A War Too Far

by David Lee Corley

  Sweeney and Albury watched through the windshield as Nagasaki neared. Cumulus clouds had moved in over the city. “It’s socked in. A layer of cumulus at seven thousand feet,” said Sweeney.

  “If we’re gonna do anything, we gotta do it quick,” said Kuharek.

  “It’s gonna be trouble if we try and land with Fat Man still in our belly,” said Albury.

  “Not to mention the six hundred gallons of reserve fuel we’re still carrying,” said Kuharek. “We could ditch the device in the sea.”

  “If we’re gonna do that, we should just drop the damn thing over the city. We could get lucky,” said Albury.

  Sweeney considered for a brief moment, then said, “Dick, what do you think about using radar?”

  “But you said—” said Ashworth.

  “Forget what I said. Can we hit the target?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Do it.”

  The crew in Bockscar readied themselves. The tone was activated, and the radar scanned the valley below. Beahan took one last glance through the Norten bombsight. It was still socked in, then a break in the clouds appeared, and he could see the two Mitsubishi arms factories below. “I got it! I got it! Two factories right below us.”

  The factories Beahan was looking at were in the Urakami Valley almost two miles away from the designated aiming point. “Alright, boys. Here we go. Googles on,” said Sweeney over the intercom, once again leaving his off. “Captain Beahan, you have the aircraft.”

  “I have control,” said Beahan, his eyes fixed to the target as seen through the bombsight reticle.

  At two hundred miles per hour, there wasn’t much time before the Bockscar would fly beyond the factories. Beahan flipped the switch to the bomb bay doors. He only had forty-five seconds to set the Norten bombsight on the new aiming point, kill the drift, and kill the closure on target. Once ready, he acted immediately and pickled the bomb release switch. “Bombs away,” he said, then caught his mistake. “I mean, bomb away.”

  The aircraft lurched as Fat Man, a five-ton bomb, was released from its cradle and started its descent. “We did it,” said Albury, looking a bit shocked.

  “Yeah. We did,” said Sweeney with a slight grin. “Well done, Kermit. I’m taking control.”

  “You have the aircraft,” said Beahan, relieved.

  During the moments following the release, Sweeney had one job - put as much distance as he could between Fat Man and his crew.

  The crew of the Great Artiste saw Fat Man drop from Bockscar. They hustled to release the three instrument packages on parachutes that would measure the explosion. Once released, Bock followed Sweeney with the same mission – get the hell out of Dodge.

  Fat Man dropped for forty-two seconds before it detonated at one thousand six hundred and forty feet above the factories. The valley was surrounded by low hills that contained the blast and protected Nagasaki’s largest residential neighborhood less than a mile away. But for the people in the valley, it was a different story. Thirty-five thousand factory workers, soldiers and civilians were killed in a matter of seconds, engulfed by the blast and the firestorm that followed. The factories, as well as the surrounding buildings and homes, were demolished. Forty-four percent of Nagasaki laid in ruin. At twenty-two kilotons, Fat Man’s explosion was almost twice the size of Little Boy’s.

  The Japanese lieutenant’s wife and son were killed in an instant. They were less than a quarter of a mile from ground zero. She was holding her son as she hung laundry in the backyard of her brother-in-law’s house. The bodies of the wife and son disintegrated together. There was no time for surprise or even pain. They were just gone.

  Inside Bockscar, Sweeney saw a bright flash beyond anything he had ever seen. White spots exploded across his retinas. For a moment, he wondered if he was blind and considered turning over the controls to Albury who was wearing his goggles. He held the aircraft steady and waited. His vision came back slowly, and within thirty seconds he could see well enough to pilot the plane. “You okay?” said Albury.

  “Yeah. I’m fine,” said Sweeney.

  A few seconds later, three shockwaves hit one right after the other. The plane shook violently, and several crew members were thrown to the floor. For the moment, the worst was over. They had survived. Everyone that could made their way to a window to observe the blast.

  The mushroom cloud rose above the city. The top was bright bluish, while the bottom was salmon pink where the firestorm was wreaking havoc. It took the cloud forty-five seconds to reach the same altitude as the two bombers and continued to rise as it grew in size. “Ah, Major… the mushroom cloud is coming at us,” said Spitzer.

  Sweeney immediately dove Bockscar to pick up speed and banked hard right to avoid the cloud of atomic ash and smoke.

  Bock also dove The Great Artiste but banked in the opposite direction. They could rendezvous later when they were out of danger. At the moment, Bock needed to do what he thought best to save his crew and aircraft.

  At 30,000 feet both aircraft leveled off. The crew of Bockscar was giddy and hopeful. They talked about the end of the war and returning home. Sweeney and Albury knew that was not likely. They were 457 miles from the nearest US airfield on Okinawa. There wasn’t enough fuel to make it. They would have to ditch the aircraft in the sea. Sharks would be attracted to blood from the wounds they would surely suffer. It would take hours for any rescue ships or aircraft to reach them. The only good news was that they had linked up with The Great Artiste again and Bock would be able to identify the location of the crash when he reached Okinawa. It wasn’t much, but it was something — a veiled hope.

  Sweeney remembered something Tippet had told him when he was instructing the crews on Tinian. It was called “Descending by steps.” The idea was simple – use your altitude to increase your speed and shorten the time in the air to reach your destination without using more fuel. Out of options, Sweeney decided to give it a try. Without increasing his throttle, he dove two thousand feet then leveled off. It had worked. He had increased speed without using more fuel. He tried it again with the same results - more speed, no more fuel. He didn’t dare go any lower for the time being. They were still above Japan, and the anti-aircraft batteries continued to take potshots at the two aircraft as they passed overhead. There was also the threat of Zeros that might be patrolling the area. Bockscar didn’t have any spare fuel for a dogfight, not to mention most of its weaponry had been removed. He needed to fly in a straight line to Okinawa if they were going to have any chance of making it. That meant he couldn’t fly around any of the know Japanese airfields. They would have to take the risk and hope all the Japanese squadrons where out on missions.

  When Bockscar passed over the last Japanese Island with an airbase, Sweeney proceeded with his steps in descent maneuver. “How we doing on fuel?” said Sweeney.

  “We’re still short, but it’s improving. Just keep doing what you’re doing,” said Albury. “Do you think it’s cold?”

  “What?”

  “The water. The air’s warm.”

  “Ah, hell, Don. It ain’t the water you gotta worry about. It’s the sharks.”

  “I know. I know. But I’m not a big fan of the cold.”

  “Remind me to bring you a blanket next time.”

  “You think there will be a next time?”

  “Not if you don’t stop blabbing and let me focus.”

  “Right. Right.”

  When the island of Okinawa came into view, the crew cheered. Bockscar was riding low over the water at two thousand feet. Sweeney had run out of steps. “Fuel?” said Sweeney.

  “All main tanks show empty. We’re running on fumes,” said Albury.

  “Sergeant Spitzer, have you reached the airfield’s control tower yet?” said Sweeney.

  “No luck, Major. I think the blast may have damaged the radio.”

  “Alright. I want you to fire our flares.”

  “Which color?”
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  “All of ‘em. Hopefully, we’ll get their attention.”

  Spitzer grabbed the flare gun, opened a porthole on the right side of the aircraft, and fired out the first flare. He reloaded and fired the second. “Mix it up. Side to side,” said Sweeney.

  Spitzer moved across to the opposite side of the fuselage, opened a portal and fired the third flare. He moved back and forth, reloading, and firing until all the flares had been expended.

  Sweeney could see the fire trucks moving out from their hangers and aircraft taxing away from the runway. “Good job, Sergeant. I think you got their attention.”

  At that moment, engine number two coughed and shutdown. They were still a mile out from the edge of the runway. “We lost number two,” said Albury.

  “Yep,” said Sweeney. “I’m gonna have to keep our airspeed up as much as possible in case we lose another. We’re gonna be coming in hot.”

  “Copy that.”

  With only three engines still running, Bockscar dropped at an alarming rate. The landing gear lowered, creating even more drag. “You see those B-25s parked on the right side of the runway? Probably don’t want to hit those,” said Albury.

  “Ya think?” said Sweeney.

  “Just trying to help.”

  “Is that what you call that?” said Sweeney with a grin.

  Bockscar cleared the end of the runway with less than ten feet of altitude. “Everyone hang on. This is gonna be a little rough,” said Sweeney.

  Another engine coughed and stopped. “Great,” said Sweeney.

  Bockscar came down hard on the runway and bounced twenty feet back up in the air. Sweeney and Albury forced the aircraft back down. Another hard landing, but this time the wheels stayed down. “Brakes,” said Sweeney as he stood on the brakes and reversed the pitch on the propellers still turning.

  Albury also pressed on the brake pedals with everything he had.

  The wheels smoked as they heated up, locking, unlocking, locking again. The aircraft whizzed past the B-25s parked along the runway. Disaster averted. The end of the runway was approaching fast, and Sweeney wondered if the brakes would give way. With only twenty-five feet to go and the aircraft moving at a fair clip, Sweeney cranked the steering wheel and turned the plane one hundred and eighty degrees. Bockscar skidded sideways to a stop.

  Nobody said anything for a long moment, their eyes wide. Sweeney slowly turned to Albury and burst out laughing. Albury and the rest of the crew joined him.

  Albury and Sweeney stepped from the aircraft as a jeep pulled up. General Doolittle, the famed aviator and base commander, stepped out of the driver’s seat. “Who the hell are you? And why the hell did you land on my airfield without permission?”

  Sweeney and Albury snapped to attention and saluted. “Major Sweeney and First Lieutenant Albury, General. As to why we landed on your airfield… we kinda ran out of gas, and our radio was out,” said Sweeney.

  “We just dropped Fat Man on Nagasaki,” said Albury.

  “That’s Bockscar?” said Doolittle, surprised.

  “Yes, sir,” said Albury.

  “We thought you crashed.”

  “So did we, General,” said Albury.

  “We completed our mission, General. As ordered,” said Sweeney, choking up a little.

  Doolittle studied them both for a long moment, then said, “Well done.”

  EIGHT

  It took two days in sickbay for Granier to recover. The morning he was released, he sat on the steps of his barracks enjoying the sun. The hotbox had no windows and was dark. While in it, he had wondered if he would ever see the sun again. It was hot facing the sun, and he could feel the skin on his face heating up to the point of being sunburned, but he didn’t care.

  There were only a small number of Frenchmen in camp. The rest were out on work detail. He watched as a corporal holding a slip of paper emerged from the communications hut with its long antenna sticking out of the roof supported by a bamboo pole. The soldier looked lost for a moment, then regained his sense of direction and ran for the commander’s hut. He climbed the stairs and disappeared inside. A few minutes later, the corporal emerged without the message in his hand, ran down the stairs, and ran over to the lieutenant and delivered what seemed to be a message from the commander. The lieutenant turned to his bugler and gave him an order. The bugler sounded assembly. It took a little over a minute for the thirty-two soldiers still in camp to assemble. The guards in the towers, patrolling the perimeter, and at the main gate remained at their posts.

  The major walked from his command hut, down the steps and over to the assembled men. At a sergeant’s command, the men snapped to attention as their commander stopped and stood in front of them. He ordered them to stand at ease. He took a moment before speaking. He spoke a few words, then read the message the communications corporal had given him. Listening to the message, one of the soldiers screamed in anguish and fell to his knees. The sergeant berated the soldier. The lieutenant was also affected. He stood motionless, numb from the news in the message. The major saw the lieutenant was not reacting to the situation. The major took control, stopped the sergeant and let the soldier continue sobbing. Several other soldiers showed similar emotions, shaking their heads in disbelief. The major finished with a few more words to his men, then ordered them dismissed. Upon being dismissed, the Japanese soldiers gathered in groups as if discussing the major’s message. The lieutenant just stood in the same place, staring at the ground.

  A Frenchman with a crutch that had also been watching the spectacle hobbled over to Granier and said, “What the hell was that?”

  “Something,” said Granier, trying to piece it together.

  It wasn’t until the work detail returned that Granier and the others heard the news passed on by one of the more friendly Japanese guards. The Americans had dropped two mysteriously powerful bombs on Japan, killing tens of thousands, mostly civilians, and demolishing two cities- Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

  Many of the Japanese soldiers had friends or families in at least one of the two cities. To prevent retribution, the major forbade any of the soldiers under his command from entering the prison compound except to deliver the daily rice ration. The work details were also stopped until further orders. “Now is when we worry,” said Laurent on hearing the news.

  August 14, 1945

  Since the atomic bomb attacks, Japanese patrols near the Viet Minh camp had slackened. Nobody was sure why, but the reprieve was welcomed. The Viet Minh were more relaxed, but still kept their guards posted around the camp and their scouts out on long-range reconnaissance.

  Dewey surmised that the Japanese might be recalling units to defend against the Allied attack on the Japanese mainland that they knew was coming. He was determined to keep the pressure on the Japanese in his little corner of the war until it was done. In his planning conferences with Ho and Giap, they seemed distracted like they were focused on something else besides winning the war. Dewey was frustrated. “We need to attack the Japanese now to keep the pressure on. We need to force them to keep troops here in Indochina or risk losing it.”

  “Our goal has always been to force the invaders to leave, not stay,” said Ho.

  “I understand that. But you don’t want them to leave and then come back.”

  “I doubt that will happen. The two atomic bombs and the Russians joining the war have destroyed their hope. The Japanese are finished,” said Giap.

  “The Allies made the mistake of thinking the Germans were done before the Battle of the Bulge. Never underestimate your enemy’s ability to fight back. We need to keep the pressure on,” said Dewey.

  “We need to conserve our strength,” said Ho. “Our struggle will not end with the Japanese. We may still need to deal with the French.”

  “I am sure all of that will be worked out during the peace negotiations. I would think you would want to demonstrate your loyalty to the Allies since they will hold your fate in their hands.”
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br />   “No one holds the fate of the Vietnamese people except the Vietnamese. But we understand your point. We do not want to seem ungrateful to the Americans for their help.”

  “Excellent. I think we should consider another attack on one of the Japanese airfields. If we destroy some of their aircraft, I seriously doubt they will be able to replace them anytime soon. That could free up our movement and allow us to broaden our area of operations.”

  Santana sat by the radio, listening on earphones. His eyes widened, he tore the earphones off his head and jumped up. “Where’s the commander? Where’s Dewey?” said Santana.

  “I think he’s in the caves,” said Green, cleaning his BAR rifle.

  Santana ran off in the direction of the caves.

  Ho, Giap, and Dewey leaned over a map. “I am thinking of a similar-sized force like the one we used on the French fortress. We were able to move quickly with being noticed. I suggest we do the same this time—” Dewey was interrupted by Santana running through the entrance of the cave.

  “Commander, I need to speak with you,” said Santana, out of breath.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until we are finished,” said Dewey, annoyed at being interrupted.

  “No, sir.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s over.”

  “What’s over?”

  “The war. The Japanese have accepted the terms of surrender.”

  Dewey was shocked. “Are you sure?”

  “It was on the radio. We are to stand down immediately.”

  Dewey couldn’t help but grin. Ho and Giap seemed less than joyful at the news. “I’ll join you and the other men in a few minutes,” said Dewey.

  “Yeah. Okay. I mean… this is good news, right?” said Santana.