by Jeff Shaara
He turned toward the Quonset huts, saw the guards, knew there would be more, MPs mostly, and others, some of them civilians. Not all the security for the project had been military, guards watching guards. There were more civilians there as well. Scientists had been arriving for the past couple of days, sent by Dr. Oppenheimer to see the bomb’s final journey for themselves. More than one of those men came with a cloak of arrogance that he would actually take the ride, see the bomb’s delivery for himself. But Tibbets knew better. Even on Tinian there were any number of men who had the authority to order themselves aboard any bomber at any time. But not this time. The crew was his, and the passengers were limited to just two, Parsons and his one assistant, the men who had one very specific job to do.
He walked away, but not far, was drawn back to the plane, examined her once more. He’d noticed the fine work of the artist, the name painted near the snout with simple black letters. On the tail of the plane was painted a large R inside a black circle. That was Tibbets’s decision as well, to blend the Enola Gay in with the hundreds of other B-29s that spread out on the fields across Tinian. There would be nothing to single her out, no special insignia to attract a Japanese saboteur, or, should the plane go down in Japan, nothing to tell the enemy that the plane was anything but one more unfortunate bomber who would not return home. He felt satisfied with that, but looked again toward the bomb bay, pictured the feverish work Parsons was trying to accomplish. Tibbets had always admired passion, and knew this navy captain had more than his share. Tibbets shook his head, thought, nothing else for me to do out here. It’ll be time for the briefing soon, and I’d rather not go in there smelling like I just ran a couple hundred laps around this field. He started away from the plane, and the question came to him, nagging him yet again, one of those decisions over which Tibbets had no say. The answer would be found at Los Alamos most likely, and Tibbets knew it was a question he would have to ask Dr. Oppenheimer, or even General Groves. Surely someone would have the answer. He walked toward the shade, toward his quarters, thought, largest bomb ever dropped on an enemy. Why in hell would they call this thing Little Boy?
From Los Alamos to Washington, from Guam to Tinian, the briefings were many and often, intense information sessions, conveying news or engaging debate. For months the meetings had occupied the time and the thoughts of every man who had any association with the Manhattan Project. At each briefing some of the men already knew the details of what they were to discuss, others arriving at a briefing only to learn something they had not even imagined before. It had been the same with the men of the 509th, the pilots and their crews finally learning the date and time of their mission, and what each crew would be expected to do. With the final go-ahead for the mission, Tibbets had scheduled one last briefing, this one for the flight crews of the various B-29s who would take part. Three of those would take off an hour ahead of the Enola Gay, serving as weather observers, to confirm the conditions over each of the target cities, Hiroshima, Kokura, and Nagasaki. A fourth would fly only as far as Iwo Jima, then land and taxi to a position close beside a pit in the ground that had been dug exactly as the one on Tinian. That plane, the Top Secret, would serve as a spare, in the event some mechanical trouble developed on the Enola Gay on the outbound portion of the flight. An additional plane would trail the Enola Gay by several miles for the primary purpose of dropping sensor equipment by parachute after the bomb’s blast, gathering data for the scientists, several of whom were allowed aboard the trailing plane to witness the immediate aftermath several miles shy of the final target. Tibbets also knew that on that plane, The Great Artiste, cameras would be in high gear, every man who had one certain to use up as much film as he could capturing the moment and its aftermath.
The final briefing began an hour before midnight on August 5, the first time Tibbets revealed to the flight crews details of the mission, which, rumors aside, the men knew very little about. For the first time, the men were told of the destructive power of the single bomb that hung in the bomb bay of the Enola Gay. The response was much as Tibbets expected, silence, the men digesting the numbers tossed out at them by Deak Parsons, numbers that were of such overwhelming magnitude that Tibbets knew they would respond as he had, no one really able to grasp just what kind of power the bomb held. No matter how many charts and graphs the physicists displayed, none of the men who had dropped bombs on enemy targets could fathom just how much more potent this single weapon would be. As if to emphasize the point, Parsons began to distribute goggles to the crew of the Enola Gay, and the others, the men who would be closest to the actual detonation of the bomb. The men had their own, of course, the usual flight goggles to protect anyone from any frigid blast of air. But these were not flight goggles at all. The lenses were thick and dark, welder’s goggles. The instructions were simple. When the bomb leaves the bomb bay, put them on and keep them on. There would be no exceptions.
When the briefing concluded, there was one more detail, a signal from Tibbets, the men surprised to see their chaplain, Bill Downey, moving up to the platform. Downey had done as Tibbets asked, and he pulled a paper from his jacket pocket, the men quick to understand why Downey was there. In the stark silence, Downey looked at Tibbets, saw the nod, Tibbets knowing that even those men who gave the chaplain little heed would be attentive now. Downey cleared his throat, seemed nervous, read from the paper:
Almighty Father, Who will hear the prayer of them that love Thee, we pray Thee to be with those who brave the heights of Thy Heaven, and who carry the battle to our enemies. Guard and protect them, we pray Thee, as they fly their appointed rounds. May they, as well as we, know Thy strength and power, and armed with Thy might, may they bring this war to a rapid end. We pray Thee that the end of the war may come soon, and that once more we may know peace on earth. May the men who fly this night be kept safe in Thy care, and may they be returned safely to us. We shall go forward trusting in Thee, knowing that we are in Thy care now and forever. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.
After the ninety-minute briefing, there had been a preflight breakfast, a menu chosen mostly by Tibbets himself. For the first time in many weeks, the men were given real eggs, genuine pork sausage, rolled oats, and apple butter, with all the coffee and cold milk the men could hold. But Tibbets knew that, despite the wonderful aroma of the food offered them, his own lack of appetite would be no different from the appetites of the flight crews. They had become accustomed to eating preflight meals at ridiculous hours, and usually the food had been just one more detail, most of the men scarfing down whatever was offered them. But whether it was the briefing, or the gravity of the chaplain’s prayer, the crews spent a tedious half hour in the mess hall they called the Dogpatch Inn, mostly poking and prodding the food on their plates, some of them not eating at all. The silence in the mess hall was one more sign that these men were still absorbing the shock that, after so many months of dead secrecy, after so much security and training with fake bombs and milk runs over nonexistent targets, the real mission was about to begin.
The coffee was hot, and Tibbets gulped it down, his fourth cup, pushed the full plate away, knew he might regret not eating much else. But on board the plane there would be the usual boxed rations, nothing different about that. What little talk there had been in the mess hall was wrung out of the men around him, no one able to hide their nervousness. He scanned the tables, saw no one eating, some men checking their watches, a contagious gesture. At one end of the hall Tibbets saw the cook, Sergeant Easterly, his hands on his hips, a look of obvious disappointment on his frowning face. Tibbets rose, said, “Don’t worry about it, Elliott. When we get back, these boys will be ready for a full-blown feast. See to it.”
The sergeant nodded, grumbling quietly, forced to accept that all his work preparing the special meal had been mostly for naught.
“Yes, sir. Will do.”
The mess sergeant moved out of the room, a prearranged order, the man no part of any briefing. Tibbets moved away from the table, other
s taking his cue, rising with a clatter of metal chairs. The crews of the three observation planes moved more quickly, their takeoff time set for 1:30 A.M., a full hour ahead of the scheduled start for the strike plane. They passed by him, some nodding to him, almost no one speaking. Tibbets was surprised by their tension, their part of the mission seemingly harmless, a casual flight over targets that likely wouldn’t even respond to their presence at all. The Japanese had long understood that above thirty thousand feet, their anti-aircraft fire was virtually meaningless, and though larger formations of the great planes would still draw fire, single bombers would attract almost no attention at all. But the tension in the men’s faces told him how involved they felt in the mission, a brief moment of gratification. No one feels left out, he thought. They know how important they are, every damn one of them.
“Paul? This a good time?”
Tibbets turned, saw the group’s flight surgeon, Don Young, holding a small box. But Tibbets knew exactly what it held, a conversation with the doctor days before. Tibbets said nothing, followed the doctor to one corner of the room. The box was opened now, and Tibbets saw the capsules, knew that Young had made a precise count. There were twelve, one for each member of the Enola Gay’s crew.
Young made a faint smile, said, “Hope you don’t have to use these.”
Tibbets took the box, closed the lid, slipped it into his pocket.
“Not your concern right now. But the odds are in our favor.”
He realized Parsons was watching the scene, standing beyond the closest table. Parsons nodded grimly, had been a part of that first conversation, and so was the only man among the crew who knew what the doctor had given Tibbets. In the event the Enola Gay was to go down over Japan, the contents of the box would be distributed to each man, with an order that Tibbets desperately hoped he never had to give. The capsules were cyanide.
Parsons moved close now, said in a low voice, “Can I have mine?”
Tibbets opened the box again, fished one of the capsules out, saw Parsons hold out a small matchbox, and Tibbets dropped the pill inside, the box disappearing into Parsons’s pocket.
Beside him, the doctor said, “It’s better than putting a bullet in your head. Just keep that in mind. No pain at all.”
Tibbets held up a hand, didn’t need any more of those kinds of observations.
“Thank you, Doctor. I don’t plan on having to take advantage of either option.”
TARMAC, NORTH FIELD, TINIAN
AUGUST 6, 1945, 1:45 A.M.
His crew had moved back through their quarters, quickly retrieving their flight gear, Tibbets not forgetting to grab a healthy dose of pipe tobacco. The jeep was waiting for him, the driver matter-of-fact, just another journey hauling four of the men from one aircrew toward their aircraft. But the black of the night was split wide by a vast sea of light, and Tibbets was stunned to see that the Enola Gay was bathed in spotlights, a far too obvious center of attention. He glanced into the darkness, knew that the island still had its Japanese holdouts, abandoned, desperate men who would scamper through dark fields to inflict whatever damage they could, or steal anything not secured. My God, he thought. They’re getting a hell of a show tonight. I guess … sit back and enjoy it, boys. This is like some damn Hollywood movie premiere. The shock passed, and Tibbets felt annoyance rising, the jeep pulling up close to what was now a massive crowd. He saw cameras, perched on tripods, the popping of flashbulbs, eyes turning his way, calls for him to speak. There were many reporters, the event prearranged by General Farrell. In a few short hours, there would likely be no need for secrecy, and Farrell knew, as did Tibbets, that these men could take all the pictures they wanted, since for now there was no way they could share them with anyone beyond Tinian. What Tibbets had not expected was the carnival atmosphere that surrounded his plane.
He saw Farrell now, the general pushing through the crowd, men reluctantly making way. Farrell held out his hand, and Tibbets accepted it.
“Best of luck, Colonel. This is a hell of a moment. Hell of a moment. We could end the war, you know.”
Behind Farrell, men were scribbling furiously, pencils on paper, jotting down his words. Tibbets didn’t know what to say, suddenly didn’t feel like giving these men anything to jabber about.
“Thank you, sir. Excuse me, I have to make the preflight checks.”
“You bet. Don’t let anyone get in your way.”
Tibbets moved toward the plane, MPs struggling to hold back the eager reporters, some of them in uniform, the official army photographers. Others called out to him still, hoping for a photo of his face, some comment he would offer. Questions came as well, and he ignored that, tried to focus, went through the preflight routine in his mind, the automatic ritual, checking every cowling, every hatchway, the tire pressures, examining the outside of the four engines and the pavement beneath them, searching for oil or hydraulic leaks, any sign that all was not in perfect readiness for takeoff. He moved around the enormous plane, tried to avoid being blinded by the brightest lights, moved to the hatch, saw Parsons pressed back against one of the fat balloon tires by a photographer.
“Just smile! Show me some teeth!”
Parsons seemed terrified, slid away from the man with a curse, and Tibbets saw that his belt was missing the forty-five. Tibbets waited for him, said in a low voice, “You need a sidearm.”
Parsons looked down, cursed again.
“Forgot it. What do I do?”
Tibbets searched the crowd, saw one of the MPs watching him, waved the man over. The face was familiar, and Tibbets said, “Nick, I need your forty-five.”
Parsons pointed sheepishly to his empty belt, and the MP complied immediately.
“Here you go, sir. If you don’t mind … love to get it back. It’ll be a hell of a souvenir.”
Parsons hooked the holster onto his belt, said, “Yeah, fine.”
Tibbets gave the MP a slap on the arm, said nothing, followed Parsons to the hatch, then both men were up and into the plane.
Parsons stood for a long second, seemed to get his breath, and Tibbets was close behind him, said, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Jesus. What a circus. Didn’t expect that.”
“Leave it to generals to make a damn show. Farrell’s a good guy, but he likes to get his name in the paper. Hasn’t been much chance of that before now. Let’s go to work.”
Parsons settled in at the special instrument console, his assistant there already. Tibbets had seen the gashes on Parsons’s hands, fresh cuts from the practice at arming the bomb. He moved into the cockpit, thought, Deak will be fine. We’ll all be fine. Just … do the job. Lewis was already in the co-pilot’s seat, acknowledged Tibbets with a quick nod, no smile.
“Okay, Bob, let’s go through the checklist. I’m ready to find some sky.”
NORTH FIELD, TINIAN, RUNWAY ABLE
AUGUST 6, 1945, 2:45 A.M.
He ignored Lewis now, no banter between them, nothing at all. Tibbets kept his thoughts inside him, a stream of words, thoughts of the amazing weapon in the belly of his plane, the length of the runway, any detail on the checklist they might have missed. Eleven months, he thought. All that training … for this. Well, don’t screw it up.
“Dimples Eight Two to North Tinian Tower. Ready for takeoff on Runway Able.”
The response was immediate.
“Dimples Eight Two. Dimples Eight Two. Cleared for takeoff.”
Tibbets released the brakes, the plane easing forward, slowly, far more slowly than he was used to. Just another takeoff, he thought. Just one more time. Outside the row of runway lights was something new, more lights blinking red. It was a fleet of emergency vehicles, fire trucks mostly, spread out the entire length of the mile-and-a-half strip. Wishful thinking, he thought. This thing noses in, those boys won’t have much to do. They’re just as likely to go up with us.
The lights on each side of the runway were moving past more quickly now, the plane’s speed increasing, and he stared straight ahead,
knew exactly where the end of the runway would be, and how fast he had to go to bring the plane airborne. He felt the sluggishness beneath him, more thoughts rolling through his brain, knew they were carrying four hundred pounds less fuel than usual, any effort to make the plane lighter. That was a damn good idea, he thought. Come on, just a little more speed. They were less than a thousand feet from the end now, and he felt the yoke in his hands move, knew it was Lewis, the man sensing a problem, pulling back, trying to lift the plane off the ground. No! Tibbets jammed the yoke forward, the clear signal to his co-pilot, just a little more! The end of the runway was a thick row of light in front of him, closer now, the plane hugging the ground, Lewis staring fixed, Tibbets as well, feeling the plane’s gentle bounce, the nose starting to rise. He kept the wheels on the ground, the roar of the engines a part of him, filling his brain, the shouting in his ear, his own, a little more … The lights were right in front of him now, and he eased the yoke back, the wheels rising, clearing the lights by a few feet. The plane was flying now, climbing, and he felt the knot inside of him release, realized he was breathing heavily, glanced at Lewis, saw wide-eyed terror on the man’s face. Lewis sat back in his seat, didn’t look at him, and Tibbets nodded to himself, satisfied, thought, just had to make sure, that’s all. He studied the altimeter, knew there was no rush, no need to reach altitude yet. The skies were total darkness, the moon not yet rising, and he studied the instrument panel, the pressures, the levels, the plane’s attitude. He focused again on the altimeter, passing through two thousand feet, a steady climb, the roar of the engines constant, no shudder, no skipping, nothing to cause any of the crew concern. No machine guns, he thought. Great damn idea. Makes this a hell of a lot smoother. The plane continued its climb, and he glanced at his watch, saw that a quick ten minutes had passed, looked to the compass, the heading, three-three-eight degrees, knew that already Saipan would be beneath them. Jap soldiers still there, he thought, probably hear us going over. Some guy in a hilltop hole looking up, trying to see, maybe taking a potshot with his worn-out rifle. Not tonight, pal. By tomorrow, you might not have a war to fight.