Enola Gay

by Gordon Thomas

  He had been dragged away from a softball game by Tibbets, who had handed him a piece of paper and told him to “paint that on the strike ship, nice and big.”

  The paper contained two words: Enola Gay.

  At 3:30 P.M., a group of scientists, MPs, and security agents assembled around the atomic bomb, now resting on a trolley.

  On a signal from Major Uanna, after he had carefully draped the bomb with a tarpaulin, the trolley was hooked to a tractor, pulled slowly out of the hut, and escorted out of the Tech Area.

  Looking to some observers like a military funeral cortege, the trolley and its guards traveled a half mile down the asphalt to the Enola Gay. The weapon was winched up into the plane’s front bomb bay and clamped to its special hook. The fifteen-foot doors banged shut.

  There were just over ten hours to takeoff.

  At 4:15, Tibbets, Ferebee, and van Kirk posed with Lewis and the regular crew of the Enola Gay for an official air force group photograph outside the 509th’s headquarters. The mood was relaxed; there was some joshing of Caron over his refusal to remove his baseball cap. Afterward, Lewis and the rest of the crew decided to drive down to inspect the bomber.

  At the Enola Gay, their progress was barred by MPs. Disappointed but still mellow, Lewis walked around the B-29.

  Suddenly, as Caron would recall, Lewis bellowed, “What the hell is that doing on my plane?”

  The crew joined the pilot, who was staring up at the words Enola Gay.

  Lewis, on his own later admission, was “very angry, so I called the officer in charge of maintenance and said, ‘Who put this name on here?’ He refused to tell me. So then I said to him, ‘All right, I want it taken off. Get your men and remove the name from the plane.’ He said, ‘I can’t do that!’ I said, ‘What the hell you talking about? Who authorized you to put it on?’ He says, ‘Colonel Tibbets.’ ”

  Lewis drove back to group headquarters and stormed into Tibbets’s office.

  What followed is a matter of dispute. In Lewis’s version, “Tibbets knew what I was coming in there for. I said, ‘Colonel, you authorized men to put a name on my airplane?’ He said, ‘I didn’t think you’d mind, Bob.’ I guess he was embarrassed.”

  Tibbets would maintain he was anything but embarrassed. He had, in fact, consulted Ferebee, van Kirk, and Duzenbury before naming the bomber after his mother; none of the three had raised any objection. Tibbets had not consulted Lewis, “because I wasn’t concerned whether Bob cared or didn’t care.”

  During the morning in the Tech Area, and later, into the early evening, Parsons practiced inserting the explosive charge and detonator into the weapon, a delicate maneuver made more difficult by the cramped conditions, poor light, and stifling heat of the Enola Gay’s bomb bay.

  When he finally emerged from the bomber, General Farrell was waiting for him. Pointing at Parsons’s lacerated hands, Groves’s deputy offered to lend him a pair of thin pigskin gloves.

  Parsons shook his head. “I wouldn’t dare. I’ve got to feel the touch.”

  At 7:17 P.M., Farrell sent a message to Groves letting him know that Parsons intended to arm the bomb after takeoff. By the time Groves received the message, it was too late for him to do anything about it.

  At 7:30 P.M., Classen, the 509th’s deputy commander, following instructions from Tibbets, briefed a dozen ground officers on their various duties between then and takeoff.

  They were to escort scientists and key military personnel to “safe” areas well away from North Field; there was to be no chance of losing irreplaceable atomic experts in an unscheduled nuclear explosion. When the time came, many of the scientists refused to budge, pointing out that almost nowhere on Tinian would be safe if an accident occurred.

  Fire trucks were to be stationed every fifty feet down the sides of runway A, the North Field airstrip selected for takeoff.

  Flight surgeon Young was told that in the event of a crash, his rescue teams must not touch anything until a specially detailed squad from the First Ordnance Squadron had monitored the crash area for radioactive contamination. It was the first and only inkling Young would receive that the weapon was an atomic bomb.

  By 8:00, mess officer Charles Perry’s cooks had begun to prepare the meals he would be offering the combat crews just after midnight: they could select a full-scale breakfast, dinner, or supper from a choice of thirty dishes. Afterward, the crews could collect packed sandwiches for eating over Japan in the morning. Satisfied that the fliers were cared for, Perry began personally to prepare the pineapple fritters that Tibbets had requested.

  All Perry had been told about the mission was that it “was the most important in the war.” That was enough for him. He started to lay plans for “a full-scale culinary celebration,” to take place after the airmen returned.

  3

  On the same day, at 6:00 P.M., guests began arriving at the officers’ club in Hiroshima for the reception in honor of Field Marshal Hata’s new chief of staff. Among the civilians were the local governor, senior civil servants, and Mayor Awaya.

  Hata and his chief moved from group to group, sipping sake and making polite conversation. Periodically, Awaya drifted to the door of the salon, where Maruyama waited with a sake container filled with cold tea. Awaya was a teetotaler, and it was Maruyama’s duty to replenish the mayor’s cup so that Awaya would be spared the embarrassment of having to refuse sake.

  As soon as Lieutenant Colonel Oya arrived at the reception, Hata sought him out, eager for a firsthand report on the situation in Tokyo. Oya, who had just returned from the capital, reported that morale in the city was still high. The two men discussed briefly the update of the military situation which Oya had spent the day preparing; it was to be discussed at a full-scale communications conference called by Hata for the following morning at 9:00 A.M.

  In less than twelve hours, gathered together in Hiroshima would be many of the senior commanders crucial to the defense of western Japan.

  When Mayor Awaya cornered Hata, the field marshal gave a vague promise to discuss civilian matters in a few days. The disappointed mayor decided to go home. His wife had just returned to Hiroshima with their three-year-old grandchild.

  Maruyama accompanied the mayor home and said he would see him in the morning, as usual, soon after 8:00.

  Shortly after they parted, at 9:22 P.M. Radio Hiroshima broadcast an air-raid standby alert. Eight minutes later came the all clear.

  For Dr. Shima, traveling toward the outskirts of Hiroshima, the warning presaged another nervous night. He always worried about his patients when he was away. But it would have been unthinkable for him to refuse to make house calls around the countryside. He had a busy night’s work ahead of him, moving from one farm to another. He did not expect to be back in Hiroshima much before 8:00 the following morning.

  As the communications bureau of Second General Army Headquarters continued its surveillance of exchanges between American aircraft and control towers, it was clear that Japan was in for another brutal series of raids. In fact, 30 bombers were en route to Japan to drop mines in the Inland Sea; 65 bombers were coming to bomb Saga; 102 planes were about to launch an incendiary attack on Maebashi; 261 bombers were heading for the Nishinomiya-Mikage area; 111 bombers were bound for Ube; and 66 for Imabari.

  At 12:25 A.M., Hiroshima’s radio station advised the civilian population to evacuate to their designated “safe areas.” They would wait in their shelters for two hours before the all clear sounded. The alert would do nothing to improve the temper of a weary populace so often called from their homes by false alarms.

  4

  During the night of August 5 to 6, some of the crewmen on Tinian went to the mess hall to sample the dishes Perry’s cooks had prepared. Tibbets, Ferebee, and van Kirk ate several plates of pineapple fritters. But for many the idea of food was not tempting. They lay on their bunks and thought of their loved ones, became a little maudlin, and drowned their homesickness with surreptitious shots of whiskey. A few slept.


  At 11:30 P.M., the crews of the three weather planes went to their final briefing. By then, Ferebee was heavily involved in a poker game, one of many being held that night. Between bids, he told a favorite Tinian story about the day one of the 509th’s officers and a nurse had gone swimming in the nude. The clothes they left on the beach were stolen, and the two were forced to walk, naked, almost two miles back to their Quonset huts.

  Van Kirk occupied his time checking his flight bag, making sure all his navigational instruments were there and his pencils sharpened; Caron sat quietly and thought of his wife; Nelson read the latest copy of the Reader’s Digest; Shumard tried to sleep; Stiborik went to the Catholic church to make a sacramental confession; Parsons and Jeppson ran over a checklist of what they would do once they were airborne; Lewis prowled outside the combat crew lounge, where the final briefing would be held at midnight.

  Beser was busy with a task ideally suited to his temperament. Tibbets had assigned him to brief Bill Laurence, The New York Times reporter attached to the Manhattan Project. Beser’s vivid descriptions helped Laurence later to collect a Pulitzer Prize for his work.

  Beser was still talking when, shortly before midnight, he was called to the briefing.

  Outside the crew lounge, scientist Ed Doll handed Beser a piece of rice paper with numbers on it specifying the radio frequency the bomb’s radar would use to measure the distance from the ground as it fell. The numbers were written on rice paper, explained Doll, so that Beser could swallow the paper if he were in danger of being captured.

  At midnight, Paul Tibbets walked to one end of the lounge and addressed the twenty-six airmen who would be flying with him to Japan.

  Not once in the year he had commanded them had Tibbets mentioned to anyone in the 509th the words atomic or nuclear. Now, in this final briefing, he continued to preserve security by merely referring to the weapon as being “very powerful” and “having the potential to end the war.”

  He reminded the crews to wear their welders’ goggles at the time of the explosion. Then, in a crisp few sentences, he spelled out the rules for a successful mission. “Do your jobs. Obey your orders. Don’t cut corners or take chances.”

  The weather officer stepped forward and gave the forecast: the route to Japan would be almost cloud-free, with only moderate winds; clouds over the target cities were likely to clear at dawn. The communications officer read out the frequencies to be used on various stages of the mission and gave the positions of rescue ships and planes.

  Tibbets had a few final words for each of the specialists on the mission. Navigators were reminded of the rendezvous point above Iwo Jima where the three planes were to meet; tail gunners should check that each aircraft had its thousand rounds of ammunition; engineers, that they were carrying seventy-four hundred gallons of fuel (except for the strike aircraft, Enola Gay, which would have four hundred gallons less to make its takeoff easier); radiomen, that the new call sign was “Dimples.”

  At 12:15 A.M., Tibbets beckoned to Chaplain Downey, who invited the gathering to bow their heads. Then, in a richly resonant voice, consulting the back of an envelope, Downey read the prayer he had composed for this moment.

  Almighty Father, Who wilt 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.

  At 1:12 A.M., trucks picked up the crews of the two B-29s assigned to fly alongside the Enola Gay: the Great Artiste, piloted by Sweeney; and No. 91, commanded by Marquardt.

  At 1:15 A.M., a truck picked up the crew of the Enola Gay. Tibbets and Parsons sat up front with the driver. Squeezed in the back were van Kirk, Ferebee, Lewis, Beser, Jeppson, Caron, Shumard, Stiborik, and Nelson. They all wore pale-green combat overalls; the only identification they carried were dog tags around their necks. Beser’s was stamped with an “H” for “Hebrew.”

  At 1:37 A.M., the three weather-scout planes took off simultaneously from separate runways on North Field. At 1:51 A.M., Top Secret took off for its standby role at Iwo Jima.

  Duzenbury had spent every available minute since the final briefing with the Enola Gay. He always took at least two hours for his “preflight,” for whatever Tibbets and Lewis might have thought, the flight engineer “knew she was my ship.”

  First, Duzenbury walked slowly around the bomber, checking it visually, “watching out for the slightest thing that didn’t look normal,” making sure even that every rivet was in place on all the control surfaces. Then, around 1:00, Duzenbury went aboard Enola Gay alone, checklist in hand.

  Duzenbury went first to his own station, behind Lewis’s seat. It took him little time to inspect his instrument panel; he prided himself that it was always in perfect working order. Then he stepped into the cockpit and examined the controls, switches, and dials. After he had verified that all was in order there, Duzenbury made his way back into the spacious area he shared with navigator van Kirk and radioman Nelson. Now it also contained Jeppson’s console for monitoring the bomb.

  Duzenbury opened a small, circular, airtight door situated just below the entrance to the long tunnel that led to the after end of the plane, swung himself feet first through the hatch, and found himself in back of the bomb.

  Using a flashlight, he crawled to the right side of the weapon and onto the catwalk that ran along the length of the bay; from there, he had his first overall view of the world’s most expensive bomb. To Duzenbury, who had worked as a tree surgeon before enlisting, it resembled a long, heavy tree trunk. The cables leading into it from Jeppson’s monitoring panel, and its antennae, made it look like no bomb he’d ever seen before.

  He continued along the catwalk, checking everything as he went, past the nose of the bomb and back along the other side. When he once again reached the fins, he noticed two unusual containers that, he thought, shouldn’t be there. Almost unconsciously, he kicked them.

  The flight engineer had not been told they contained the explosive powder and tools Parsons would use later to arm the bomb.

  He was about to remove the containers when a bright shaft of light shone through the hatch into the bomb bay. Puzzled, Duzenbury climbed back through the hatch into van Kirk’s compartment. The light filled the area. Duzenbury walked forward into the cockpit and stopped, openmouthed.

  The Enola Gay was ringed by floodlights.

  Interspersed between the klieg stands and mobile generators were close to a hundred people—photographers, film crews, officers, scientists, project security agents, and MPs. Dumbfounded and a little annoyed, Duzenbury turned back to his checklist.

  The lights and camera crews had been ordered by General Groves, who wanted a pictorial record of the Enola Gay’s departure. Only space had prevented a movie crew from flying on the mission.

  Now Tibbets stepped from the truck and found himself surrounded by a film crew. He had been warned in a message from Groves that there would be “a little publicity,” but in his view, “this was full-scale Hollywood premiere treatment. I expected to see MGM’s lion walk onto the field or Warner’s logo to light up the sky. It was crazy.”

  With a touch worthy of an epic production, the “extras” on the asphalt formed an avenue for the “stars” in the crew.

  The 509th’s commander complied with shouted requests to turn first this way, then that way, to smile, look serious, “look busy.”

  Parsons, mystified by the carnival atmosphere, turned to anybody who would listen and said, “What’s going on?” Not recognizing the naval captain, a brash photographer shoved
Parsons against one of the Enola Gay’s wheels and said, “You’re gonna be famous—so smile!”

  Parsons glared at the cameraman, who shrugged and joined the group swarming around Beser, still briefing Bill Laurence of The New York Times.

  Beser himself was carrying a portable recording machine on which he planned to capture the crew’s reactions to the atomic explosion.

  In an expansive mood, Beser told the photographers to take some shots of the rest of the crew. “These guys are every bit as important as the rest of us,” he said.

  Shumard and Stiborik bowed in mock obsequiousness. Radioman Dick Nelson, raised on Hollywood’s doorstep, thought “some of the people were behaving as if they were in some low-budget production.”

  Reporter Laurence asked Lewis to keep a log of the Enola Gay’s flight, which The New York Times would later publish. No money was mentioned, but Lewis thought it might earn him “a few dollars.”

  Lewis addressed the crew. Nelson later recalled, “He gave us a good long stare and said, ‘You guys, this bomb cost more than an aircraft carrier. We’ve got it made, we’re gonna win the war, just don’t screw it up. Let’s do this really great!’ He made it clear that as far as he was concerned, we were still his crew, and we were doing it for him.”

  Caron peered around owlishly in the bright lights, smiling enigmatically when somebody said he had never before known a tail gunner who wore glasses. He doggedly refused to take off his baseball cap. In common with many on the apron, Caron found the scene “a trifle bizarre. I had to put my guns in their mount, and all the time I was getting stopped to have my picture taken.”

  Caron had planned to take his camera on the mission, but in all the excitement he had left it on his bunk. Yet in the end he would take the most historic pictures of all. An army captain thrust a plate camera at Caron and told him, “Shoot whatever you can over the target.”