Enola Gay

by Gordon Thomas

  At 2:20 A.M., the final group photo was taken. Tibbets turned to the crew and said, “Okay, let’s go to work.”

  A photographer grabbed Beser and asked for “one last good-bye look.”

  Beser bridled. “Good-bye, hell! We’re coming back!” He climbed up the ladder and through the hatch behind the Enola Gay’s nose wheel, suddenly tired of the publicity.

  Beser was followed by Ferebee and van Kirk, who, like Caron, were wearing baseball caps; Shumard and Nelson wore GI work caps; Stiborik a ski cap.

  Finally, only Parsons and Tibbets remained below, talking to Farrell. Suddenly the general pointed to Parsons’s coveralls. “Where’s your gun?”

  Parsons had forgotten to draw a weapon from supply. He motioned to a nearby MP, who unstrapped his gun belt and handed it over. Parsons buckled it around his waist and, after a quick thank-you, climbed clumsily up the nose ladder. Like all the others, Parsons wore beneath his coveralls a survival vest with fishhooks, a drinking-water kit, first-aid package, and emergency food rations. Over this came a parachute harness with clips for a chest chute and a one-man life raft. On top was an armorlike flak suit for protection against shell fragments.

  Unknown to the others, Paul Tibbets also carried a small metal box in a pocket of his coveralls. Inside the box were twelve capsules, each containing a lethal dose of cyanide. At the first sign of trouble over Japan, Tibbets was to distribute the capsules to the men on the plane. He would then explain to them the alternatives they faced before capture: they could either blow out their brains or commit suicide by poisoning. Tibbets knew this procedure had been devised especially for the atomic mission because “if you were shot down, can you imagine the measures the Japanese would take to find out what you were doing? So if you don’t want to go through the torture that they might submit you to, the best way out is either with the gun or with the capsules.”

  As he said farewell to Farrell, Tibbets had a more immediate concern—the possibility of crashing on takeoff, as he had seen so many planes do during the past weeks on Tinian. The Enola Gay was probably the most thoroughly checked aircraft in the world. But no check devised could ensure there would be no last-minute failure of some crucial component.

  Smiling and looking relaxed for the clamoring photographers, Tibbets boarded the Enola Gay. When he reached his seat, he automatically felt his breast pocket to make sure his battered aluminum cigarette case was still there. He regarded the case as a lucky charm, and he never made a flight without it.

  A cameraman climbed a stepladder and photographed Ferebee’s bomb-aiming position in the nose. The bombardier was glad he had earlier ordered the ground crew to make a thorough search of the plane and to remove “any unauthorized items.” Among those found were six packs of condoms and three pairs of silk panties. Ferebee thought “such things had no place on a bomber.”

  Caron strapped himself in by his twin rear guns; in the event of a crash on takeoff, he believed “there was a marginally better chance of survival in the tail.” For luck, Caron carried a photograph of his wife and baby daughter stuck in his oxygen flow chart. Shumard, squatting in one of the waist blister turrets, had with him a tiny doll; across from him, at the other turret, were Beser and Stiborik. They did not believe in talismans, though Stiborik thought his ski cap was as good as any.

  At his station by the entrance hatch to the bomb bay, Nelson fished out a half-finished paperback and placed it on the table beside him. A few feet away, van Kirk laid out his pencils and chart.

  Forward of the navigator, Parsons and Jeppson sat on cushions on the floor, listening patiently to the final preparations for takeoff going on around them. Finally, Tibbets called up Duzenbury. “All set, Dooz?”

  “All set, Colonel.”

  Tibbets slid open a side window in the cockpit and leaned out.

  A battery of cameramen converged to photograph his head over the gleaming new sign, Enola Gay.

  “Okay, fellows, cut those lights. We’ve gotta be going.”

  5

  Tibbets ordered Duzenbury to start No. 3 engine; when it was running smoothly, he ordered No. 4, then No. 1, and finally No. 2 engine to be fired.

  Lewis added a note on the scratch pad he was keeping for The New York Times. “Started engines at 2:27 A.M.”

  The copilot looked across at Tibbets, who nodded. Lewis depressed the switch on his intercom. “This is Dimples Eight-two to North Tinian Tower. Ready for taxi out and takeoff instructions.”

  “Tower to Dimples Eight-two. Clear to taxi. Take off on runway A for Able.”

  At 2:35 A.M., the Enola Gay reached her takeoff position.

  The jeep that had led the bomber there now drove down the runway, its headlights briefly illuminating the fire trucks and ambulances parked every fifty feet down each side of the airstrip.

  At 2:42 A.M., the jeep flashed its lights from the far end of the runway, then drove to the side.

  Tibbets told Lewis to call the tower.

  Its response was immediate. “Tower to Dimples Eight-two. Clear for takeoff.”

  Tibbets made a final careful check of the instrument panel. The takeoff weight was 150,000 pounds; the 65-ton Enola Gay, with 7,000 gallons of fuel, a 5-ton bomb, and 12 men on board, would have to build up enough engine thrust to lift an overload of 15,000 pounds into the air. Tibbets made a decision: he would hold the bomber on the ground until the last moment to build up every possible knot of speed before lifting it into the air.

  He did not tell Lewis of his intention.

  The copilot was feeling apprehensive; he, too, knew that the Enola Gay was well overweight, and he sensed that the next few seconds “could be traumatic.”

  Ferebee, on the other hand, felt completely relaxed and confident that Tibbets “had worked everything out.”

  Van Kirk watched the second hand of his watch reach 2:44 A.M. Until the bomber was actually airborne, there was nothing for him to do.

  At 2:45 A.M., Tibbets said to Lewis, “Let’s go,” and thrust all throttles forward. The Enola Gay began to roll down the runway.

  Tibbets kept his eye on the RPM counter and the manifold-pressure gauge. With two-thirds of the runway behind them, the counter was still below the 2,550 RPM Tibbets calculated he needed for takeoff; the manifold-pressure gauge registered only 40 inches—not enough.

  In the waist blister turrets, Shumard and Stiborik exchanged nervous glances. Beser smiled back at them, oblivious of any danger. Far forward, at his panel, Duzenbury stirred uneasily. He knew what Tibbets was trying to do, but found himself wondering whether Tibbets “was ever going to take her up!”

  Lewis stared anxiously at the instruments before him, a duplicate set of those in front of Tibbets. Outside, the ambulances and fire trucks flashed by.

  “She’s too heavy!” Lewis shouted. “Pull her off—now!”

  Tibbets ignored Lewis, holding the bomber on the runway. Instinctively, Lewis’s hands reached for his control column.

  “No! Leave it!” Tibbets commanded.

  Lewis’s hand froze on the wheel.

  Beser suddenly sensed the fear Stiborik and Shumard felt. He shouted, “Hey, aren’t we going to run out of runway soon?”

  Lewis glanced at Tibbets, who was staring ahead at the break in the darkness where the runway ended at the cliff’s edge.

  Lewis could wait no longer. But even as his hands tightened around the control column, Tibbets eased his wheel back. The Enola Gay’s nose lifted, and the bomber was airborne at what seemed to Lewis the very moment that the ground disappeared beneath them and was replaced by the blackness of the sea.

  Watching the takeoff from his hiding place near the peak of Mount Lasso was Warrant Officer Kizo Imai. For the past ninety minutes he had observed the lights, the flashbulbs, the cameras, and the people. He could not imagine what it all meant.

  When the bomber that was the center of all the attention had taken off, it left from the very runway that Imai had originally helped to build.

  Two minute
s after the Enola Gay, the Great Artiste took off, followed at 2:49 A.M. by No. 91. Now the three weather-scout planes and three combat planes of Special Bombing Mission No. 13 were airborne and heading, on course and on time, for Japan.

  At 2:55:30 A.M., ten minutes after takeoff, van Kirk made his first entry in the navigator’s log.

  Position: N. Tip Saipan. Air Speed: 213. True course: 336. True head: 338. Temperature: +22C. Distance to Iwo Jima RV: 622 miles. Height: 4700.

  To make such calculations throughout the flight, van Kirk worked closely with radarman Stiborik. Between them, the two men would continually check bearings.

  The Enola Gay was on the north-by-northwest course it would maintain for the three-hour leg to Iwo Jima. As the plane burrowed through the Pacific night, ten of the twelve men on board busied themselves.

  Ferebee had nothing to do, and sat relaxed in his seat. There would be another six hours before his specialist skills as bombardier would be called into use. To tire himself now in pointless activity could have a detrimental effect on the role he would play later.

  Beser, exhausted from over forty hours without sleep, was slumped on the floor at the back end of the tunnel, quietly snoring. He would be needed to man his electronic surveillance equipment only after the Enola Gay passed over Iwo Jima.

  Apart from routine orders, Tibbets had not yet exchanged a word with Lewis. Both men were aware that Lewis had tried to take over at the crucial moment of takeoff. Lewis had acted instinctively; he had in no way intended to criticize Tibbets’s flying ability. But he could not bring himself to say so. In turn, Tibbets recognized that his copilot’s reaction had been perfectly understandable. “It was the response of a man used to sitting in the driver’s seat.” But Tibbets, too, could find no way of expressing himself. And so they sat in uncomfortable silence, Tibbets flying the plane, Lewis watching the instruments and adding a few lines to the log he was keeping. “Everything went well on take-off, nothing unusual was encountered.”

  Caron called Tibbets on the intercom and received permission to test his guns. He had a thousand rounds to defend the Enola Gay against attack, and now expended fifty of them. The sound rattled through the fuselage. In Caron’s tail turret there was a smell of cordite and burned oil. Behind him, in the darkness, he watched tracers falling toward the sea.

  Satisfied, and for the moment free of responsibility, Caron crawled into the rear compartment of the bomber. There, Stiborik was studying photographs of Hiroshima as the city would later appear on his radar screen. The unreal-looking pictures meant almost nothing to the tail gunner.

  Close to 3:00 A.M., Parsons tapped Tibbets on the shoulder. “We’re starting.”

  Tibbets nodded, switched on the low-frequency radio in the cockpit, and called Tinian Tower. “Judge going to work.”

  As arranged, there was no acknowledgment. But in the control tower on North Field, a small group of scientists studied a copy of a checklist that, on board the Enola Gay, Parsons had taken from a coverall pocket. It read:

  Check List for loading charge in plane with special breech plug. (after all 0–3 tests are complete)

  1: Check that green plugs are installed.

  2: Remove rear plate.

  3: Remove armor plate.

  4: Insert breech wrench in breech plug.

  5: Unscrew breech plug, place on rubber pad.

  6: Insert charge, 4 sections, red ends to breech.

  7: Insert breech plug and tighten home.

  8: Connect firing line.

  9: Install armor plate.

  10: Install rear plate.

  11: Remove and secure catwalk and tools.

  This bald recital gave no clue as to the delicate nature of the task Parsons was to perform.

  The naval officer lowered himself down through the hatch into the bomb bay. Jeppson followed him, carrying a flashlight.

  The two men squatted, just inside the bay, their backs almost touching the open hatch, and faced the tail end of the bomb. Parsons took his tools out of the box that Duzenbury had kicked during his preflight check.

  Ferebee left his bombardier’s seat and came back to watch this critical stage of the mission.

  To Ferebee, the two men crouching in the bomb bay resembled car mechanics, with Jeppson handing tools to Parsons whenever he was asked.

  As each stage on the checklist was reached, Parsons used the intercom to inform Tibbets, who radioed the news to Tinian.

  But by stage 6—the actual insertion of the gunpowder and electrical detonator—Tinian was out of radio range of Tibbets’s set. For security reasons, he had decided against using Nelson’s more powerful transmitter: Tibbets feared that his messages would be picked up by Japanese monitors.

  At 3:10 A.M., Parsons began inserting the gunpowder and detonator. He worked slowly and in total silence, his eyes and hands concentrating on the task. Gently, he placed the powder, in four sections, into position. Then he connected the detonator. Afterward, with sixteen measured turns, he tightened the breech plate, then the armor and rear plates.

  The weapon was now “final” except for the last, crucial operation, which Jeppson would perform when he returned to the bomb bay and exchanged three green “safety” plugs for red ones. Until then, the weapon could not be detonated electrically—“unless, of course, the plane ran into an electrical storm.”

  At 3:20 A.M., the two men climbed out of the bomb bay.

  Parsons went forward and informed Tibbets they had finished. Then he sat on the floor beside Jeppson, who was checking the bomb’s circuits on his monitoring console.

  6

  Five minutes after Parsons and Jeppson completed arming the bomb, in Hiroshima, where the time was 2:25 A.M., the all clear sounded. People emerged from the air-raid shelters.

  On Mount Futaba, Second Lieutenant Tatsuo Yokoyama staggered sleepily back to his quarters. This was turning out to be a bad night: three alerts and not a sign of a bomber. He dismissed the gun crews and asked his orderly to bring him a pot of tea.

  7

  Tibbets stared into the night. The stars were out, pricking the inky blackness of the sky; below them, looking very white, were the clouds. Inside the Enola Gay, it was comfortably warm.

  Tibbets finally broke the silence in the cockpit by asking his copilot what he was writing. Lewis replied he was “keeping a record.” Tibbets did not pursue the matter, and the two men continued to sit, not speaking, peering into the darkness.

  Nelson completed his check of the loran equipment. Loran was a long-range navigational device designed to determine a plane’s position by the time it took to receive radio signals from two or more transmitters whose positions were known. Nelson had tuned to transmitters on Iwo Jima and Okinawa.

  Duzenbury and Shumard were paralleling generators to ensure that the four motors remained smoothly synchronized.

  At 4:01, Tibbets spoke first to Sweeney and then to Marquardt, both of whom were following some three miles behind. The Great Artiste and No. 91 reported “conditions normal.”

  At 4:20, van Kirk called Lewis on the intercom to give the estimated time of arrival over Iwo Jima as 5:52 A.M.

  Lewis noted this in his log, and then added, “we’ll just check” to see whether the navigator’s estimate turned out to be correct.

  By now, Lewis was expanding his log from its original stark timetable to contain such observations as: “The Colonel, better known as the ‘old bull,’ shows signs of a tough day; with all he had to do to help get this mission off, he is deserving a few winks.”

  Tibbets, in fact, had never felt more relaxed or less tired. The trip, so far, was “a joyride.”

  At 4:25 A.M., he handed over the controls to Lewis, unstrapped himself, and climbed out of his seat to spend a little time with each man on the plane.

  Parsons and Jeppson confirmed that the final adjustments to the bomb would be made in the last hour before the target was reached.

  As he reached Duzenbury’s position, Tibbets felt Lewis trim the co
ntrols so that the Enola Gay was flying on “George,” the automatic pilot; the elevators gave a distinct kick as “George” engaged.

  Tibbets chatted with Duzenbury for a few minutes and then moved on to Nelson. The young radioman hurriedly put down the paperback he was reading and reported, “Everything okay, Colonel.” Tibbets smiled and said, “I know you’ll do a good job, Dick.” Nelson had never felt so proud.

  Tibbets next watched van Kirk make a navigational check. Ferebee joined them, and the three men speculated as to whether conditions would allow them to bomb the “primary.” Tibbets said that whatever Eatherly reported the weather over Hiroshima was, he would still go there first “to judge for myself.”

  Tibbets then crawled down the thirty-foot padded tunnel that ran over the two bomb bays to connect the forward and aft compartments of the Enola Gay.

  In the rear compartment were Caron, Stiborik, Shumard, and a still-sleeping Beser.

  Tibbets turned to the tail gunner. “Bob, have you figured out what we are doing this morning?”

  “Colonel, I don’t want to get put up against a wall and shot.”

  Tibbets smiled, recalling that day last September in Wendover when Caron had fervently promised to keep his mouth shut. Since then, the tail gunner had been an example to everybody when it came to security.

  “Bob, we’re on our way now. You can talk.”

  Caron had already guessed the Enola Gay was carrying a new superexplosive. “Are we carrying a chemist’s nightmare?” he asked.

  “No, not exactly.”

  “How about a physicist’s nightmare?”

  “Yes.”

  Tibbets turned to crawl back up the tunnel. Caron reached in and tugged at his leg.

  Tibbets looked back. “What’s the problem?”