Enola Gay

by Gordon Thomas

  However, these three hard-liners had agreed on one important concession. While they still opposed direct negotiation to end the war, they now had no objection to talks starting after Field Marshal Hata’s army had dealt the enemy a crushing blow on the invasion beaches.

  To Arisue, the fact that the three had been moved this far from their previously entrenched position was a “major victory for reality.”

  Outwardly maintaining his careful position between the militarists and the moderates, Arisue had come to favor peace at almost any price apart from unconditional surrender. His overriding objection to such a surrender was that it would likely mean the removal of the emperor, and that was unthinkable.

  On June 22, ten days after the admiral had delivered his report on raw materials and morale, Emperor Hirohito had requested the Inner Cabinet to initiate peace negotiations, using, if possible, the good offices of Russia.

  To this end, on June 24, a former prime minister, Koki Hirota, called upon the Soviet ambassador in Tokyo, Jacob Malik.

  Malik correctly saw the move as an attempt to keep the Russians out of the war. Hirota’s efforts came to nothing.

  There, for the moment, the diplomatic maneuvers rested. Arisue had increasing evidence that Russia was bent on war. His staff was monitoring Soviet troop movements near the Chinese border: a formidable force was being assembled there, probably preparing to attack the Japanese troops facing them in Manchuria.

  Arisue believed that a Russian attack would not be so much concerned with helping the Allies win the war as with establishing Soviet influence in the Pacific. The thought of a Soviet-dominated Japan chilled him.

  The intelligence chief felt it was more urgent than ever to come to terms with the United States. He decided he would have to formulate a new approach to America through the one pipeline he had: the Office of Strategic Services in Bern.

  His agent in the Swiss city, Lieutenant General Seigo Okamoto, had been standing by for weeks to carry a message to the OSS, which could then relay it to Washington.

  Arisue cabled Okamoto requesting he find out the minimum conditions that America would accept for a Japanese surrender.

  Even with a dozen radio sets tuned to different stations, the room was almost totally silent except for the gentle whirring of the fans suspended from the ceiling. Each radio could be heard only through the headset of the man seated before it. The men were monitors, the morning shift of a round-the-clock watch being kept on the airwaves of the Pacific and beyond. They were a part of the communications bureau of Field Marshal Hata’s Second General Army Headquarters.

  The bureau, the nerve center of Hata’s headquarters, was housed in a former school, a long, two-story building at the foot of Mount Futaba, near the East Training Field. Special landlines linked the bureau to General Army Headquarters in Tokyo; other lines ran to military centers on Kyushu—Fukuoka, Sasebo, Nagasaki, and Kagoshima; the bureau was also linked to the naval base at Kure, marine headquarters at Ujina, and the regional defense command in Hiroshima Castle.

  The monitoring room was the bureau’s showpiece; only the large transmitting and monitoring center just outside Tokyo rivaled the listening post at Hiroshima. And never had it been so busy as in these past few weeks, following the arrival in Hiroshima of Lieutenant Colonel Kakuzo Oya, Arisue’s specialist in American affairs, transferred to Hata’s staff as chief intelligence officer.

  The monitoring room could provide the first indication that an actual landing on Kyushu was about to take place. Prior to that, it was expected that the Americans would spend weeks bombarding the invasion area by sea and air.

  Hata hoped he would have sufficient warning of an impending landing for Kyushu’s kamikaze planes and suicide motorboats to attack the invasion armada. Much of the success of this plan depended on the men manning the monitoring room. All of them were either too old or otherwise unfit for combat service. Each had an excellent command of English.

  In eight-hour shifts, they sat, writing pads at the ready, listening to an endless stream of words and music relayed from as far away as Washington, D.C.

  The busiest time was from midday to midnight. During these hours, half the sets in the room were tuned to transmissions from Okinawa, Iwo Jima, and the Marianas. Many of them were in code, but a sufficient number were made in clear language to provide the monitors with information that could be acted upon speedily. These intercepts included not only military radio traffic but also brief radio tests made by B-29 radiomen just before takeoff.

  There was an hour’s time difference between Japan and the Marianas—Hiroshima was one hour behind Tinian—and if the radio tests were made around 3:00 to 4:00 P.M. Hiroshima time, then the monitors knew that a raid could be expected that night. They used the number of tests they picked up as a rough guide to the number of aircraft to be expected.

  The monitors passed their notes to supervisors who, in turn, sent the information to the central communications room. From there, the entire air-raid alert system of western Japan was informed. The whole operation took only minutes.

  As the bombers entered Japanese airspace, the monitors picked up snatches of conversation between aircrews, enabling the supervisors to estimate which areas of Japan the planes meant to attack. The information, along with the intercepts of radio messages to and from ships at sea, was typed up for later analysis. It all helped Hata and Oya to gauge the enemy’s strength and intentions with remarkable accuracy.

  Since coming to Hiroshima, Oya had visited the monitors regularly, hoping his presence was an indication to them of the importance he placed on their work.

  But his real specialty was interrogation. From the days he had first come to work with Arisue, he had shown an aptitude for questioning. It was Arisue’s proud boast that if Oya couldn’t make a man talk, then nobody could.

  Oya still regretted that he had arrived in Hiroshima too late to be the first to interrogate the ten American fliers who had been shot down over Okinawa and brought to the city before the island fell.

  So far, they were the only American POWs in Hiroshima. They were kept at Kempei Tai headquarters in the grounds of Hiroshima Castle.

  5

  The sun was still a glowing ball skimming the horizon on July 12 when Charles Perry, the 509th’s mess officer, rose from his bunk. He stepped gingerly onto the floor. The night before, one of the other officers in the Quonset hut had set traps to catch the rats which roamed the group’s compound. The 509th had moved into their new quarters on Tinian four days ago, and, in spite of the rodents, the consensus was that this time “the Old Man has done us proud.” The men accepted Tibbets’s absence without question: back at Wendover they had become accustomed to their commander’s disappearing.

  Perry hoped that when Tibbets returned from the States he would bring a few “presents”—liquor and cigarettes. In the deft hands of Perry, these items were valuable commodities to barter. The usually urbane, sophisticated mess officer was nowadays behaving “like an Arab trader.”

  Because of his efforts, the group enjoyed a selection of dishes not available to the twenty thousand other Americans on Tinian. It was Perry’s proud boast that “in the 509th a PFC eats better than a five-star general.”

  This morning, as usual, Perry saw that the returning B-29s were “like beads on a string. As soon as one landed, another made its approach. There was always the same number of planes in sight. It was thrilling to watch.”

  It was broad daylight when the last returning bomber landed. The weary crews, who had been almost thirteen hours in the air, would spend most of the day sleeping. As they went to bed, some of the 509th’s crews were preparing, yet again, to practice-bomb the Japanese on nearby Rota. None of them had yet been allowed to fly over Japan.

  Their B-29s were parked in segregated areas on North Field and guarded around the clock. The sentries had orders to shoot any unauthorized person who attempted to approach the airplanes after being challenged.

  This stringent security had alread
y attracted the curiosity of other squadrons. Their questions remained unanswered. Now, as planes from the 509th took off for Rota, catcalls and jeers from a group of combat veterans drifted across North Field.

  The muted resentment which Tibbets had detected was out in the open; the 509th had become an object of derision.

  Soon, the taunts would be turned into verse penned by a clerk in the island’s base headquarters.

  Nobody Knows

  Into the air the secret rose,

  Where they’re going, nobody knows.

  Tomorrow they’ll return again,

  But we’ll never know where they’ve been.

  Don’t ask us about results or such,

  Unless you want to get in Dutch.

  But take it from one who is sure of the score,

  The 509th is winning the war.

  When the other Groups are ready to go,

  We have a program of the whole damned show.

  And when Halsey’s 5th shells Nippon’s shore,

  Why, shucks, we hear about it the day before.

  And MacArthur and Doolittle give out in advance,

  But with this new bunch we haven’t a chance.

  We should have been home a month or more,

  For the 509th is winning the war.

  Thousands of copies of this doggerel were mimeographed and distributed throughout the Pacific command. From Hawaii to the Philippines, men read about this strange outfit on Tinian who stirred themselves to make occasional sorties against a tame target, the Japanese on Rota.

  In public, the 509th laughed off the poem, but it touched a raw nerve among many in the group. Six weeks had now passed since the ground echelon had arrived on Tinian. For them in particular, the weary waiting, having to parry relentless sniping questions, dividing their time between the beach, mess hall, and movie theaters—all had combined to dent their pride. Some of the 509th even wondered if their compound, with its tough-talking guards, was fenced in not as a security precaution but because the group needed “baby-sitting.”

  Beser awoke late, having been until the early hours of the morning in the Tech Area workshop where the atomic bomb would be finally assembled. There, Jeppson and members of the First Ordnance Squadron were preparing for the arrival of the bomb’s component parts.

  Jeppson and the five other specialists on the proximity-fuze mechanism had been among the first to arrive on the island. In their spare time, they had made for themselves a porch out of bomb crates which formed the entrance to the tent they chose to live in; carefully sited on a high bluff where it received maximum breeze, the accommodation was the envy of almost all in the 509th.

  Beser was in a hut close to the cemetery where the Americans who had died taking Tinian were buried. It was also where the remains of the crew he had seen crash were interred; Beser had learned that such crashes by B-29s loaded to the maximum with incendiary bombs were a frequent and disturbing fact of life on Tinian.

  As he dressed, Beser saw that his Quonset hut was empty. He guessed his fellow officers had gone to the beach. He turned on the hut’s radio. The strains of “Sentimental Journey” came through the static. It was followed by a dulcet voice that Beser was fascinated by, but hated.

  Tokyo Rose was making one of her regular propaganda broadcasts to the American forces in the Pacific.

  Twice already she had startled the 509th by making specific references to the group. The first was shortly after the ground echelon landed on Tinian on May 30, Memorial Day. Tokyo Rose noted their arrival and urged them to return home before they fell victim to the victorious Japanese forces.

  Some of the 509th had jeered. Others had shown concern. They wondered how she could possibly know about the most secret unit in the entire American air force. Two weeks later, Tokyo Rose mentioned them again. She warned that the group’s bombers would be easily recognizable to Japanese antiaircraft gunners because of the distinctive “R” symbols on the B-29 tails. This time, nobody scoffed. The insignias had only just been painted on.

  But even if Beser found the omnipresent sources of Tokyo Rose disturbing, he still listened to her beguiling voice.

  This morning, as usual, she had the latest baseball scores from the States; news of the dramas and comedies playing on and off Broadway; details of the fiction and nonfiction bestsellers—all interspersed with current selections from the “Hit Parade.”

  There was no mention of the 509th. Beser switched off the radio, leaving Tokyo Rose to entertain other lonely men thinking of home.

  6

  On July 15, over breakfast, Swedish banker Per Jacobsson explained that all the terms were negotiable—except the clause relating to the emperor. Now he awaited his old friend Allen Dulles’s response.

  Twelve days before, Lieutenant General Seigo Okamoto had received Arisue’s instructions to establish the minimum surrender terms the Allies would accept from Japan—other than unconditional surrender.

  Okamoto had discussed the matter with the Japanese ambassador to Switzerland. They had called in two senior officials of the Bank for International Settlements—to which Jacobsson was financial adviser.

  For several days, this consortium debated what surrender terms they believed would be acceptable to Japan, having received no guidance or encouragement from Tokyo. The group had devised a ploy so daring that even the conservative Jacobsson thought it had a good chance of success.

  They proposed that if the American government would accept the terms of surrender that they, the consortium, had devised and believed the Japanese government would accept—then America should publicly advance those terms as emanating from Washington. In this way, Japan would be offered a face-saving opportunity to surrender.

  Jacobsson had brought the proposals to Dulles’s current headquarters in Wiesbaden, Germany. The suggested terms were: unconditional surrender should be modified so as to include a guarantee of the continuing sovereignty of the emperor; no changes in the Japanese constitution; internationalization of Manchuria; continuation of Japanese control over Formosa and Korea.

  Dulles knew the weakness of his present position. Roosevelt had given him a free hand; Truman had shown himself unwilling to grant such latitude. Dulles was not authorized to speak for the new president or the American government. Further, he was aware of the possible repercussions in America that could result from any sign of appeasement toward the Japanese. And yet, Jacobsson’s view that if the Japanese could keep their emperor they would probably surrender, interested Dulles.

  The Russians were crouched, committed to leap at Japan’s northern flank in August—less than a month away. But Dulles believed the Soviet Union would not stop there. Once she was in the Far East, Russia would stay there, permeating the whole area with her influence.

  He made up his mind.

  He gave Jacobsson a counterproposal. Carefully couched in lawyers’ language, it drew a clear distinction between a firm promise and an “understanding.” But what Dulles was saying was clear: there was a good chance that America would let the emperor stay, provided Hirohito took a public stand now to help end the war.

  Jacobsson was relieved. Dulles’s proposal, if not what the banker wanted, was at least something.

  He hurried back to Bern.

  Dulles began to make plans to fly from the nearby Frankfurt air base to Berlin. He wanted to report to Stimson, who was due in Berlin shortly to take part in the upcoming Big Three Conference at Potsdam.

  7

  From Oppenheimer’s office at Los Alamos, a telephone call was made to the guardhouse farther down on the mesa. The call ordered the sentries to let the approaching convoy pass out through the gates unhampered.

  Accompanied by seven cars was a closed black truck. Four men sat in each car. Beneath their coats were pistols in shoulder holsters; on the car floors were shotguns, rifles, and boxes of ammunition. The men had orders to shoot to kill anybody who attempted to stop the convoy.

  In the car immediately behind the truck rode two army officers.
Their field artillery collar insignia were upside down—an indication of the hurry with which Major Robert Furman and Captain James Nolan had assumed their disguises.

  In reality, Furman was a Princeton engineering graduate, attached to the Manhattan Project. His normal role was to procure strategic materials and help recruit scientific personnel. Nolan was a radiologist at the Los Alamos hospital.

  Today, the two men were beginning a journey scheduled to end on Tinian. Until they reached that destination, they had strict orders not to let out of their sight a fifteen-foot-long crate—it contained the atomic bomb’s inner cannon—and a lead-lined cylinder two feet high and eighteen inches in diameter in which was the uranium projectile. Crate and cylinder were now being carried in the truck.

  Oppenheimer had impressed upon both men the virtual irreplaceability of the material they were accompanying.

  Only a mile down the mountain road from Los Alamos, near-disaster struck when the car in which Furman and Nolan were traveling blew a tire and slewed out of control, threatening to plunge with its occupants into a nearby ravine.

  The truck screeched to a halt. Security agents cocked their guns.

  The car was brought under control; its tire was changed, and the journey resumed. In a cloud of dust the convoy passed through Santa Fe and reached Albuquerque’s airfield.

  Three DC-3s were waiting. Furman and Nolan were given parachutes and boarded the center plane. The crate and bucket-shaped cylinder were put on the same plane; they, too, had their own parachutes.

  The crew had been given one instruction: in the event of an emergency, the crate and cylinder were to be jettisoned before the passengers.