My Dad and the Cold War
On the occasion of the public unveiling of the XB-70 Valkyrie, brigadier general Fred Ascani stood at his podium and began addressing the crowd at North American Aviation’s plant no. 42 in Palmdale, California.
General Ascani was the Air Force’s program director for the project and knew as much as anyone about the plane, but as the massive delta-winged XB-70 was towed out of the hangar he stopped his prepared speech, turned to look,
and, like everyone else in attendance that afternoon,
simply stared in disbelief.
The XB-70, conceived during the height of the Cold War as a replacement for the B-52, was perhaps the most audacious plane ever commissioned by the Air Force.
It was designed to fly higher and faster than any enemy fighter, drop thermo-nuclear bombs over targets in the Soviet Union, outfly the blast radius,
and then return home without ever refueling. It was intended to be the ultimate display of American technological prowess; the ultimate weapon of mass destruction. The plane wasn’t simply an evolution of any current design,
but a leap in technology so advanced that it seemed to come from a science-fiction movie.
“She is so unlike other aircraft that comparisons are almost meaningless,” wrote Mel Hunter.
But by the time that first XB-70 rolled out onto the tarmac in the California desert it had already been replaced by a new weapon of mass destruction—the ballistic missile.
The plane became a political pawn and was eventually reduced to a just a test program.
By this time my dad had spent six years working on the XB-70 project. So this is the story of my dad’s brush with the Cold War and, as best as I can piece together, the story of my dad before he was my dad.
I.
My dad was the oldest son of a family of tenant farmers in Nothern Indiana. He grew up during the Depression and was so poor, at least according to the family story, that after the farm was
electrified by Roosevelt in the mid-1930s, my grandfather had to choose between buying him a baseball glove or buying lightbulbs for the farmhouse.
Obviously, my dad couldn’t make a living on a farm that could barely support my grandfather, so after high school he went to work; first in a hatchery (a job he hated), then for a company that built
miniature trains for amusement parks (a job he liked).
In November, 1952—when my dad was 22—it became clear that he was going to be drafted into the Army and sent to fight in Korea. Instead he enlisted in the Navy,
trained as an aviation structural mechanic, and, among other things, spent time aboard the escort carrier USS Sitkoh Bay.
“It was the best thing that ever happened to him,” my mom said, “If it weren’t for the Navy he would have ended up back on a farm in Indiana.”
After he was discharged in 1956, my dad didn’t return to the farm, but, with the help of a friend, got a job with the Flight Propulsion Division of General Electric in Evendale (just outside of Cincinnati),
initially working night shift in the Controls and Accessories department. This is when he met my mom, who was a secretary in a different department.
“He would bring me lunch after working all night,” she told me. They were married within a year.
II.
While my dad was fixing airplane hydraulic systems at the tail end of the war, Eisenhower, the newly-elected president, was working on something a little bigger: a national security policy to counter the growing Soviet military threat in Europe.
This “New Look” policy, as it was called, relied on a nuclear deterrent with the Strategic Air Command as its’ centerpiece.
The idea was that America didn’t need to match the Soviets’ perceived superiority in conventional forces, but instead, could develop the
capability to deliver an overwhelming retaliatory nuclear strike anywhere in the world on just a few hours notice.
At the time, the only way to reliably deliver that nuclear strike was by aircraft; first the B-47 Stratojet, then the massive B-52 Stratofortress.
But in 1955, the same year the B-52 was put into service, the Soviets introduced the MiG-19, a supersonic fighter capable of intercepting any American bomber.
Realizing the problem now at hand, the Air Force issued General Operational Requirement No. 38, calling for a next-generation strategic bomber.
After several different design proposals, the contract for this new plane, designated the B-70 and nicknamed the “Valkyrie,” was finally awarded to North American Aviation.
The engine contract was given to General Electric.
GE was accustomed to adjusting their workforce based on their military and civilian contracts and the XB-70 contract was huge—potentially hundreds of engines. They soon put together a team, including my dad, to design,
build and test this new engine-the 30,000
9 Comments
Syonyk
That era of aviation was nuts. I wish I was around for it. Men with slide rules working out the limits of material science, aerodynamics, and everything else, all at once. Because it wasn't enough to just push one limit, you had to push half a dozen others to get things to that first limit. And the rate of advance was just staggering.
The XB70 flew in late 1964. Concorde was doing revenue flights in 1976, cruising at Mach 2, with passengers being served luxury food.
> The Air Force learned that pushing the technological envelope resulted in plane that was difficult to build, difficult to maintain, difficult to fly, and perhaps even more importantly, was incredibly expensive; the program cost nearly 1.5 billion dollars, or around 11 million dollars per flight.
And nothing has changed. Pushing the limits is expensive. Always has been, always will be.
runjake
As someone who once worked on B-52s, I find it amusing how many "successors" it has outlasted. And I know why, because I worked on many of those, too.
It has taught me to be skeptical of unproven claims and promises, especially when someone is particularly passionate about them. Also that simplicity is king. Complexity is the enemy.
I have great respect for the XB-70. It's the only strategic bomber I haven't worked on or even seen in person, and it holds a certain "alternate reality" mystique for me.
ge96
A beautiful plane, shame those 6 engines in line is unreal to see.
Similar vibe would be the B1-lancer for engine although in 2s
ben7799
I have a love/hate relationship with this plane.
In 2014 I got to visit the AF Museum in Dayton, OH. With all the exceptional exhibits there it is completely obvious the XB-70 is THE crown jewel in that museum.
And it snowed while we were visiting and they shut down the hangar with the XB-70 because it required a shuttle ride.
So now I still have on my bucket list to see it.
ferguess_k
The Cold War era was the dream of engineers of all participant countries, I figured. Are we close to another one? Just wanna make sure it doesn't turn into a hot one.
tqi
"got a job with the Flight Propulsion Division of General Electric in Evendale (just outside of Cincinnati), initially working night shift in the Controls and Accessories department… the engine required the efforts of hundreds of engineers to design everything from a new turbofan and compressor, to new fire-suppression systems, to a special high-temperature fuel. Exactly what part my dad worked on is unclear; I always thought it was an oil pan, but my older brother was sure it was an oil pump."
This small detail peaked my curiosity – did GE have white collar workers on the night shift? If so, that is super interesting to me.
sgt101
Does anyone know why they went for six engines rather than four bigger ones? Was there a specific reason for that config?
retrocryptid
I remember seeing this beast at the Air Force 25th anniversary in '72 at wright pat. Pretty sure the one I saw didn't ever fly again.
ellisd
The ejection capsule design for the XB-70 is some next level engineering. Your seat would move backward into a capsule before ejection to survive the cruising altitudes of 70k feet / Mach 3.
https://www.generalstaff.org/CDA/Air/B-70/XB-70_Escape_Syste…