Enola Gay

by Gordon Thomas

  Suzuki arranged a press conference with a reporter planted to ask the Cabinet’s view of the proclamation.

  Hands trembling, the prime minister read a prepared statement. He dismissed the proclamation, saying the government “does not regard it as a thing of great value. We have decided to mokusatsu the proclamation.”

  Within minutes, Suzuki’s words were broadcast by the official Japanese news agency, Domei, which translated mokusatsu as “ignore.”

  18

  On July 28, Beser discovered he was being watched by the 509th’s flight surgeon for signs of psychological strain. Beser was delighted to discover the surveillance. “It meant we must be getting close to mission time.”

  On orders from Tibbets, Dr. Don Young was watching all the group’s aircrews for such symptoms. He did his work so discreetly that few fliers suspected they were under observation.

  Young himself still did not know exactly what the mission entailed. He had simply been told to report any flier showing “unusual behavior.”

  The doctor watched every crew going off on a flight; he carefully noted the way the men walked and carried their gear. He eavesdropped on their conversations, listening for complaints of lack of sleep or loss of appetite.

  When the planes returned, he was waiting, a gentle, unobtrusive man with a sharp clinical mind. Young observed the fliers drinking their ration of bourbon issued at the end of each mission; he was looking for the crewman who gulped his whiskey too quickly or asked for a second shot.

  He sat in on debriefings, assessing the fliers’ choice of words for clues to their mental states.

  Between missions, he dropped into the fliers’ Quonsets, searching for the man who laughed too loudly, lost his temper too quickly, played too boisterously. In the officers’ and enlisted men’s clubs, he would move from one table to another, on the lookout for indications of tension.

  On the sports fields, he watched the fliers at play, looking for signs of “undue aggression” or bad sportsmanship.

  And, against all regulations, he read their mail after it had cleared the censor’s office.

  Then, late at night, the indefatigable Dr. Young would collate his findings into confidential reports for Tibbets.

  He had tabbed Beser as one of the most normal men in the 509th: “balanced, filled with healthy aggression, calm under pressure.”

  In fact, Young told Tibbets, his crews were psychologically “probably among the most balanced in the air force.”

  Young spotted no signs of instability in Claude Eatherly. And Tibbets, well aware of Eatherly’s quirks, still felt the pilot’s skills outweighed all other considerations.

  In the heavily guarded Tech Area where Beser worked, tension had increased markedly with the arrival from Los Alamos of Captain Parsons.

  At Los Alamos, Beser had hardly known Parsons, whose punctuality, reserve, and exacting manner intimidated many of his fellow scientists. But here on Tinian, the middle-aged naval officer revealed himself to be a relaxed as well as dynamic leader; the faster the pace, the calmer he became. He impressed Beser as “a dignified officer and a fine gentleman.”

  Parsons had come to Tinian to supervise the final delivery and assembly of the atomic bomb.

  Also now on Tinian were two Englishmen: Group Captain Leonard Cheshire, an RAF hero, and a fair-haired scientist, William Penney, whose brilliant mathematical calculations had played a part in developing the weapon.

  The War Cabinet in London had insisted that Britain be represented when the bomb was dropped. President Truman had agreed “in principle” to this at Potsdam. As a result, Cheshire and Penney firmly believed they would be going on the flight that dropped the bomb and, afterward, would be reporting their observations to London.

  Strangely, while everybody in the 509th was helpful “and very jolly,” General LeMay had been evasive when the two Englishmen mentioned going on the mission.

  Recently there had been a mysterious outbreak of diarrhea in the 509th. Dr. Young attributed it to “a generous quantity of soap” slipped into the cooking vats. Uanna, the group’s security chief, suspected that “a mischievous Jap who had gotten into the compound was responsible.” He was right; that was exactly what had happened. Security around the cookhouse was increased.

  The hostility the group encountered outside the compound was an increasing concern for Tibbets. While every other flying unit on the island was putting in the maximum number of combat hours, the 509th was mainly occupied with practice missions around the Marianas. The group so far had been to Japan just three times—and on each of these occasions had used only ten bombers from its fleet of fifteen. At night, furious fliers from other groups hurled showers of rocks into the compound; it was a humiliating experience for the self-confident 509th.

  Tibbets tried to dispel the frustration by holding regular pep talks. He encouraged Perry to excel himself in the kitchens. And he was pleased to see that Chaplain Downey was acting “like a cheerleader, always on hand to lend support.”

  Tibbets encouraged jokes about life in the compound; he reasoned that if the men could laugh at their troubles, they would not seem so bad. One of the most successful jests was a song, sung to the tune of “Rum and Coca-Cola.”

  Have you ever been to Tinian?

  It’s Heaven for the enlisted man.

  There’s whisky, girls and other such,

  But all are labeled: “Mustn’t touch.”

  This tropic isle’s a paradise,

  Of muddy roads and rainy skies.

  Outdoor latrines and fungus feet,

  And every day more goat to eat.

  Enlisted men are on the beam,

  Officers say, “We’re one big team.”

  But do they ever share the rum and Coke?

  Ha, ha, ha, that’s one big joke.

  As always, Tibbets was careful to hide the increasing strain he personally felt. His working day often stretched from 7:00 A.M. until midnight. His sleep was frequently disturbed by “eyes-only” messages from “Morose,” the new code name Groves used for his Washington headquarters, or from “Misplay,” Groves’s new name for Los Alamos. Messages from Morose inevitably ended with a request for the latest readiness report for “Centerboard,” the code name for the actual atomic strike.

  19

  At 12:50 P.M., July 28, the field telephone rang in Second Lieutenant Tatsuo Yokoyama’s antiaircraft gun post on Mount Futaba. One of the controllers in Hiroshima Castle warned him of the possible approach of bombers from the south, the direction of Kure. Yokoyama already had his guns pointed that way, in case any of the American planes bombing the port were forced by the gun batteries there to flee toward Hiroshima.

  Radio Hiroshima interrupted its program to announce an alert, and all over the city, people ran for shelter.

  Dr. Kaoru Shima was performing an appendectomy when a nurse told him of the air-raid warning. He continued with the surgery. Outside the operating room, the staff hurried patients to the ground-floor shelter, carrying those unable to walk by themselves.

  Mayor Senkichi Awaya and Kazumasa Maruyama were in the mayor’s office when they heard the alert siren. Maruyama rushed to the window and stared into the sky but could see nothing. He and Awaya resumed their discussion.

  Field Marshal Hata invited his officers to join him at the windows of the conference room to watch developments.

  Yokoyama, peering through his binoculars, could see at least two B-24s coming toward him. They were climbing after their bomb run over Kure Naval Dockyard, now obscured by a towering pall of smoke.

  With growing excitement, the gunnery officer estimated that if the oncoming aircraft maintained their present course, they would be well within range of his guns when they crossed Hiroshima.

  The planes approaching Hiroshima were from the 866th Bombardment Squadron of the 494th Bombardment Group of the Seventh Bomber Command, based on Okinawa.

  They were part of a force of thirty B-24s that had taken off earlier in the morning to att
ack the Haruna, one of the last Japanese battleships still afloat. Each bomber carried twenty-seven hundred gallons of fuel, three two-thousand-pound bombs, and propaganda leaflets giving the Potsdam Proclamation surrender terms.

  The bombers had arrived over Kure at exactly 12:40. But even from the designated attack altitude of ten thousand feet, the Haruna proved a difficult target; she was well camouflaged, and protected by shore batteries as well as her own guns.

  By the time the B-24s from the 866th made their bomb run, some thirty misses had exploded at distances of between two hundred and six hundred yards from the Haruna. A number of other bombs had fallen on nearby dockyard buildings, and the immediate target area was shrouded in dense smoke.

  Flying through heavy flak, the first bomber of the 866th, nicknamed Taloa, had dropped her three bombs into the smoke and broken away to the left, toward Hiroshima.

  The eleven men aboard the Taloa were nervous. It was common knowledge that the Japanese often executed captured American fliers. Just over a month earlier, eight airmen had been publicly put to death—their bodies prodded into the ritual kneeling position and their heads chopped off by ceremonial swords.

  The pilot of the Taloa, First Lieutenant Joseph Bubinsky, was too busy trying to gain height and chart a new course for home to dwell on such gruesome thoughts.

  Bombardier Robert Johnston, also a first lieutenant, was still in the nose of the B-24, peering through the Plexiglas at the countryside below. His relief was considerable as the bomber cleared the concentration of gun batteries that made Kure one of the most heavily defended cities in Japan. Ahead, coming up fast, were the port facilities of Hiroshima and, just beyond, the welcome sight of wooded countryside.

  The Taloa carried nine other frightened men: First Lieutenant Rudolph Flanagin, copilot; First Lieutenant Lawrence Falls, navigator; Technical Sergeant Walter Piskor, flight engineer; Technical Sergeant David Bushfield, radio operator; Staff Sergeant Charles Allison, upper turret gunner; Staff Sergeant Charles Baumgartner, ball turret gunner; Staff Sergeant Camillous Kirkpatrick, nose turret gunner; Staff Sergeant Julius Molnar, rear turret gunner; and a “passenger,” Captain Donald Marvin, on board to gain combat experience.

  Not far behind the Taloa flew the Lonesome Lady, with its crew of nine: Second Lieutenant Thomas Cartwright, pilot; Second Lieutenant Durden Looper, copilot; Second Lieutenant Roy Pedersen, navigator; Second Lieutenant James Mike Ryan, bombardier; Sergeant Hugh Atkinson, radio operator; Staff Sergeant William Abel, tail gunner; Staff Sergeant Ralph Neal, ball gunner; Corporal John Long, nose gunner; and Sergeant Buford Ellison, flight engineer.

  The men aboard both B-24s knew of the standing orders that forbade their bombing Hiroshima; but as far as they knew, there was no restriction on simply flying over the city.

  None of the fliers knew anything at all about the ground defenses of Hiroshima. When the city had been “reserved” for possible atomic attack, all information about it had been restricted.

  As they approached the southern end of Hiroshima, a concentrated stream of shells was sent up by antiaircraft guns in batteries near the gaisenkan, the “hall of triumphant return,” and in Eba park, guarding the Mitsubishi factory.

  The bombers continued their headlong dash over Hiroshima, toward Mount Futaba.

  And then, with the time nearing 1:00 P.M., with two-thirds of the city behind them and the safety of open countryside ahead, the fate of the twenty men aboard the two bombers, although never publicly reported by the American government, was about to become inextricably linked with that of Hiroshima.

  As soon as the B-24s were within range, Yokoyama ordered the battery to fire.

  The first salvo bracketed the Taloa. Pretty puffs of smoke exploded above and below it. Yokoyama shouted an immediate correction.

  The next salvo seemed to hit the Taloa squarely on the nose. A frenzied cheer came from the gunners. Yokoyama shouted at them to keep firing.

  The sky around the stricken bomber was now pockmarked with shrapnel bursts. Trailing smoke, the plane abruptly turned left, away from Mount Futaba.

  Behind, the Lonesome Lady also seemed to have been hit.

  From the conference room windows, Field Marshal Hata and his staff watched the tiny figures tumbling from the Taloa. Moments later, as the B-24 crossed western Hiroshima, their parachutes opened.

  The bomber plunged into a hill between the two villages of Itsukaichi and Inokuchi. A great cloud of flame and oily smoke rose into the air. The sound of the crash brought people from nearby farms and hamlets out into the open. Some, workers from a local fish market, brandished knives and hatchets.

  At least three men from the Taloa were now floating earthward. They were pilot Joseph Bubinsky, bombardier Robert Johnston, and tail gunner Julius Molnar.

  All were deeply shocked and suffering superficial wounds, but instinctively they tried to juggle their parachute cords so they would drift away from the packs of civilians they could see converging below.

  The Lonesome Lady was trailing smoke and coming under fire from a battery sited near Hiroshima Castle. The bomber banked sharply to the right, turning back in the direction of Kure. Yokoyama’s gunners would forever believe it was they who delivered the coup de grâce to the stricken plane.

  The Lonesome Lady lost altitude, passing over the Toyo factory and heading for the dense forest southeast of Hiroshima. Eight men managed to jump from the bomber. Only navigator Roy Pedersen was still on board as the Lonesome Lady crashed to the ground.

  The excitement at the Mount Futaba gun post knew no bounds. For Tatsuo Yokoyama, “this was my most thrilling day in all the war.” He promised his gunners the biggest celebration they could imagine. Then he turned his binoculars to the west, where those who had bailed out of the Taloa were about to touch down.

  Squads of Kempei Tai military policemen were fanning out from Hiroshima in pursuit of the fliers.

  One of those squads, led by Warrant Officer Hiroshi Yanagita, stopped to check its bearings with Imperial Army Corporal Kanai Hiroto, who lived locally and had been furiously peddling his bicycle in the direction of the crash.

  Hiroto told Yanagita that he spoke English and would be happy to offer his services as an interpreter. He stepped onto the running board of the Kempei Tai car, and they sped toward Inokuchi.

  Hiroto had attended a high school in Pasadena, near Los Angeles. He returned to Japan in 1934 and afterward was drafted. Following three years’ fighting in Manchuria, he had experienced an uneventful war.

  Yanagita was one of the most senior Kempei Tai leaders in Hiroshima. He was a tough, professional soldier.

  When they reached the foot of the hill into which the Taloa had crashed, the Kempei Tai officer and his men raced toward the parachutes they could see caught in the trees.

  Hiroto stopped by the still-smoldering bomber. It had split in two sections, lying some two hundred yards apart. He was about to go into the wreckage when Yanagita returned, saying one of the Americans had been caught and was being held a little way down the hill.

  It was the tail gunner, Staff Sergeant Julius Molnar from Kalamazoo, Michigan.

  Even before reaching him, Hiroto saw that Molnar was in grave danger. The slightly built sergeant was surrounded by civilians who “wanted to beat him to death. I forced my way in, took hold of him, and tried to ward off their blows.”

  Yanagita stepped forward, brandishing a pistol. He threatened his men would shoot the next civilian who moved.

  Sullenly, the crowd stood back.

  Flanked by Hiroto and Yanagita, Molnar was escorted to the relative safety of a nearby farmstead. There, Molnar was surrounded by Kempei Tai policemen.

  Hiroto could see that the young airman was making an effort to control his trembling. He spoke to the tail gunner for the first time, telling him in English that he had once lived in the United States. The terrified Molnar began to calm down.

  Prompted by Yanagita, Hiroto questioned Molnar. He willingly gave his name, serial number 364
53945, and rank. He said that he was twenty-one years old, had been trained in Texas, and that his plane had taken off from Okinawa to attack the port of Kure. He claimed he did not know the names of the other crew members of the Taloa.

  Hiroto was then called to another part of the farmyard, where bombardier Robert Johnston was being held. The crowd of villagers menacing the officer were again warned back by the Kempei Tai.

  Johnston concealed his fear better than Molnar, but Hiroto “could tell from his eyes that he was very frightened.” Johnston also gave his name, serial number 0698565, and rank.

  When Johnston refused to say more, the Kempei Tai leader told Hiroto his translation services were not needed further. Hiroto returned to the crash site, where he searched in the wreckage for food and radio components.

  Yanagita and his men rounded up three other crew members from the Taloa, including its pilot, Joseph Bubinsky, and drove them to Kempei Tai headquarters at Hiroshima Castle, where specialist interrogators could question them more thoroughly.

  By now the eight crewmen from the Lonesome Lady were also on their way to the castle.

  Of the twenty original fliers in the two bombers, thirteen had survived being shot down and captured. When they arrived in Hiroshima, there would be a total of twenty-three American prisoners of war being held in the city.

  For them, the most terrible experience of all was yet to come.

  20

  In the early hours of July 29 on Tinian, eighty-one fliers assembled to be briefed for the fourth—and, as it turned out, last—practice mission the 509th would make over Japan. Lieutenant Colonel Hazen Payette, the group intelligence officer, confirmed the targets allocated at an earlier briefing to each of the nine crews.