L'auteur de ce texte, qui m'a été transmis par E-mail, a préféré rester anonyme. Si l'on dépasse l'anecdote, qui réjouira les enfants, on y voit un témoignage sur les conditions de travail à bord du B-52, lequel ne représentait pas, à certains égards, un net progrès sur le B-17. On reste confondu devant l'imprévoyance des concepteurs, qui n'avaient pas imaginé les nécessités évidentes auxquelles devaient faire face des équipages qui devaient rester en vol 12 ou 13 heures. Ces questions, que l'on ne voit jamais aborder dans les ouvrages "sérieux" , sont loin d'être accessoires. L'absence de sanitaires crée un inconfort qui ne mettent pas les personnels dans les meilleurs conditions pour accomplir leur tâche.

Posted 9.19.2003
When I was in the Air Force, I put in almost 3000 hours as a B-52 crewmember. Although the B-52 is the biggest and oldest bomber in the U.S. inventory, it's surprisingly sparse on creature comforts. The crew compartment comprises only a tiny portion of the airplane, and crewmembers are relegated to crawling, more than anything else, should they feel the need to move around in the airplane. Ventilation is almost non-existent, as is insulation, so the air is perpetually stale; and at low altitudes it's always hot, and at high altitude always cold. Likewise, latrine facilities are absolutely minimal. In fact, should a guy be so bold as to try to lay some cable, he'll need to forage around underneath the Instructor Electronic Warfare Officer seat where, if he's lucky, he'll find your basic paint can. If he's the type to plan ahead, he'll be packing a plastic garbage bag for the purpose of providing a rudimentary form of containment for his feces. Assuming he successfully executes the various contortionist moves required to successfully get his puppies in the bag (picture yourself peeling off a jump suit, then squatting over a paint can, all the while under the stairs in your basement at about the three foot level), he will still have lost five friends in the process. The reason is simple: if anyone takes a dump on, say, a 13 hour mission, the rest of the crew will be forced to keep their oxygen masks on for the remainder of the flight. The atmosphere in the cockpit becomes a witch's brew of the nastiest overflowing porta potty -on-a-hot-summer-day, rank stench you EVER experienced. You can imagine the scatological folklore that the Strategic Air Command crew force has generated over decades of flying these airplanes nearly around the clock from the early 50's to the present day. I propose to share my favorite such story with you, for which I was a first hand witness.

So I made way for the poor hapless Copilot, a virtual Dead Man Crawling, as he rooted around for what we lovingly called the "honey bucket." Even in the dim light of the cockpit I could see that he was perspiring heavily and beet red. As he fumbled with great urgency to get his flight suit off, the squadron commander was only inches away from him since he was currently riding in the "bunk" position, directly adjacent to the honey bucket. The commander's expression was deadpan as the poor Copilot began to bear down. Within seconds the stench had permeated everyone's oxygen mask. The squadron commander blinked and tried holding his oxygen mask tighter against his face. All conversation had ceased -- nothing could be heard over the intercom except the occasional radio call. Finally the Copilot seemed to be winding things up and began to start tidying. After wiping his ass very nearly in the face of the squadron commander -- who could do little more than shut his eyes -- he set about getting his flight suit (a jump suit kind of affair) back on. One thing to be aware of when using the honey bucket is exactly where the sleeves of your flight suit are. The Copilot failed dramatically in this department. While jerking the upper portion of his flight suit up over his shoulders, one of his sleeves exploded from the very heart of the honey bucket. I caught my breath as I witnessed a brown projectile about one inch long, the thickness of my thumb, sail in the direction of the squadron commander's face. It impacted him directly on the adam's apple, if memory serves. As the glistening nugget slid down beneath his t-shirt, his eyes widened and a flurry of language the likes of which I've never witnessed, before or since, followed over the intercom. It took a moment for the Copilot to piece together what happened, and he came very close to what I would judge as a state of spontaneous combustion. The squadron commander was flopping around like a fish trying to retrieve the fecal missile. Just another day in the proud history of the now defunct Strategic Air Command.