A War Too Far

by David Lee Corley

  Laurent and another French prisoner took Granier from the guards and helped him to sickbay. “So, you are American. That explains your attitude,” said Laurent in French.

  Granier smiled. His lips cracked and stung.

  “You think this is a joke? That lieutenant almost killed you. Had the major not intervened, you would be missing your head. So, what do we call you while you are still breathing, which I doubt will be long?”

  “Buck.”

  “How do you know French?”

  “Born in France. Moved to the States.”

  “French and American. Passionate and pigheaded. I’m amazed you lasted this long. No matter what you were told by the major, you must stay away from the lieutenant. He’s a mean bastard.”

  “He’s a pussy. ’Sides…going to Tokyo… with other Americans.”

  “Good. The sooner you are out of here, the safer you will be. This war is winding down, and we are winning. It won’t be long before the Japanese are forced to surrender. But that’s when we really need to worry. Many of the officers will probably commit suicide. It’s their way. But before they do they may decide to take a few prisoners with them. Everyone needs to keep their head low or see it loped off.”

  August 9, 1945

  North Field airbase took up almost half of the island of Tinian. It was a six-hour flight to Japan and home to American 313th Bombardment Wing. The 509th Composite Group had been attached to the 313th but was assigned its own area of operations on the Northern tip of the island. The 509th had very little to do with the 313th, and almost all contact between the aircrews was prohibited. Their mission was one of the biggest, well-kept secrets of the war.

  Major Charles Sweeney sat alone in the mess hall nursing a cup of coffee. His crew was already boarding the B-29 Superfortress nicknamed “Bockscar” after having finished their final briefing in the early hours of the morning. He had given his co-pilot, First Lieutenant Don Albury, an excuse that he had left something in his quarters. In truth, he just needed a few moments alone.

  Sweeney had flown the blast measurement instrumentation aircraft, another B-29, during the first atomic bombing of Hiroshima. He knew better than almost anyone the power of the weapon called “Little Boy.” Now, it was his turn to pilot the Superfortress that would deliver the second bomb, called “Fat Man.” The thought made him queasy. This was the most important mission of his life.

  The commander of the atomic bombardment operation, Colonel Paul Tibbets, passed by the doorway and caught a glimpse of Sweeney as he went by. He stopped for a moment in the hallway and thought about whether he should speak to Sweeney. He knew what he was feeling. Tibbets had piloted the Enola Gay when it dropped Little Boy three days earlier. Tibbets turned, entered the mess hall, and said, “Are you okay, Chuck?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m great. Very excited. The whole crew is. I’m just drinking a half a cup of coffee to help me stay awake during the flight,” said Sweeney.

  “Yeah. You won’t need that. Adrenaline will be pumping through your body the entire flight. It did for me. You know it’s okay to have reservations?”

  “Really? Did you?”

  “Yes. Of course. I knew what I was dropping and what it would do.”

  “And yet…”

  “We do our duty. That’s why they chose us.”

  “Yeah. I suppose you’re right. I’d better get going,” said Sweeney, rising.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  Sweeney stopped and thought for a moment, unsure he should speak, then... “I’m very grateful to be given this honor…”

  “I know you are. But time is limited. So. let’s cut through the bullshit. Spit it out.”

  “Why two?”

  “Yeah. I thought that might be it.”

  “I understand why we needed to drop Little Boy. The Japanese had to know it was real and its power. But didn’t the deaths of all those people send the message? They’re done. We know it, and they know it. Hell, the Russians just entered the war and our marines are already on Okinawa. It’s over.”

  “And yet the Japanese haven’t surrendered.”

  “It’s only been three days.”

  “That’s enough time. They could have surrendered if that’s what they wanted. They’ve made the decision to continue fighting.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “I agree. But it was insane to start the war in the first place, and here we are. One hundred and sixty thousand American soldiers dead. Over twenty million Chinese soldiers and civilians dead and countless wounded. More will die if we are forced to invade Japan, not to mention the millions of Japanese civilians that will most likely die. We need to end this war now. This is the best and fastest way to do it.”

  “I keep telling myself that. It doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “You’re a good soldier, Chuck, and a hell of a pilot. I have no doubt you’ll do your duty.”

  “I will. Now if you will excuse me… I have worlds to destroy.”

  Tibbets smiled at the reference to Robert Oppenheimer’s quote as they saluted each other and Sweeney headed out to the airfield. Tibbet’s expression darkened as soon as Sweeney was out of sight. He knew Sweeney would do his duty, but he also knew he would never be the same once his mission was complete. It was the sacrifice they both had decided to make for their country. One cannot commit mass murder, even if it is their duty, without it taking a toll on the soul.

  It was a little after three in the morning when Sweeney walked out of the officers’ quarters and on to the tarmac. In the distance was “Bockscar” – the aircraft that would drop the second atomic bomb. He could see Albury through the aircraft’s windshield checking the switch settings in the cockpit. His crew was top-notch and worked well together. Sweeney was the newest member, having taken over as pilot less than a month ago. Albury had been the pilot before Sweeney. Naturally, Albury was disappointed at the demotion from pilot to co-pilot, even though he knew that just being in the cockpit would assure him a place in history. Albury had great respect for Sweeney. He had watched Sweeney closely during training, and the five practice runs they had flown together. Sweeney knew the mission like the back of his hand and had a firm manner of command. Sweeney’s professionalism soothed the blow of being denied the honor of dropping Fat Man. It was the way the brass wanted it – best crew and best pilot. They weren’t taking any chances.

  Bockscar was a beautiful aircraft and one of the world’s largest. Even at night, the work lights reflected off the bomber’s highly polished skin. Bockscar was a Silverplate - one of ten B-29 Superfortresses that had been modified by the US Army Air Force to drop an atomic bomb. ‘Silverplate’ was the codename used for the bomber designed to carry the top-secret devices developed by the Manhattan Project. Unlike the other B-29s, the Silverplates’ engines were fuel-injected and had reversible props. All of the gun turrets had been removed to compensate for the additional weight of the atomic bombs. Except for the tail gun position, the Silverplates were defenseless. The aircraft’s bomb bays had to be extensively altered to accommodate the new bombs. Each Silverplate was capable of carrying either Little Boy or Fat Man type bombs. They could also carry conventional bombs.

  As Sweeney approached, Albury saw him through the cockpit’s spherical windshield and gave him a thumbs up. Sweeney performed a visual and physical inspection of the aircraft. He knew Albury would have done his own inspection before entering the plane and would have notified him immediately had he found anything amiss. Albury was that kind of officer – professional and thorough. Sweeney felt privileged to have such an experienced airman as his co-pilot. But even though he trusted Albury with his life, Sweeney would perform his own inspection. Two sets of eyes were better than one, and this mission was too important for anything to be overlooked.

  America had spent two billion dollars developing the weapons and modifying the aircraft. It was money hard spent during a war that seemed to consume every nickel available. Ev
eryone from the generals that oversaw the project and the scientists that created and tested the devices, on down to ground crews that maintained the aircraft, had worked hard to reduce any risks to an absolute minimum. They were the best and the brightest America had to offer.

  The maintenance crew chief was doing his own last-minute inspection of the mechanisms that would release Fat Man, already loaded in the bomb bay. Sweeney poked his head up through the open bomb bay doors and said, “Any luck with getting that fuel transfer pump working?”

  “No, sir. It’s still froze up like a nun. We’re still ‘go’ though, right?” said the crew chief.

  “Yes. We are still go.”

  “You know I could still replace that thing in three or four hours.”

  “No. The decision has already been made. There’s not enough time before the weather front moves in. We’re going as is.”

  “I’m real sorry about it – the transfer pump.”

  “Stuff breaks, Chief. It’s the nature of the beast. We’ll be alright.”

  “Yes, sir. Just don’t spend too much time on target. She gobbles fuel like a son of a bitch.”

  “I am well aware. You and your crew have done a hell of a job keeping her ready. I’m grateful.”

  “It’s been an honor, sir,” said the chief, standing inside the bomb bay, snapping to attention and saluting.

  Sweeney saluted back and resumed his inspection.

  At 3:49 in the morning, Bockscar lifted off from North Field on Tinian. Fifteen minutes into the flight, the aircraft’s weaponeer, Commander Fredrick Ashworth, entered the bomb bay and swapped out the electronic safety plugs. Fat Man was armed. The first leg of their journey was to Yakushima Island where Bockscar would rendezvous with two more B-29s – The Great Artiste and The Big Stink – each carrying blast measurement instrumentation and photographic equipment. From there, the three planes would proceed to the city of Kokura – the primary target.

  When Bockscar arrived at Yakushima Island, Sweeney began circling at 30,000 feet, as planned in the mission profile. Within a few minutes, The Great Artiste, piloted by Captain Fredrick Bock, arrived and linked up with Bockscar. The Big Stink, piloted by Major James Hopkins, was nowhere to be found. The two aircraft continued to circle the island burning their precious fuel as they waited for The Big Stink.

  After the allotted rendezvous time of fifteen minutes came and went, Sweeney grew concerned. Ashworth was in charge of the bomb, but Sweeney was in charge of the plane. It was Sweeney’s call whether to continue without The Big Stink. Sweeney called Ashworth on the intercom, “What are you thinking, Dick?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should break radio silence,” said Ashworth.

  “Absolutely not. Tibbet was very clear on that.”

  “Then, we should wait. Keep circling and see if Jim shows.”

  “You know we don’t have our reserve fuel?”

  “Yeah. But The Big Stink has the camera equipment. Do you really want to drop this thing without any photographic evidence?”

  “I think there will be plenty of evidence once it explodes.”

  “Chuck… it’s history.”

  “Yeah. I know. Alright. We’ll wait a while longer, but that means less time over target.”

  “Let me worry about that. Just keep an eye out for Jim.”

  While they circled, the Enola Gay and Laggin’ Dragon, the two B-29s assigned as weather planes for the mission, reported that the cloud cover was acceptable at both the primary and secondary target areas. “Well, that’s good news,” said Albury. “For a minute there, I was worried.”

  Sweeney shook his head with a chuckle at Albury’s attempt at levity.

  Sweeney waited another twenty-five minutes in search of The Big Stink. It never showed. Fuel was low. “I’m calling it,” said Sweeney to Albury. “We’re heading for Kokura.”

  They banked the aircraft and headed north.

  In the bomb bay, Ashworth felt the plane’s turn and said, “Ah, shit. Fuckin’ Hopkins.”

  Bock, the pilot of The Great Artiste, followed Sweeney’s lead, banked his aircraft and headed north.

  Kokura was one of Japan’s largest shipping ports and a key industrial center. It had been the secondary target for the Enola Gay. If Hiroshima had been clouded over, Kokura would have been hit by Little Boy on the first atomic bombardment. But instead of being let completely off the hook, the city had become the primary target of the second bomb – Fat Man.

  When Bockscar and The Great Artiste arrived, only thirty percent of the city was visible. Over two hundred B-29s had firebombed the industrial installations in nearby Yahata the previous day. The smoke from the fires that continued to burn had blown in, and a thick haze had settled over Kokura.

  Sweeney piloted Bockscar over Kokura. Flak bursts cracked below the aircraft. With only three minutes remaining before passing over the aiming point - Kokura Arsenal - Sweeney turned the controls over to his bombardier, Captain Kermit Beahan. Sweeney called out to the crew to put on their goggles. He kept his off so he could see what he was doing. He knew the risks.

  Beahan watched through his Norten bombing sight and was unable to spot the aiming point through the haze. “I can’t see it! There’s smoke obscuring the target,” shouted Beahan over the hum of the four engines.

  “Shit,” said Sweeney as they passed over the position of the intended aiming point. “I’m taking control.”

  “You have the aircraft,” said Beahan and released the controls.

  The flak was getting closer as the anti-aircraft batteries below dialed in the aircraft’s altitude. There was a swift discussion among the crew. The tail gunner reported that flak was bursting at their altitude. The crew was scared. Making a second pass was far more dangerous than the first. The initial surprise of the bomber’s attack was gone, and the anti-aircraft battery crews would be ready. “Everybody, shut up,” said Sweeney over the intercom. “We’re going again. We’ll change our altitude to thirty-one thousand and hopefully shake off the ack-ack.”

  Sweeney swung the aircraft around for another pass. He again turned the controls over to Beahan and called for the crew to put on their goggles. Again, Beahan stared through the sight’s reticle and again encountered the heavy haze. “No good. No good,” yelled Beahan. “I can’t see it.”

  “Damn it,” said Sweeney. “I’m taking control.”

  “You have the aircraft,” said Beahan, again releasing the controls.

  “What about using radar?” said Albury.

  “No. Visual only. Those were the orders,” said Sweeney.

  “We got Zeros on their way up,” said Sergeant Spitzer, one of the two radio operators, with alarm in his voice.

  “We’re going again,” said Sweeney over the intercom as he banked the aircraft.

  “What about the Zeros?” said Albury.

  “They can’t shoot worth shit at thirty thousand feet. ’Sides, it’ll take ’em a few minutes to reach us.”

  “Good to know. For a second there I thought we might be in real trouble.”

  Sweeney couldn’t help but laugh. “Don, I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “Is that what you call that?” said Albury, not getting the reaction from Sweeney that he hoped. “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.”

  The flak was exploding right outside the Bockscar’s fuselage, shaking the aircraft violently. It would only take one well-placed shell-burst to ignite their remaining fuel or set off Fat Man. Sweeney changed altitude again, climbing another thousand feet. As they approached the aim point for the third time, Sweeney turned over the aircraft’s controls to Beahan and said, “Don’t fuck this up, Captain.”

  Beahan watched the reticle. Nothing but haze. “No go,” said Beahan, deflated.

  “I’m taking control of the aircraft,” said Sweeney, similarly dejected.

  “You’ve got control.”

  Sweeney knew that if they went again, he and his crew would die. If th
e anti-aircraft batteries didn’t hit them, then the Zeros surely would. He knew that Bock would never leave without Sweeney and his crew. He would be signing their death warrants too. Sweeney’s mind raced.

  Albury turned and could see the determination in Sweeney's face. “What about Nagasaki? It can’t be any worse than this,” said Albury. “We still have enough fuel for one pass if we go now.”

  Sweeney considered for a moment, then said in the intercom, “We’re going to the secondary target.”

  His crew took a collective sigh of relief as the Bockscar banked and headed south. The people of Kokura never knew how close they had been to annihilation. Nagasaki was only ninety-five miles away.

  The flight engineer, Master Sergeant John Kuharek, ran some quick calculations on his slide rule. The blood drained out of his face. “We’re not gonna make it,” he said to himself.

  “What?” said Albury, overhearing him.

  “What’s up, Master Sergeant?” said Sweeney.

  “We don’t have enough fuel to make it back, Major,” said Kuharek.

  “You mean to Tinian?”

  “No. Not anywhere. We can’t even reach Okinawa.”

  “What if we go now?” said Albury.

  “No. It’s already too late,” said Kuharek

  “It’ll be alright. We’ll ditch in the sea if we need to. They’ll find us,” said Sweeney.

  “Like they found the crew of the Indianapolis?” said Albury.

  “Let’s finish the run, and I’ll figure something out.”

  “Finish the run?”

  “You’re damn right we’re gonna finish it.”

  “Alright. I guess it doesn’t matter either way.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  The Bockscar flew on. Sweeney tipped the aircraft’s wings to signal Bock. The Great Artiste followed. The Zeros over Kokura assumed they had chased off the two American bombers and returned to their base. The crew of the Bockscar was out of danger from being shot down for the moment. It was little consolation as the news of ditching in the sea rippled through the aircraft. Everyone remained quiet; some said prayers.