LeMay had announced he would want to carry out the bombing operation using a single unescorted plane. He pointed out that the Japanese were unlikely to pay any serious attention to a solitary aircraft flying at high altitude, and would probably assume it was either on a reconnaissance or weather mission.
Groves had approved the idea. He did not tell LeMay that Tibbets had already come to a similar conclusion and that the 509th’s training had been devised with that plan in mind.
LeMay had returned to Guam believing he would soon be responsible for delivering a weapon he didn’t yet entirely have faith in. Nor was he convinced that Tibbets and the 509th were the best choice for the mission. LeMay thought it might be preferable for one of his own Pacific combat-hardened veterans to do the job, a crew that had already proved its worth over Japan.
Tibbets, completely unaware of this, had flown from Wendover to Washington to attend this conference in Arnold’s office. Having completed his evaluation of the reconnaissance photographs, he waited for questions from Groves and Arnold, chief of the air force.
They did not come. The two men stared silently at the photographs, their eyes going first to the glossy, thirty-inch-square prints of Hiroshima, then to those of Niigata and Kokura, the two other targets now on the list of Japanese cities reserved for possible atomic attack.
Groves asked Tibbets how he would approach Hiroshima.
Using his hand to indicate a route across the photograph, Tibbets explained that he would begin his bombing run east of the city and approach Hiroshima at an angle of ninety degrees to the rivers bisecting it. He pointed at a spot on the photograph close to Hiroshima Castle, where the Ota River breaks into tributaries.
“Suppose that’s the aiming point. Approached crossways, any one of the riverbanks would provide a handy reference point against which the bombardier could check his final calculations. If we flew up one of the rivers, the bombardier would be looking mainly at water through his bombsight. It would be harder for him to tell when he was close to the AP.”
Groves permitted himself a rare joke. “Colonel, I think by the time your bombardier gets over the target, he’ll be able to spot it blindfolded.”
The men around the table sat down, and the discussion continued on other aspects of launching an atomic strike.
Groves was involving himself in such detailed discussions because he had come to believe that
… some of the Air Force people … displayed a total lack of comprehension of what was involved. They had assumed that the atomic bomb would be handled like any other new weapon: that when it was ready for combat use, it would be turned over to the commander in the field, and though he might be given a list of recommended targets, he would have complete freedom of action in every respect.
The chief of the Manhattan Project felt the matter was “too complicated and all-important to be treated so casually”; that decisions about its use should be vested in him, though he did concede that “the President would also share in the control, not so much by making original decisions as by approving or disapproving the plans made by the War Department.”
Watching Groves now, on the opposite side of the table, Tibbets was struck yet again that here was a man “who would move hell on earth to get his own way.”
Tibbets had also worked out Groves’s tactics: he “didn’t like a face-off, preferring to attack from the flank.”
Tibbets, on the other hand, believed in a frontal assault on any problem—or on any opposition. He thought that too much of his time was being consumed “messing; a lot of hours were being spent discussing imponderables.”
But one imponderable Tibbets thought well worth discussing was that of the likely prevailing weather conditions over the target.
Ever since April, air force meteorologists had been preparing summary charts of the conditions that could be expected in the coming months over Japan. The data were based on information provided by the U.S. Weather Bureau and on old weather maps from the marine observatory at Kobe for the period 1927 to 1936.
The prognosis was poor. From June to September there was a maximum of only six days a month when cloudiness was likely to be three-tenths or less. For this period, eight-tenths cloud could be expected for at least eighteen days in any month.
Bombing by radar had been considered and rejected. After considerable study, an expert had concluded:
It is apparently quite possible to completely misinterpret the images on the radar screen; a section of rural Japan could be mistaken for a city. With radar bombing and a good operator, the chance of placing the bomb within a given 1,000 feet circle is about 1% to 2%. This figure takes into account the fact that the probability of entirely missing the target area is from 70% to 50%.
By bombing visually, however, “in clear weather the probability that a good bombardier can place the bomb within a given circle of 1,000 feet radius lies between 20% and 50%.”
Tibbets’s own bombardiers were regularly dropping their practice bombs into a three-hundred-foot circle.
The air force meteorologist then told the meeting that between then and Christmas, August was probably the best time to drop the atomic bomb, “with the early part of the month offering marginally better weather conditions than the latter.”
Tibbets liked the meteorologist’s next suggestion. “Suppose no weather forecast at all was made, but that the mission started out on a given day, preceded by spotter planes who would radio back weather reports to the bomber while it was in the air. The bomber could then proceed to that target showing the clearest weather.”
Tibbets felt this would be a simple and relatively uncomplicated procedure. The 509th could provide the weather planes, and he himself would be free to make the final decision, in the air, clear of any outside interference and pressures and with the very latest weather information, on which Japanese city would be bombed.
Lewis held back sixty-five tons of bomber, its tanks filled with seven thousand gallons of fuel, while he watched the rev counter. The needle climbed to 2200 and remained constant. The bomber shuddered, protesting against the brakes that held it at the end of the Wendover runway.
The copilot, seated beside Lewis, angled the wing flaps for takeoff. Over the intercom, Shumard and Stiborik, in the waist blister turrets, confirmed the flaps were set. Duzenbury reported all four engines were functioning smoothly.
Only then, satisfied that all the checks prior to takeoff had been made, did Lewis push the throttles forward to their full power positions and release the brakes.
At 260 feet a second, the B-29 rushed down the runway, carrying nine men, their equipment and personal belongings on the most exciting journey any of them had ever made.
Beneath them, in the bomb bay, was the remainder of the whiskey that Beser had purchased in Cuba, and a variety of goodies from the Wendover PX. The ever-thoughtful Lewis, looking out for his crew, particularly the enlisted men, had suggested they should stock up on any of the things they might miss in the Pacific.
Nelson had picked up a pile of paperbacks, thrillers and adventure stories. He planned to read a book on every mission he made over Japan. Caron had stowed away some good-quality stationery to write home to his wife. Shumard had purchased a box camera to take some photographs.
Accompanying them were also the crew’s “trophies”—a couple of pairs of panties from bar girls in Salt Lake City, a carton of condoms which nobody claimed ownership to, and a garter belt, clipped over the toilet seat.
As usual, Lewis had explained the “house rule” for using the toilet. The first man to use it would be responsible for emptying and cleaning the chemical bucket at the end of the journey.
Lewis had known crew members to “bend their guts to avoid being the first to use the can.” This always amused him, as he had trained himself to manage a ten-hour flight without once having to crawl back through the plane’s central tunnel to use the toilet.
He eased the bomber into the air and began to circle over the base. He switched on
the intercom. “Hold on! We’re gonna buzz the tower!”
Caron, in the tail turret, braced himself.
At full power, the B-29 swooped down on the base. Shouting like dervishes, the crew encouraged Lewis to fly ever lower. Lewis tipped the plane on one wing tip. Soon his port wing was inches clear of the ground as the bomber made its madcap way across the airfield. Caron thought they “must have scared the pants off anybody watching, buzzing the field like a fighter plane.”
The angry voice of the controller in the tower ordered Lewis to gain height at once.
The bomber continued on its low-level course, careering over the ground, its wing tip still only inches away from destruction. It was, for Nelson, “a magnificent example of flying skill.”
Lewis eased the bomber to its cruising height and headed south. Already on Tinian were over twelve hundred men from the 509th and twelve of the group’s B-29s.
The excitement on board Lewis’s aircraft was unabated. None of the crew had ever before been overseas to a combat area. Most of their knowledge of the war had come from the movies and the Saturday Evening Post articles that Caron collected.
To them, war was a “chance to do something for your country,” to “bring peace to the world,” or, as Lewis preferred it, “to go and beat hell outta the Japs like they tried to beat hell outta us at Pearl and other places.”
Lewis was not a bloodthirsty, vengeful young man; nor, indeed, were any of the crew flying south with him. They were, in Caron’s words, “just average guys going to do a job.”
Now, flying to what they hoped would be a tropical paradise, Lewis marked the moment of departure from Wendover. “Tinian, here we come!”
The Enola Gay as photographed in September 1945 (Photo: George Caron)
The crew of the first atomic mission. Kneeling: Sergeant Joseph Stiborik, Sergeant George Caron, Sergeant Richard Nelson, Sergeant Robert Shumard, Sergent Wyatt Duzenbury. Standing: Lieutenant Colonel Porter (ground officer, not on crew), Captain Theodore Van Kirk, Major Thomas Ferebee, Colonel Paul Tibbets, Captain Robert Lewis, Lieutenant Jacob Beser. Missing from photo: Navy Captain William Parsons, Lieutenant Morris Jeppson. (Photo: George Caron)
Colonel Paul Tibbets waves before taking off on the first atomic mission. (Photo: Paul Tibbets)
Tibbets, on return from atomic mission, wearing the Distinguished Service Cross (Photo: George Caron)
Captain Robert Lewis in the aircraft commander’s seat (Photo: Robert Lewis)
Tail-gunner George R. Caron (Photo: Richard Nelson)
Caron at his post aboard the Enola Gay (Photo: George Caron)
Chaplain William Downey (Photo: William Downey)
Tail-gunner George R. Caron (Photo: Richard Nelson)
Duzenbury in the tunnel connecting the rear and forward sections of the Enola Gay. Below him is the hatch leading to the bomb bay. (Photo: John King)
Radar operator Jacob Beser (Photo: Jacob Beser)
Assistant engineer Robert Shumard (Photo: Richard Nelson)
Navigator Theodore “Dutch” Van Kirk (Photo: Theodore Van Kirk)
Inside the top-secret compound of the 509th Composite Group (Photo: John King)
The wreckage of crashed aircraft on Runway A was a constant reminder of the dangers crews faced on take-off. (Photo: Paul Tibbets)
In August 1945, Tinian Island held the world’s largest operational airfield. In the foreground are the four parallel runways of North Field. (Photo: John King)
The Enola Gay returns to Tinian. (Photo: John King)
General Spaatz salutes Tibbets after decorating him. (Photo: George Caron)
This reconnaissance photograph, recently declassified, was used in planning the atomic attack on Hiroshima. (Photo: U.S. Army Air Force)
Mayor Senkichi Awaya of Hiroshima (Photo: Authors’ Collection)
Matsuo Yasuzawa, the instructor of kamikaze pilots who landed in Hiroshima just before the atomic bomb fell (Photos: Matsuo Yasuzawa)
Kanai Hiroto, who helped interrogate American prisoners of war in Hiroshima (Photo: Kanai Hiroto)
Kizo Imai, one of nearly 500 Japanese soldiers in hiding on Tinian Island in 1945 (Photo: Kizo Imai)
The staff of Second General Army Headquarters, Hiroshima. Among those shown are: Field Marshal Hata (front row, fourth from left); Prince RiGu (front row, third from left); Lieutenant Colonel Oya (second row, far right). (Photo: Lieutenant Colonel Oya)
Mochitsura Hashimoto, commander of submarine I.58 (Photo: Mochitsura Hashimoto)
Mitsuo Fuchida, leader of the raid on Pearl Harbor, who arrived in Hiroshima shortly after the atomic bomb was dropped (Photo: Wide World Photos)
Hiroshima—before (Photo: Koichi Sako)
Hiroshima—after (Photo: Robert Lewis)
Shima Surgical Hospital after the atomic bomb exploded directly overhead (Photo: Dr. Kaoru Shima)
Hiroshima Industrial Promotion Hall, before the detonation (Photo: Hiroshima Central Municipal Library)
Now known as the atomic dome, the Industrial Promotion Hall has been allowed to remain largely as it was immediately after the detonation. (Photo: Reader’s Digest)
Acceleration
JUNE 28, 1945,
TO AUGUST 2, 1945
1
Exhausted from his climb up Mount Lasso in the northern part of Tinian, Chief Warrant Officer Kizo Imai, Imperial Japanese Navy, lay flat on the moist jungle carpet of rotting leaves and fungi, face close to the earth, frayed cap pulled down over his forehead.
Hunger and a sense of duty drove the thirty-year-old officer to crawl regularly to this vantage point; at 564 feet, it was the highest hill on the island.
From here, Imai could see many of the compounds where the twenty thousand Americans on Tinian were billeted. More important, he could watch where they dumped their garbage. They constantly changed the sites. Imai supposed it was to make it more difficult for him, and the five hundred other Japanese troops in hiding on Tinian, to scavenge for food. Starvation had made them desperate. Even when the Americans dumped their garbage in the treacherous currents around the island, the Japanese plunged into the sea at night to grub for it.
Imai’s home on Tinian was a cave, “a hole in Hell,” where lice, rats, and other vermin added to the misery of life. Unshaven, unwashed, unkempt, he and others like him lived a troglodyte existence, seldom daring to light fires in their jungle hideaways lest they give away their positions. In his cave, Imai had left behind eighteen soldiers—all who survived of the forty-eight men he had originally led into hiding when the Americans had overrun the island eleven months before.
Imai had come to Tinian to help build airfields; three runways had been completed and a fourth was under construction when, in June 1944, the Americans had struck.
Air attacks and naval bombardments had softened up the islands for six weeks. After Saipan was overrun, heavy artillery based there systematically pounded the northern end of Tinian. In one fifteen-day period, a shell a minute fell on the island. Fighters swooped low over Tinian dropping napalm bombs, the first time they were used in the Pacific.
In between, the Japanese garrison dug in. They believed that the Americans would attempt a landing at Tinian Town. The Japanese fortified the area; many of their guns were British six-inchers, captured at Singapore. And throughout the island, around sugarcane fields and behind thick jungle foliage, machine-gun nests were positioned and small foxholes prepared in which a solitary soldier huddled, cuddling explosives close to his body; if an American tank passed over his foxhole, he was ready to blow himself up along with the tank.
On the fortieth day of the siege, July 24, Imai had peered through the half-light of dawn to see the American battle fleet slowly circling the island, pumping thousands more shells on the ravaged landscape.
Opposite Tinian Town, the armada had halted and lowered its landing craft. The Japanese began firing their heavy guns. The Americans quickly retreated and reembarked. The Japanese were delighted.
Too late, they re
alized the attack on Tinian Town was a ruse. The bulk of the American forces had landed in the north of the island—a rugged, rocky area that the Japanese had thought unassailable.
With a foothold established, the U.S. marines had stormed inland. It took them eight days to reach Tinian Town and capture the island. Four hundred Americans were killed; over eight thousand Japanese died.
Chief Warrant Officer Imai had fled to the jungle, along with some seven hundred other Japanese survivors. In the months since then, that number had been whittled away to less than five hundred hunted men.
Now, on Mount Lasso, waiting for the garbage trucks to appear, Imai began his other task: noting down how the American forces were deploying themselves. This he did in preparation for an event he still expected to happen “at any moment”: an invasion by imperial forces come to recapture the island. When that day came, Imai hoped to lead his men in a banzai charge against the Americans.
Meanwhile, through his binoculars, he could survey almost the whole island. Tinian from north to south is about twelve miles long; its width is never more than five miles. Gently undulating, the island is really a plateau jutting up from the Pacific. Most of its coastline consists of sheer cliffs of rusty brown lava rising from the sea. Tinian is at the southern end of the Mariana Islands, which together form an arc over 425 miles of the Pacific—clumps of coral that, until World War II, few people knew existed.
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