March 7, 1972, Wednesday
Alameda Air Force Base is down the bay a ways. There brigade of B52 bombers are in the process of rotation. They were bombing Laos and Cambodia and sometimes North Vietnam. Some other brigade will take their place for the next six months. They fly throughout the day, twenty or thirty at a time. They fly low. They fly loud. They are so fucking big. It’s an “Oh my god!” moment.
I think the air force guys are flying low over the island on purpose. They want to show their air force toy to the navy boys and girls. It is a sight, huge bombers with wing spans that don’t stop.
They fly in from the ocean, like a flock of metal monster birds, gracing the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. They follow the Bay up river, flying over the top of us. We involuntary walk with a hunch. We are ducking under the constant roar of the flying machines in the sky. They cast big moving shadows from one side of the island to the other. It gives me goose bumps, watching that awesome power. I can feel the ground vibrate.
Barry said he goes to the Alameda Air Base to get lost in his thoughts. He watches the pilots practice landing and takeoff maneuvers. He said I should come with him some time. We could talk bible. I told him I would like to see the jets do their thing, but let’s leave the bible at home.
We walked to the dock hunched over the whole way. I try to stand up straight but as soon as the next large jet bomber fly’s over I can’t help myself. We boarded the ship and prepared to decontaminate it again. The sight of the B52s in the middle of the bay was even more impressive. Later.
We passed the test. This time I didn’t need to pound on the cabin door for water. They had it waiting for us. More sailors passed out this time, then last time. Brice was one of them. I helped him as I would anybody that needed it. He never did say thank you to us E-2s. He did thank Barry. This exercise initialed washing trace amounts of nerve gas into the Bay. It’s late I am tired. The bombers have stopped for the night. Later.