"More Excitement Than We Need"

Guam's Andersen Air Force Base was the chief jumping-off point for U.S. bombers during the days between the sudden U.S. resumption of the bombing and its equally sudden cessation last week. When TIME Correspondent Herman Nickel visited the huge B-52 fleet there last April, the mood was mild and the pilots easygoing. Last week Nickel found a far grimmer spirit--at least until the bombing runs over the North were halted once again. His report:

FOR three full hours a seemingly endless stream of the huge war machines thundered past Charlie Tower, at the end of Andersen's 12,000-ft. runway, to get final takeoff clearance. Then they roared mightily down the gentle decline of the salad-bowl-shaped runway, howled back up the last stretch before finally lifting their 490,000 lbs. off the ground, jet exhausts trailing thick clouds of black smoke.

First off were more than 30 B-52Gs, recognizable by their light beige underbellies and the absence of bomb racks under their wings; their 20,000 lbs. of bombs are crammed into barn-sized bomb bays. Then came the older Ds, which are probably the world's meanest-looking aircraft, with two dozen 500-lb. bombs clustered on racks under the wings and 42 stubby 750-pounders inside. Painted pitch black, they looked like the birds of death that they are. Of all the 80 or so aircraft I watched depart, only one of them had to use its "drag bag"--the drag parachute used to abort a takeoff because of a technical difficulty. A reserve craft quickly took its place. That mass departure, timed to the split second, was a feat the Strategic Air Command ought to teach the world's commercial airlines.

The ferocious intensity of the raids stunned even the 11,000 airmen at Andersen and the 90,000 Guamanians for whom the sight of B-52s and bomb-laden trucks has been routine since 1965. Base security measures were tighter than ever: information officers would not comment on operational matters; pilots and crewmen were ordered not to talk to outsiders. Such strictness was understandable--but almost certainly the North Vietnamese knew far in advance that the raiders were on their way. One of the permanent features of life in Guam is a radar-studded Soviet trawler that works just a few miles west of the island.

Perhaps the greatest single reason for the new grimness here was that air and ground crews knew there now was a good chance that not all the planes would return. "We've got a hell of a lot more excitement than we 'need these days," said a veteran of 238 Viet Nam missions. In fact, the chances of being shot down over the North were slightly greater than was the case in the B-17 and B-24 days of World War II. Then the loss rate was one to 64; last week it was closer to one to 50.

The strain showed. More than anyone else, the airmen wanted to believe that peace was indeed at hand. "The letdown was just killing," said Captain James H.S. Train, a veteran of more than 200 missions who is now on his sixth combat tour. "We're just hanging on by our fingernails." Later another flyer warned: "Just don't pass out any more peace rumors."

Since the arrival of a second B-52 wing last spring, Andersen has been jampacked. Many ground crewmen were forced to move into hastily assembled prefabs and tents to make room for new flight crews in their comfortable, mostly air-conditioned barracks. If ground crews weren't being kept so busy, the griping would have been heavy. As it was, however, armorers and mechanics now were putting in 16-hour days and seven-day weeks. Though precise turnaround time to prepare a B-52 for another run is classified, the usual period that is required for regular maintenance and preparation is about 16 hours.

Enough air crewmen were brought in from the U.S. to keep the number of missions per crew to a level of about three per week. Each mission involved a 17-hour workday, including twelve hours in the air as well as pre-and postflight briefings and debriefings. Meals were taken on board: some flyers preferred the older D models because they have a small stove on which a TV-style dinner can be cooked. On the Gs, cold box lunches are the rule. Crews are rotated home after a maximum of 179 days under a program code-named "Bullet Shot," but departure notices from U.S. bases are not always so meticulously planned. One pilot, whose wife was out shopping when his orders arrived, was reduced to leaving a note on the kitchen table, telling her he had gone off to 179 days of war.

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