This is the story of a US Air Force navigator’s journey from the schoolhouses of Air Training Command, to the nuclear alerts of the Cold War, to combat in a 35-year-old anachronism called the B-52. From peacetime training missions to Desert Storm to the turmoil of the military drawdown that followed, the author takes you inside the high-pressure world of military aviation where life and death are seconds apart and one mistake might be all you get.

From the book: Returning to Base

The flight back was quiet. It was quiet going to the war because of nerves, but now it was quiet because of fatigue. One by one, the crew fell asleep. Usually we'd take turns napping, with one pilot and one navigator awake at all times. Michael and I pulled first shift, struggling to stay awake. One thing which did help was the music Calvin played on Private. He plugged his comm cord into the CD player adapter and flipped the hot mic switch. I turned to Private on the intercom and found REO Speedwagon. The music helped relieve the monotony of the long, interminable flights. I glanced at my now empty Coke can. REO Speedwagon and Coca Cola—don’t go into combat without them. Again, I marveled at what a strange world we lived in.

It was a long flight home and I had time to think, a dangerous thing for me. This was my first taste of combat and I was a little surprised with myself. It wasn't that I had acted either cowardly or heroically. I was surprised by how little I felt. I expected some profound emotional response to combat, but there wasn't any. Most people would think flying into combat over Iraq wouldn't be like flying over Texas, but in my case, they would be wrong.

It was true injury, mortality and capture did invade my thoughts at times. Those feelings of fear and apprehension were powerful. At times my stomach was tied in knots, but emotions that strong simply can't be sustained over the seventeen or eighteen hours required to fly a combat mission in the B-52. I thought I would have profound thoughts, profound emotions, flying into combat. Where were my profound thoughts? Perhaps realizing there were no profound thoughts was a profound thought in itself?

From the book: Bravado Meets Reality

I noticed the copilot walking back to the bomb bay and followed him. He had a grease pencil and was writing on a bomb. When he finished he stood back to admire his handiwork. It read: Saddam, Eat shit and die. Then he signed it, Lieutenant Bob Crandell.

“Looks good, huh?” he asked. I nodded.

“Yeah, looks great,” I agreed. Then I burst his bubble. “You do realize these are CBUs and the bomb body isn’t going to explode?”

“What?” he asked, the wind dropping from his sails.

“That half of the bomb is gonna be laying out there in the desert somewhere,” I said. “If you are shot down and captured, Saddam ain’t gonna be too pleased with you anyway, but you might regret writing that later in the POW camp.” His mouth fell open as I turned and walked away. He wiped his name off.