, two B-47s and two KC-97s, departed MacDill on September 21, 1952, and we flew our first leg as far as Rapid City, South Dakota. There, we conducted some additional training flights. The B-47 was still a novelty, and for that reason, the wing commander at Rapid City Air Force Base, Brigadier General Richard E. Ellsworth (Rapid City Air Force Base would in time be named after General Ellsworth) asked for a ride on one of our local training flights. We strapped him into the copilot’s seat, and my copilot, Ed Gunter, rode in the aisle. We started down the runway, gathering speed. I glanced down at the instruments and saw to my horror that the flaps were fully retracted. Somehow, we had missed that vital check. Without flaps, we would not get off the ground, and it would all end in a disastrous fireball when we ran off the end of the runway at 200 knots. A ground abort was no longer feasible. I pulled down the flap handle and watched the flap indicator creep slowly downward. Somehow, we made it, but I was looking at grass when our B-47 reached flying speed. Almost every military pilot experiences a close call of one sort or another in his flying career—I never forgot that one. Project 52 AFR-18, and the lives of its primary crew, nearly ended in Rapid City, South Dakota.
“On Sunday, September 28, 1952,” recalled Colonel Hillman, “we flew our B-47Bs from Rapid City to Eielson Air Force Base. Clear weather now became the determining factor for mission launch, for only these conditions would ensure the success of visual photography. Mine was designated as the primary aircraft, and Colonel Patrick D. Fleming was the pilot of the backup aircraft. The handpicked aircrew consisted of Majors Ed Gunters, flying as my copilot, and Edward ‘Shakey’ Timmins as my navigator. Colonel Fleming’s copilot was Major Lloyd ‘Shorty’ Fields, and Major William ‘Red’ Reilly was his navigator. The mission we were to fly would stage out of Eielson, flying in a northwesterly direction. Then we were to refuel from one of our KC-97 refueling tankers before leaving the Alaskan Arctic. We would then fly westward off the north coast of Wrangel Island to the East Siberian Sea. There, the second aircraft would turn back and overfly and photograph Wrangel Island, then orbit in a racetrack pattern over the Chukchi Sea and serve as a communication relay. My aircraft would swing to the southwest until we made landfall in northern Siberia between Ambarchik and Stanovaya, turn due south for a while, then swing east toward the Bering Strait, flying a zigzag pattern that would take me over several air bases. I would finally exit Soviet territory over the Chukotskiy Peninsula and turn northeast for the run home to Fairbanks, Alaska. Air Force Intelligence had briefed us that we could expect reaction from a MiG-15 regiment stationed in the overflight area and possible antiaircraft fire. Our defenses relied on surprise, our aircraft’s speed and high altitude, electronic countermeasures, and the 20mm cannons installed in the tail of our B-47s.
“Finally, on the evening of October 14, weather forecasts called for favorable weather, and we got the thumbs up from General Armstrong for the next day. Armstrong had the authority to approve or deny the start of the mission based on weather predictions. On Wednesday morning, October 15, after sunrise, Project 52 AFR-18 began with the departure of the two KC-97 refueling tankers. One hour later, Pat Fleming and I followed them into the air in our B-47s. We refueled over Point Barrow, Alaska, and took on full loads of fuel. We proceeded with the mission as briefed. Fleming returned to the Chukchi Sea and took up a racetrack pattern as the mission backup aircraft. I turned southwest toward the Soviet coast. We made landfall close to noon, swung south for a short period, then turned east and flew back toward Alaska—through the heart of Siberia. In this fashion, we hoped to disguise our presence and appear to Soviet ground controllers as if we were a friendly, though unidentified, aircraft approaching from the western USSR. The weather, which had been clear throughout the flight, changed as we crossed the coast into Siberia. We turned on the cameras. Beneath us, scattered clouds appeared, and occasional ground haze obscured photography.
October 15, 1952, B-47B overflight routes. Colonel Donald Hillman, pilot; Major Lester Gunter, copilot; and Major Edward Timmins, radar navigator of the primary aircraft. Colonel Patrick Fleming was the pilot of the backup aircraft; his copilot was Major Lloyd Fields, and the radar navigator was Major William Reilly.
“By now, we had burned off enough fuel to climb above 40,000 feet at about 480 knots true. We had finished covering two of our five targets, taking radar and visual photography, when warning receivers aboard our aircraft indicated that we were being tracked. I advised Ed Gunter, my copilot, to get our 20mm tail guns ready in case we encountered MiG-15s, which we knew were stationed in the area. Soon Ed advised me that he had MiG-15s in
sight, climbing desperately to intercept us. I broke radio silence and notified Pat Fleming, still orbiting over the Chukchi Sea, of our position and situation. Gunter kept his eyes on the Russian fighters, but they had scrambled too late and couldn’t make it up to our altitude. However, there were other MiG-15 bases ahead of us, and we still had to overfly Provideniya, the MiG regimental headquarters. We completed photographing the three remaining targets without encountering any more MiGs. We continued east, coasting out of Russian territory over the Chukotskiy Peninsula, landing at Eielson Air Force Base well after dark. Pat Fleming’s aircraft came in a few minutes later. The mission lasted for over seven hours, flying 3,500 miles, 800 of which was over Russian territory. Immediately after landing, technicians took our film for development and shipment to Washington. As for the Russians—we later learned that the regional commander had been sacked, and that a second regiment of MiG fighters was to be moved into the area. We returned to the warmer climate of MacDill Air Force Base, Florida, the next day. Until the records were declassified some forty years later, we remained under restrictions which prevented us from discussing any aspect of this most secret mission.”
A MiG-17 making too close a pass on an RB-47H electronic reconnaissance aircraft of the 55th SRW. It is indeed a miracle that no midair collisions occurred.
Colonel Patrick D. Fleming, the handpicked pilot to participate in Project 52 AFR-18, was no ordinary American airman. A 1941 graduate of the US Naval Academy, he served as a naval aviator during World War II in the Pacific aboard the USS Ticonderoga and the USS Hancock, downing a total of nineteen Japanese aircraft. After first serving as a test pilot at NAS Patuxent River, he then resigned his commission and joined the Army Air Forces in September 1947, just days before the establishment of the US Air Force. Colonel Fleming continued his service as a test pilot at Wright-Patterson and Edwards Air Force Bases, with subsequent assignment to the first B-47 bomb wing at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, which led to his call to participate in Project 52 AFR-18. While serving as deputy commander of the 98th Bomb Wing at Castle Air Force Base, California, the first wing flying the B-52, he died on a mundane training mission. Fire damaged his parachute, which failed to open properly. It was the first Stratofortress crash, on February 16, 1956. Colonel Fleming, age thirty-eight, was the holder of the Navy Cross, the second-highest military award for valor, the Silver Star, and the Distinguished Flying Cross. He was an airman’s airman and a great loss to the nation.
CHALLENGING THE RUSSIAN BEAR (1954)
“When I saw the flashes of fire from the nose of the fighters,” recalled Captain Carl Holt, “I knew it would not be a ‘milk run.’ I had trouble to get the tail guns to fire and since I was in a reverse seat position I could not eject in case of a direct hit. Also, the radar firing screen would not work so I felt a little like Wyatt Earp, looking out the back end of the canopy and firing at will.”
—Mark Natola, Boeing B-47 Stratojet
The year 1953 was one of those Cold War years that challenged both the American and the Soviet political systems. Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man who had led both the invasion of North Africa and the landing in Normandy, leading Allied troops to the Elbe River to end the war for America in Europe, assumed office that January. Only weeks later, on March 5, Joseph Stalin died, setting off a scramble for his succession among the chosen few. Although the Soviets chose a new premier, Georgy Malenkov, purges and the struggle for succession weren’t over and continued. On May 1, 1954, the Soviets flew what appeared to be one hundred new M-4 Bison and TU-16 Badger strategic jet bombers over Moscow. Western observers were stunned, and in Washington the debate led to what would become the so-called bomber gap. In retrospect, it is hard to believe that such a gap could exist in the minds of Washington politicians and senior military officers. The Strategic Air Command in 1954 fielded 795 of its awesome new B-47 nuclear bombers, and production for hundreds more was in full swing. Yet in Washington the bomber gap appeared real, and soon, General Curtis E. LeMay, the cigar-chomping commander of SAC, had to find out what was really going on. Where were these phantom bombers, if they were aimed at the United States, most likely they would be based somewhere on or near the Kola Peninsula and northern Siberia. The only way to be sure was to overfly the place and see what showed up.
On March 21, 1946, the Strategic Air Command was established under the command of General George C. Kenney, with its headquarters at Bolling Field on the Potomac River. That October, the command relocated to Andrews Field in Maryland, to occupy more spacious quarters. Carl “Tooey” Spaatz, the commanding general of the Army Air Forces, tasked the command to be prepared to conduct long-range offensive operations in any part of the world either independently or in cooperation with land and naval forces; to conduct maximum-range reconnaissance over land or sea; to provide combat units capable of intense and sustained combat operations employing the latest and most advanced weapons; and to maintain and train units and personnel for the maintenance of strategic forces in all parts of the world. SAC was a mishmash of bomber, fighter, and transport groups in a deplorable state of readiness when Lieutenant General Curtis E. LeMay took over in October 1948, leaving his post as CinC USAFE at the beginning of the Berlin airlift. Almost immediately after his arrival, LeMay ran a maximum simulated bombing effort against Wright-Patterson Air Force Base near Dayton, Ohio, with the small bomber force then at his disposal. He wanted to see how bad it really was. “Not one airplane finished that mission as briefed. Not one.” Not only that, during an inspection of a SAC mess, LeMay found low quality even there. “Let any reader think of the many bad messes he must have encountered during World War II, and apply that to SAC in 1948–49, and he’ll know what is meant. The s-on-s was there alright, and it wasn’t even good s-on-s. Steaks obviously came from the nearest shoe repair shop; potatoes had been cooked in the laundry; the spaghetti and macaroni might have interested an entomologist or a herpetologist, but not any hungry customers.”41
By the time General LeMay moved to the Pentagon in 1957, SAC had been turned into an air force within an air force and was the envy of those who were not part of it. He built SAC in the image of the 8th Air Force, where he had first earned his spurs, but it was many times more lethal than the old 8th. I recall when I first joined the Strategic Air Command, I was issued all the flying gear that I needed to do my job. Within just a little over three years of active service, just getting used to being a first lieutenant, I received a spot promotion, temporary obviously, to captain, for being on a Select aircrew. Every six months we had to be recertified as Select or lose our promotions to someone better than us. Flying reconnaissance out of Eielson Air Force Base in Alaska, I ate in a mess hall that had a SAC section to it. When I went into the mess for the first time, I lined up in the regular section—I was in my flight gear getting ready for a mission. A cook said to me, “Sir, you are a SAC crew member, correct?” I said, “Yes.” He responded, “We serve you SAC guys over on the other side,” pointing to a section that had a sign saying “SAC Crews Only.” I could order nearly anything I wanted—T-bone steak cooked the way I wanted it. In return, I spent more time away from home while flying with the 55th SRW than I spent at my home base. And when I was home I spent little time with my family, completing a seemingly endless series of training missions and ground-training assignments. In LeMay’s air force you either cut the mustard or you got thrown out—to wing commanders that fate frequently happened sooner than they ever thought possible. At its peak in the late 1950s and early 1960s, SAC was a force of nearly two thousand B-47, B-52, and B-58 jet bombers, supported by a large fleet of KC-97 and KC-135 tankers, the latter being a jet aircraft and totally compatible with the bombers it refueled. The refueling tankers allowed the bombers to strike anywhere in the world.
In late 1949, after flying the Berlin airlift, Colonel Harold R. “Hal” Austin, then a captain, was assigned to the 324th SRS of the 91st SRW at Barksdale Air Force Base, Louisiana. In the summer of 1950, Hal was selected to trans
ition into the RB-45C reconnaissance aircraft. He picked up a brand-new aircraft from the factory in Long Beach, California, and began the task of learning to fly a jet airplane. Hal Austin had no checklist, no technical data, and no company technical representative with pilot qualifications who could answer his many questions. “Every one of us,” Hal recalled when I interviewed him, “had to try and see how high we could get in the airplane—49,500 feet is the highest I got. The day I got up to 49,500 feet, when I pulled the power back, the airplane hardly slowed down. It had no speed brakes. I pushed the nose down, which put me in a high-speed buffet, and of course when I pulled back I was in a stall. I was right between buffet and stall as I tried to get down—that’s how we discovered ‘coffin corner.’ It took me thirty minutes to get down to 40,000 feet.
“The RB-45C was powered by the early model J-47 engine, which in later years proved to be quite reliable on the B-47. But that engine was less than reliable when we were flying it in early 1951. The engine had to be pulled every twenty-five hours of flying time for a complete overhaul. The cockpit of the RB-45C was laid out like that on a fighter aircraft. The visibility was excellent. The air-refueling receptacle was behind the canopy, so the airplane ended up right under the tanker and didn’t feel the prop wash as much as one did in the newer B-47, with its receptacle in front of the canopy. By 1952, we had resolved most of our engine problems. We didn’t fix them, mind you, we just learned how to manage the engines. All that aside, it was a great pilot’s airplane.”
Silent Warriors, Incredible Courage Page 17