Major T.J. Kong (actor Slim Pickens) upon learning that an unexpected “go code” had been received directing the B-52 airborne nuclear alert crew to bomb targets inside the Soviet Union.

Although Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 movie, “Dr. Strangelove”, focused on the MADness of the MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction) strategy of the Cold War, his side story depiction of a 1960s airborne B-52 aircrew bore some resemblance to people I served with many years later while flying B-52s and on bomber ground alert from 1985 to 1989.

Our “toe to toe” experience was limited to being monitored by Soviet satellites. By the late 1980s, the few residual Major Kong types were likely frustrated not only by the diminished probability of attack but also by the effects of a concern that a domestic nuclear accident was the greater threat. Often it seemed we crewmembers posed more of a threat to the immediate concerns of our chain of command than Soviet aggression. In contrast to Kong, the crewmember most relatable 20 years later was Lt. “Goldy” Goldberg (actor Paul Tamarin). His expression of doom as the crew fought their way to the targets looked a bit like many a man just waking up to yet another typical day of bomber alert during the waning years of SAC (Strategic Air Command).

SAC’s nuclear mission did not accept error. Intense management controls sought to ensure this. Crews were rigidly monitored in every imaginable respect. The “Personal Reliability Program” (PRP) was designed to assure the reliability and mental stability of all those entrusted with any aspect of control over the weapons. In practice, having your “PRP pulled” would at a minimum create scheduling havoc. Contrary to consistent reminders to come forward with any issues, career implications created a reluctance to discuss personal problems. Aircrew understood and accepted these disciplines, but for good or not this climate added to the daily wear and tear on morale.

The ground alert came in a three-week cycle for groups of aircrews called a “flight”. It lasted seven days, with the other two weeks devoted to flying training. During the alert, you were restricted to a partially underground facility with some allowances to travel, as a crew, to select parts of the Air Force base. This was allowed only when the Soviet submarine missile threat was at distances adequate for time to respond in the event of an alarm (a “Klaxon”). For the most part, you stayed in the alert facility or the squadron building vaults. In these vaults, we reviewed and were tested (with 100% being the only acceptable score) on the procedures associated with the attack missions on the first two days after assuming alert.

One main diversion was that, in the evenings, crews could go to a family center just beyond the alert facility gates to visit with wives and children. There was no privacy, but this accommodation was important.

Operationally, a typical day of alert began with an hour-long morning briefing followed by at least one trip to the aircraft to inspect weapons and performed tests to ensure systems were working. Maintenance issues could mean a day of sitting in the aircraft. The most exciting part of a typical week-long alert tour was an exercise. A Klaxon would sound alerting crews and maintainers to “scramble.” All would run out to their aircraft, pull plugs out of the engine and air intakes, climb into the aircraft, and start the engines. Ground movements were timed for the benefit of monitoring satellites, lending credibility to our nuclear deterrence capabilities.

I have seen several media depictions of an alert scramble. These invariably show bomber crews enjoying their game of cards or Monopoly or enjoying some other wholesome activity when suddenly interrupted by the Klaxon. The typical narration was something like “these crews do not know if this is an exercise or a real-world emergency!” Based on hints dropped in the morning briefing, however, 10-15 minutes before a Klaxon we would be at the ready in the tunnels leading to the flight line. For their sake and ours, Wing and Squadron leaders took no chances with these exercises. Careers were on the line.

The media depictions of crews playing Monopoly were just as fictional as anyone being caught unaware of an upcoming Klaxon. When not engaged in the operational aspects of maintaining the aircraft and weapons, or the vault study and testing for mission readiness, our days were filled with “one good deal after another” leaving no time for things like Monopoly. Something less laborious but just as tedious as digging trenches was afoot – seemingly endless briefings via overhead projection slides. Combining the added fiction of “the alert crews aren’t doing anything anyway,” with the necessity of providing substance to the “communications” section of every support officer’s annual Office Performance Report, meant no subject too esoteric, boring, or irrelevant could not be approved for briefing.

There was also the once-per-cycle midnight trip to the B-52 simulator adjacent to the squadron building for an 8-hour simulator. A simulator allowed for practice of more features of the actual launch mission as compared to our state-side flying sorties. Despite the loss of a night’s sleep, these simulator sessions provided some valuable training.

1988 was the 30th year of SAC B-52 bomber ground alert, the 24th year since the making of “Dr. Strangelove,” the 20th year since the end of the airborne component of the bomber alert force (following nuclear bomber mishaps in 1966 and 1968), and 15 years since the last B-52 bomber mission over Cambodia. Unknown in 1988 was that in late 1989 the Berlin Wall would come down. In 3 years, the Soviet Union would dissolve, and alert would come to an end. In 4 years, SAC would be dismantled as part of the post-cold war reorganization of the Air Force.

In early 1989, with no options for alternative assignments and not wanting to spend another 10 years sitting alert, I concluded that I had “done my duty” and elected to move on.

I was several years out of the active Air Force and was finishing up law school in the Spring of 1992. One day while awaiting “my turn” at the barbershop I was thumbing through a copy of “Newsweek” and encountered a picture of a former squadron mate. He had authored a “My Turn” column, entitled “Practicing for Armageddon.”* To me he had stretched the drama of nuclear alert and flying the B-52, and his description of B-52 crews as “fiercely proud” drew a chuckle. I thought “fiercely miserable” closer to the mark. But time has proven his assessment as the more accurate. The evidence is in the social media comments of old squadron mates, and thirty years of perspective bringing more clarity in my recollections of the comradery and pride in that mission.

https://www.newsweek.com/practicing-armageddon-196008