For several hours he endured constant harassment. At intervals, officers stepped up and beat him. Then the same questions were asked again. When he said that 300 planes were based on Iwo, his captors displayed photographs showing that approximately 150 fighters actually operated from there. Trapped in this lie, he was rewarded with another beating.
The questioning became more intense. One officer demanded that he tell what he knew of the atomic bomb, dropped two days before on Hiroshima. McDilda assured him that he knew absolutely nothing about the weapon. The Japanese kept returning to the theme of the atomic bomb. McDilda repeatedly denied any knowledge of it.
Before midnight, a door opened and a general stepped in. He, too, insisted that McDilda tell about the bomb. When the lieutenant did not, the general drew out his sword and held it up before the captive’s face. Then he jabbed forward, cutting through an open sore on McDilda’s lip. Blood streamed down onto the American’s chin and flying suit. The general screamed, “If you don’t tell me about the bomb, I’ll personally cut off your head.” Then he stalked from the room.
McDilda was badly shaken. He hurt terribly from the many beatings. His face was cut, his torn lip throbbed from the sword slash. As the interrogators picked up the familiar questioning about the bomb, the pilot wondered just what he could tell them about it in order to stay alive. He could recall having heard someone on Iwo talking about the splitting of atoms, of negative and positive charges. Marcus McDilda began to tell the Japanese secret police about the atomic bomb.
Hoping his heavy southern drawl would confuse the interpreter, the pilot from Florida began: “As you know, when atoms are split, there are a lot of plusses and minuses released. Well, we’ve taken these and put them in a huge container and separated them from each other with a lead shield. When the box is dropped out of a plane, we melt the lead shield and the plusses and minuses come together. When that happens, it causes a tremendous bolt of lightning and all the atmosphere over a city is pushed back! Then when the atmosphere rolls back, it brings about a tremendous thunderclap, which knocks down everything beneath it!”
The interrogators prodded him to go on. McDilda continued: “The bomb is about 36 feet long and 24 feet wide.”
The Japanese asked, “Do you know the next target for this weapon?” McDilda thought a minute, then chose the two cities whose destruction might be most demoralizing. He said, “I believe Kyoto and Tokyo. Tokyo is supposed to be bombed in the next few days.”
The excited secret policemen pressed him for further details but McDilda was running out of ideas. He kept going back to his original lies. One of the interrogators left the room and went to a phone. He put through a call to Tokyo to the main headquarters of the secret police in Japan.
Back in the small room, Marcus McDilda continued to tell his preposterous story to fascinated officers, who were appalled at the news that Tokyo might become a victim of the terrible new bomb.
SIX
The Genie
On the afternoon of the eighth of August, Chuck Sweeney had flown The Great Artiste over the Pacific and released another dummy bomb into the sea. This one contained all component parts of the Fat Man except the deadly core of plutonium. All fuses, switches and detonators worked perfectly. Up until that moment, all the varied components needed to trigger the bomb in flight had not been assembled together inside the casing. When the first plutonium device was exploded in New Mexico in July, it was on a stationary tower and lacked some of the sophisticated gadgetry vital to a drop from the bomb bay of a B-29. Commander Fred Ashworth, aboard with Sweeney, was elated by the performance of the weapon. He knew that the Fat Man would be dropped on Japan within twenty-four hours.
When The Great Artiste got back to Tinian, Crew 15 was told that it would fly again the next morning. Since weather reports from Japan indicated unsettled conditions would prevail for five days after the ninth of August, the Fat Man would leave within hours.
Admiral Purnell and General Groves had often discussed the importance of putting a second bomb on target as quickly as possible after the first in order to impress the Japanese with the fact that the United States was actually in production of the weapon, that the future held only the prospect of more and more atomic warfare. It was Purnell who had initially proposed that it would take two bombs to end the war. Groves concurred in that belief. Harry Truman evidently did, too. He ordered atomic bombs dropped on “the two cities named on the way back from Potsdam.” Unless expressly countermanded by radio from Washington, field commanders on Tinian could proceed accordingly. Orders for the second atomic mission were cut.
While Sweeney talked to his men about the mission, scientists completed the assembly of the Fat Man. Just before they inserted the plutonium itself, General Tom Farrell, Groves’ deputy on Tinian, held in his hands the dark-grayish metal. It felt warm to his touch and he found it almost impossible to believe that this amount of matter, cupped in his palms, could actually destroy a city.
The officers of Crew 15 moved into a guarded Quonset, where they pored over maps of targets as they had done for a week. After leaving for a brief supper, they returned to the tedious chore in the hut. At nine o’clock, intelligence specialists seemed satisfied and the tired and tense men walked out to their barracks and a brief rest.
In the enlisted men’s area, tension also gripped the five sergeants from The Great Artiste. Normal horseplay was missing. Abe Spitzer brooded. Ray Gallagher thought of what he’d seen over Hiroshima and felt queasy. He tried to write a letter to his family but was not able to concentrate. Ed Buckley and Pappy Dehart were almost silent, not even bothering to kid with Gallagher or John Kuharek.
Shortly after 11:00 P.M. the five men dropped their wallets on the beds of friends not flying that night and strolled across the field to the bustling briefing room for their last instructions.
The map on the wall clearly indicated the primary target, Kokura, in the northern part of Kyushu. The alternate target would be Nagasaki, on the western side of the same island.
Colonel Tibbets rose and made a short speech, in which he told the men that the Fat Man was radically different from the Hiroshima model and would make the first bomb obsolete. He mentioned that Washington was watching this mission closely, cautioned the crews to do a good job, and wished them luck.
Intelligence officers followed with the details of the mission.
Three planes would fly together to the target. Chuck Sweeney would carry the bomb, Fred Bock the instruments, and Major Jim Hopkins the movie cameras plus scientific personnel from England as observers. Since The Great Artiste had been outfitted for the Hiroshima flight as an instrument laboratory, it had been decided to leave it that way for the second mission. Fred Bock would fly The Great Artiste while Chuck Sweeney used Bock’s own plane, Bock’s Car, to carry the Fat Man.
Three officers had been added to the ten members of Crew 15. Navy commander Fred Ashworth would be in charge of the weapon. Lieutenant Philip Barnes would be his assistant. Lieutenant Jake Beser, an electronics specialist, would handle the radar countermeasures unit, monitoring Japanese frequencies and those on which the fuses for the Fat Man operated. It was his job to see that the enemy did not jam the bomb’s fuse frequencies and prematurely detonate the Fat Man.
Weather experts told the assembled crews that a typhoon was wandering about off Iwo Jima. Therefore, rendezvous had been arranged at Yakoshima, a tiny island off the southern coast of Kyushu. The three planes must join there within fifteen minutes of the appointed moment.
Two weather planes would have reported conditions over the designated cities by that time. Sweeney and Ashworth would then proceed to their target based on the data given them by the reconnaissance craft.
Ashworth and Beahan were cautioned again that under no circumstances was the bomb to be dropped other than by visual, naked-eye observation of the aiming point in each city. Officials in Washington had insisted on this requirement in order to minimize any chances of a wasted drop, a negligibl
e result.
The location of air-sea rescue units was outlined. Four B-29’s were deployed to guide stricken aircraft to submarines which would pick up ditched personnel. The B-29’s themselves carried survival equipment to be dropped to crash-landed crews.
Cruising and bombing altitudes were set. Sweeney was to come over the target at thirty-one thousand feet. One by one, the minutiae of the special flight were discussed.
On one point, the intelligence people were disquietingly vague. They seemed unable to forecast the strength of Japanese fighter opposition in the Kyushu area. Since the bombing of Hiroshima, no one could venture a prediction as to how the enemy would react to a small number of planes trying to penetrate the mainland. It was entirely possible that the Japanese were lying in wait for Crew 15.
After Chaplain Downey said a short prayer, the crews filed out to the mess hall. Most ate sparingly as pre-flight tension knotted their stomachs. When they reached the runway, several hundred men were milling around the three planes.
Number 77, Bock’s Car, stood in the glare of over thirty klieg lights set up around it. In its bomb bay, the Fat Man waited. Shiny black and bulbous, it measured 10 feet 8 inches long by 5 feet in diameter. Inside its casing, meticulously machined pieces of plutonium were carefully arranged. When they came together under violent pressure, people in a Japanese city would burn to death.
Cameramen were on hand to record the takeoff. Generals hovered around the plane. Armed guards stood by to prevent any close inspection of the weapon. Fire-fighting equipment lined the strip in case the ship failed to negotiate the takeoff. Bob Lewis, the Enola Gay’s copilot, teased Jim Van Pelt about this possibility. Van Pelt was not amused. Should the plane crash, aviation gas might ignite the high explosive in the bomb and trigger a release of nuclear energy. A senior officer on Tinian, terrified that the Fat Man might explode prematurely, had insisted on a written assurance that such a thing would not happen. Parsons and Ramsey had freely given it to him. If they were wrong, no one would be left to call them to account.
On The Great Artiste, three cylinders containing instruments for measuring the blast had been loaded into the bomb bay. Fastened to the outside of each one was an envelope, containing a white piece of paper on which Dr. Luis Alvarez had written a plaintive appeal in longhand.
Earlier, he and two other scientists on Tinian, Phil Morrison and Robert Serber, had recalled that Professor Ryukochi Sagane, a Japanese physicist, had studied with them at the University of California in 1938. Reasoning that Sagane, a nuclear expert, would be able to explain to his own government the chilling truth of Hiroshima, Alvarez penned an eloquent message to his colleague in Japan and taped it to the instruments that would record the death of another Japanese city.
Headquarters
Atomic Bomb Command
August 9, 1945
To: Prof. R. Sagane
FROM: Three of your former scientific colleagues during your stay in the United States.
We are sending this as a personal message to urge that you use your influence as a reputable nuclear physicist, to convince the Japanese General Staff of the terrible consequences which will be suffered by your people if you continue in this war.
You have known for several years that an atomic bomb could be built if a nation were willing to pay the enormous cost of preparing the necessary material. Now that you have seen that we have constructed the production plants, there can be no doubt in your mind that all the output of these factories, working 24 hours a day, will be exploded on your homeland.
Within the space of three weeks, we have proof-fired one bomb in the American desert, exploded one in Hiroshima, and fired the third one this morning.
We implore you to confirm these facts to your leaders, and to do your utmost to stop the destruction and waste of life which can only result in the total annihilation of all your cities if continued. As scientists, we deplore the use to which a beautiful discovery has been put, but we can assure you that unless Japan surrenders at once, this rain of atomic bombs will increase manyfold in fury.
The letter was unsigned.
Colonel Tibbets came to the side of Bock’s Car and spoke quietly to the men. As he discussed the mission, Sergeant Kuharek, the engineer, came down from the ship and spoke to him and Major Sweeney. His words chilled the listening crew for he had found a serious problem inside the plane. The lower rear bomb bay auxiliary transfer fuel pump was not operating and six hundred gallons of gas were trapped. This would mean going on the lengthy trip without the reassurance of the reserve fuel supply.
Sweeney and Tibbets discussed the situation for a few minutes. To abort the flight would be calamitous. It was important to drop the Fat Man in quick succession following the Little Boy to convince the Japanese that there was an unending supply of the new weapons. To delay now would give the enemy time to reflect, to rationalize, to gain his balance.
Sweeney turned to his men. “To hell with it,” he said. “We’re going anyway.” The plane could land at Iwo Jima on the way back and refuel.
On Tinian that night, jagged streaks of lightning laced the sky. Crew 15 sweated in the oppressive heat as the giant silver plane rolled from its hardstand toward Able Runway. Afraid that the Japanese might be eavesdropping on the wavelengths, Chuck Sweeney kept radio silence. He neither spoke nor was spoken to by the control tower.
Number 77’s motors roared as the engines were checked for power. Sweeney strained to see down the runway, then released his brakes. Bock’s Car rumbled down the strip toward the west. To Jim Van Pelt in the navigator’s seat, the direction of takeoff itself seemed a bad omen. Always before Crew 15 had taken off from North Field into an east wind.
The air speed indicator reached toward 100, then 120 as the heavily laden plane raced over concrete. Spectators watching the hazardous takeoff tried mentally to lift it into the air but Bock’s Car was being held right to the end of the field by the weight of the Fat Man in its belly.
As the Pacific rushed at him, Chuck Sweeney pulled up on the controls and the bomber rose slowly over the water. Normally a bright spotlight marked the ocean’s edge but on this night it was unaccountably turned off. The B-29 held at fifty feet in level flight and turned ponderously to the north, climbing as it went.
It was 1:56 A.M. Japanese time. On the ground, scientists and generals breathed a collective sigh, and Dr. Ramsey went straight to his quarters and wrote a letter to Robert Oppenheimer, outlining the need for better safety precautions on the next takeoff with a Fat Man.
Shortly thereafter, the other two planes took off. An hour later, Dr. Robert Serber, who had last been seen taxiing off in the camera plane, suddenly turned up at the headquarters building. Because Serber had forgotten his parachute, Major Hopkins had dismissed him from the aircraft and he had walked the long way back through the darkness to report to General Farrell. Farrell was infuriated because Serber was vital to the mission. He was the only man of the crew who was trained to operate the high-speed camera needed to photograph the bomb’s detonation. The general immediately ordered radio silence broken and contacted the airborne camera plane. For the next half hour Tinian instructed Hopkins on the proper use of the vital photographic equipment. The disconsolate Serber then joined the rest of the people on Tinian in their long wait for word from Japan.
At 2:32 A.M. Bock’s Car reached seven thousand feet and was on top of the clouds. Some turbulence buffeted the ship as it headed into the edge of the typhoon that had been reported earlier. Chuck Sweeney went back to the tunnel to get some sleep. Don Albury handled the controls in Sweeney’s absence. Jake Beser napped near his special equipment. In the nose, Kermit Beahan completed his first assignment. Asked to record the mission for posterity, he had all the crew members say a few words for a tape recording. One by one he solicited their home towns, their vital statistics. When he finished, Beahan put his gear down and went to sleep on his favorite pillow. John Kuharek fussed over his fuel gauges. The thought of the trapped gas weighed heavily o
n him. Abe Spitzer read a Reader’s Digest condensation of Our Hearts Were Young and Gay, while Pappy Dehart, alone in the tail, gazed out at the receding cloud formations. Jim Van Pelt worked over his charts quietly. He could not afford a navigational error. Intermittently, he and Ed Buckley tested the radar to make sure that it was operating properly. Huddled in his seat, Fred Olivi slept soundly.
Commander Ashworth and Lieutenant Barnes worked over a little black box. Ashworth was the man most responsible for the Fat Man that day, the officer personally chosen by General Groves as accountable for “the care and operation of the bomb until its release on the target and for decisions concerning its tactical use.” In effect, Ashworth and Sweeney would hold a joint command. They would consult on any difficulties in identifying the target, on any question of ditching the bomb or of choosing a secondary target—on any emergencies that might arise. In case of disagreement between them, Ashworth, as project officer, would have the final decision.
Ashworth watched while Barnes monitored the insides of the black box, connected to the Fat Man by an inch-thick umbilical cable. Just after takeoff, Ashworth and Barnes had checked out the systems in the weapon. Nearly halfway to Japan, they were shocked to see that the red light on the black box was on, signifying that all firing circuits were closed. The enormity of this discovery was terrifying. Barnes calmly opened up the console and methodically checked every wiring sequence. After a tense half hour, he smiled and sighed, “I’ve found it.” A switch had failed and caused the arming light to glow. Barnes promptly corrected the problem.
Number 77 went west of Iwo Jima at 5:04 A.M. On Iwo, a substitute B-29 waited to take the Fat Man to Japan in case Bock’s Car had run into mechanical difficulties. But the solitary bomber kept on going, climbing steadily to its assigned altitude of thirty-one thousand feet. In the Plexiglas nose, Kermit Beahan could see an almost solid blanket of clouds which obscured the ocean from view.
The World War II Chronicles Page 9