Bomber Blues Skies Just Aren’t Same Without B-52s

Ever since the last B-52 was moved out of Fairchild two years ago, the skies of Spokane have been unnaturally silent.

Some people say good riddance. Who misses those thundering steel monsters that interrupted conversations, shook the windows of our houses, and awoke us during midnight training flights?

But for myself and others, we lost more than a loud plane. We lost something that was a part of us. Something taken for granted and unappreciated until it was gone.

You see, those B-52s were more than engines, wings and bolts. They were beyond the lackluster description, strategic bomber. They were oracles of power! Roaring and thundering past like man-made electrical storms, they gave strength by the mere display of it.

Though vessels of great power by themselves, they also were a symbol of the strength and dominance of the American military, a force feared and respected around the world. And somehow, just by watching those planes, I could connect to the energy and power they represented. In an inexplicable, mysterious way, I could feed off of it and make myself more dominant and tougher.

The basis of my power enhancement was nothing more than size and noise. Their earth-shaking roar and sheer immensity impressed me beyond words. How something so huge, flying so slowly, could stay airborne was a scientific wonder. The engines’ dirty, black exhaust, so thick it blotted out the sun, was like perfume to me. When it drifted down, I sucked it in and coated my lungs with its sweetness.

Every time they passed overhead, I watched enraptured. The hundredth time was as thrilling as the first. My biorhythms resonated perfectly with their roar. And my involuntary response was a reflection of deep meaning. I thrust my chest outward and clenched my hands into fists. I gritted my teeth and took an alert, warrior-like stance. Power and maleness exuded from my being like batter oozing from an over-filled waffle iron. I felt the power of the stratofortress.

One afternoon, a few softball buddies and I were in the back yard barbecuing. Without warning, a dull roar began to build. From the peak of the roof, a B-52 appeared, cruising low and loud. We looked up, entranced and mystified. What happened next couldn’t be stopped. We shouted and screamed at the sky. We pumped our fists into the air. We jumped and bounced in wild, primordial dancing.

That evening, my buddies and I all got extra base hits or home runs in our softball game. We won, 16-2.

Another time I was swinging a sledgehammer and barely making a crack in my foundation where I wanted to put in a window. A B-52 roared overhead and my tired, aching muscles were instantly reenergized. I felt a surge of power ripple through my veins. I tossed the hammer aside, reared back, and threw a punch at the foundation. The concrete shattered, then buckled, forming a hole that matched perfectly the dimensions of my planned window. With amazement I looked over my unscratched, unbruised fist. It didn’t even hurt a bit.

You may think this is strictly a male thing. It is not. Many times I’ve caught my wife staring at those monoliths of power. I know her masculine side was stirred and blood pumped through her heart more swiftly. But when she expressed her feelings, they were diluted and watered down by her feminine side. Still, when she remarked, “Those big airplanes sure are noisy,” I knew she had felt the power of the B-52.

But now they are gone. Transferred away to some distant base. And what have we got to replace them? More puny, scrawny, unmanly KC-135s.

OK, they’re not puny. But they’re nothing compared to the B-52. They don’t even drop bombs. They give fuel to other planes. They’re into “helping others.”

From my back yard, I sneer at their shallow attempts to emulate the B-52. Their roar is a squeak. Their exhaust like a dryer vent’s.

Even when they fly past especially low, I can cup my hands over my mouth and make jet noises that drown them out. My neighbor rushes out his back door. His eyes know the sound and land not upon the passing jet, but on me.

I wait for the day when the B-52s will come back. Until then, I must remain content with my collection of models, posters and the special edition Time-Life video.

As my testosterone levels fall, I sometimes stand in the back yard, watching the sky, remembering what used to fly through that patch of blue. A truck bounces down the alley, spewing diesel fumes. I inhale deeply. I can almost taste the power of the stratofortress!

MEMO: James P. Johnson is a Spokane teacher and free-lance writer.