SEVEN

 

 

Granier sat upright in a bed, staring at a beetle crawling up a wall. Someone’s dinner, he thought. According to the French doctor that patched him up, he had a severe concussion, three broken ribs, seventeen cuts that needed stitches, dozens more that didn’t and more bruises than a prizefighter. The stitches had been sutured using thread from his uniform and a regular sewing needle. There had been no anesthesia to soothe the pain — not even an aspirin. The Japanese did not give their prisoners medical supplies. They barely gave them food – a half cup of rice with a drizzle of fish sauce per day per prisoner. The prisoners supplemented the protein they needed with bugs and rodents they captured. Water was supplied by nature when it rained, which was often this time of year. The runoff from the rain sliding down the tin roofs was stored in empty food tins, bedpans and whatever else the prisoners could find that didn’t leak.

Granier was the only American in the prison camp. All the other prisoners were French. The Japanese that found him unconscious under the rubble of the guard tower discovered the French coin in his pocket when they searched him. His uniform had been torn to shreds and had no visible insignia to identify his country. They naturally assumed he was French.

The commander of the prison camp considered shooting him as a rebel, but when Granier was questioned under torture, he didn’t say anything. Nothing. Granier hadn’t spoken since he arrived. He just had this blank expression on his face like nothing affected him. The Japanese thought he had suffered such a severe concussion that his brain had been scrambled beyond healing or he was just too stupid to understand the interrogator’s questions.

They put him under the care of a French doctor. The doctor was from a hospital in Hanoi before the Japanese changed their mind about the French governing themselves and put them all in prison. Now, the Japanese were waiting for the French to slowly die of starvation and disease so they could be rid of them. Disobedience to the rules or the whim of an officer was met with the edge of a sword usually resulting in decapitation or, at best, dismemberment. As the French prisoners would say… It was a rough playground.

Granier didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. Not living or dying. Not sickness or health. Not the edge of the Japanese sword. He was a dead man walking, and he was fine with that. He had heard the expression once that ‘Betrayal was the willful demise of hope.’ So true, he thought. It saps one’s will to go on… to survive. He wasn’t sure why he was still breathing. Instinct, I guess, he thought. The brain must be wired to take a breath because God knows it’s not me doing it.

 

While recovering from his wounds, Granier thought about what Spitting Woman had done and why. He pondered whether she ever loved him or whether their relationship was just a convenience. He certainly loved her. That was no lie. He concluded that she must have been ordered to betray him. Someone powerful wanted him dead because they thought he was French. Maybe Ho, maybe Giap. She would have been faced with an impossible decision – kill him or be killed for disobedience. He knew she was the only person capable of protecting her family, and she had to survive to protect them. She had chosen her pack over an outsider. Granier wondered if he would have done the same. No, he thought. She was my pack. I would have done anything to protect her and her family. She should have trusted me. He wondered what he would do if he ever saw her again. He fought the need for revenge. Animals don’t seek revenge, he thought. Be an animal. Let it go. But her betrayal was entrenched in Granier’s subconscious like a vein of ore deep in a mountain, hidden, but always there, waiting to be revealed.

 

When Granier was finally released from the sickbay, he joined the other prisoners. They spoke to him in French and assumed he was a French army soldier that had had a hard time of it and didn’t feel like talking. They gave him a wide berth. They had seen men like him snap before, and it was best not to be around when it happened. Not everyone in the camp was a soldier. The Japanese had arrested many of the French citizens, especially those in government, and placed them in the prisons alongside the soldiers. They did not mix well, and the soldiers dominated the civilians. The soldiers did whatever it took to survive and weren’t afraid to fight with their fists. Some even relished it as a way to pass the time.

A French corporal, Laurent, was assigned by the French commander the job of giving Granier an orientation of how things worked in the camp and getting him situated in his barracks. As they walked through the entrance and down a row of twin bunks, Laurent said in French, “Your uniform… or what’s left of it… I haven’t seen it before. What unit are you from?”

Granier did not respond.

“I’m not spying for the Japanese if that is what you are thinking. I would rather die. Besides, it is insane to pet the tiger that can eat you, yes?” said Laurent.

Granier still said nothing. “This is your bunk,” said Laurent pointing to a top bunk. “It belonged to a civil engineer that hung himself in the toilet a couple of days ago. I guess he couldn’t take it. Although I think he may have had a little help from a couple of his roommates that didn’t like listening to his crying at night. He is in a better place, I think.”

Granier did not react to the story. “You don’t speak much, do you?” said Laurent. “That’s not good. You need to make friends to survive in a place like this. Look, if you don’t want to speak that’s your business, but at least smile occasionally, so the others know you don’t want to kill them.”

Granier just stared straight ahead, no reaction. “Ah, well… it’s your neck,” said Laurent. “Stay clear of the guards whenever possible. You don’t want to piss them off. They’re barbarians. They enjoy hurting us. It’s like a game to them. Toughest cat in the house gets the mice. That sort of thing. You’ll steer clear if you’re smart.”

Granier said nothing. He climbed up into his bunk and stared at the ceiling, ignoring Laurent. “No, no. No thanks required,” said Laurent as he walked toward the exit. “Always pleased to help.”

 

 

The prisoners not in sickbay were expected to work in the surrounding area. Each morning a work detail of one hundred prisoners was led out of the compound under heavy guard and marched into the forest. They were given saws, axes, wedges, sledgehammers and chains which they would use to cut down trees and drag them across the soft soil. The downed trees were loaded on to trucks and driven to a nearby sawmill where they were cut into lumber. The prisoners operated the equipment in the sawmill too. More than one lost his fingers in the steam-powered machinery that drove the circular saw.

No prisoner was crazy enough to try smuggling a tool that could be used as a weapon back into the camp. Even the slightest infraction, no matter how innocent, was considered a viable reason for immediate execution. There were however broken saw teeth that could be smuggled inside the prisoners’ mouths or butt cheeks. The prisoners sharpened the bits of steel the best they could on rocks and nail heads. With patience, the edges could become razor-sharp. It drove the Japanese crazy to see the French show up to roll call with clean-shaven faces. When asked by a Japanese officer, the prisoners responded, “My beard just fell off last night while I was asleep. It sometimes happens to us, French.”

 

It was late in the afternoon, and the day’s work was done. Grey clouds rolled in, and it was muggy. A sure sign of rain. Granier was sitting outside on the steps of his barracks, watching as a group of soldiers played football with a hollowed-out coconut. He saw a Japanese lieutenant flipping a coin as he passed in front of the main gate and approached the commander’s hut outside the wire. Even at a distance, he recognized the coin. It was his gold coin. He wondered how the lieutenant had come by it. He might have bought it from the soldiers that delivered him to the prison compound but more likely ordered them to hand it over, using some sort of excuse as to why it was required. He might have said that he would keep it for the prisoner to whom it belonged until he was released. Doesn’t matter, he thought. It’s mine, and I want it back. Granier knew bringing it up with the lieutenant would only cause trouble. He might even kill him for being insubordinate. He just didn’t want that man touching his grandfather’s coin. He would bide his time and wait for the right moment.

 

Granier stood in the line to get his daily ration of rice and fish sauce. His stomach had shrunk over the last few weeks, and the hunger pains had ceased. He knew he would need his strength if he were going to get his coin back. It was a purpose. He needed a purpose to go on. Nothing else seemed to matter.

The Frenchman serving scooped up a half cup and plopped it on Granier’s mess tin. There were dead worms in the rice. The Frenchman smiled and said, “Protein.”

The next Frenchman in the serving line used a teaspoon to ladle a drizzle of fish sauce over the rice. It would be Granier’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He stepped out of line and stood eating with his fingers. He didn’t mind the dried worms. He watched the lieutenant with his coin as he inspected a platoon of Japanese troops on the opposite side of the wire. He studied his enemy. The lieutenant berated his men for the smallest infraction in their dress, grooming, and maintenance of their weapons. That didn’t bother Granier. Discipline is good, he thought. It hardens a soldier. Gives ’em confidence when they get it right. Granier didn’t fault the man for being a tough commander. That was his job. He didn’t fault the man for being Japanese. He was doing what his country demanded of him. The man’s offense was simply taking his grandfather’s coin. For that, Granier would make him pay. He couldn’t let that stand. Not after everything that had happened. This justice was within his reach.

 

The Japanese lieutenant was oblivious to Granier, who was just another French prisoner that should have committed suicide instead of being captured. The lieutenant had his own problems. When he had left for the military academy, he had moved his wife and son to the island of Kyushu to live with his brother and his family. His brother had a good job as a manager at the Mitsubishi Armament factory in the Urakami Valley. His house was big and near the factory. The lieutenant knew that his brother and his wife would take care of his wife and son while he was away serving his country.

Everything had gone well for the first three years of the war. But then the Americans took the island of Okinawa. It was still far from the mainland islands, but unless the Americans could be stopped, it seemed only a matter of time before they invaded the mainland. It was most likely Kyushu island would be the first island invaded. The Urakami Valley was heavily defended by anti-aircraft batteries which discouraged the American bombers from attacking, and there was a substantial garrison of soldiers there. But the lieutenant knew it was not enough to halt the American advance. He was concerned about the safety of his wife and son. He wrote her a letter and asked her to move to the Northern Island of Hokkaido where her mother lived. There was little heavy industry in Hokkaido and would most likely be the last island the Allies invaded. His wife and son would be safe until the Japanese forces wore the Americans down, drove them back into the sea, and achieved final victory.

He double-checked his letter to ensure that he had not said anything that might prevent the war censors from delivering it to his wife. Even without delay from the censors, it would still take over a week to reach his wife, and even that wasn’t for sure. Military correspondence took precedence. Personal mail, even from an officer, got there when it got there.

 

The French prisoners carried on with life the best they could. They played cards, even though the well-worn deck they had purchased from a guard for a pack of chewing gun was missing a few cards. It didn’t matter. It passed the time, and once they figured out which cards were missing, it made the games more interesting.

Fights occasionally broke out between prisoners. The compound was a pressure cooker with too many men in too little space. The Japanese guards let the fights unfold and only stepped in when ordered by their commander. It was good fun to watch the Frenchmen beat the shit out of each other.

The prisoners had flying insect races by tying a thread from one of their uniforms and letting the bug fly around in circles until it collapsed from exhaustion. It felt good to watch the bug suffer more than they did. They were the masters once again. They were in control.

Granier found it all pitiful but said nothing. He acted like he was watching, but his eyes were focused beyond the wire on the lieutenant whenever he would appear. He ruminated on ways of getting his coin back. Stealing it was one option. Maybe creating some sort of issue that would force the lieutenant to enter the compound, then using a diversion while he picked his pocket. It could work if planned and executed correctly. The problem was more psychological. Granier wanted the lieutenant to know that he was taking his coin back. He wanted to face him when he did it. He wanted to dominate him like a beast dominates its prey. He had little regard for the consequences of his actions. It was his way of restoring his worth as a warrior. Fearless. Unbending. That feeling of renewal was more important to Granier than life itself. It was who he was and all he valued. That… and his grandfather’s coin. Everything else had fallen away and no longer mattered.

 

It had been a long day, cutting down trees in the forest under the watchful eye of the guards. Even with the prisoners starving to death, the Japanese still demanded that they work a full day. Granier could feel his body wasting away as it ate away at his muscle. Any fat on his body, of which there was almost none, had been chewed up in the first three weeks in the camp. Next, it would be muscle. Then finally, his organs. Eventually, death, most likely from disease as his immune system shutdown.

Unlike the other prisoners, Granier didn’t think about escape. He had no reason to escape. He had given up hope of happiness. Even if he found someone he could love, he would never trust again. Trust was the basis of any good relationship, and it was out of this reach. Because of his nature, his prospects had been slim before he met Spitting Woman, and now they seemed non-existent. There was some satisfaction in knowing he would never love again. It meant that he would never hurt again as he did now. Better to let it all end in this faraway land. But first… the coin.

As the work team walked back toward the camp, Granier saw something that perked his interest. The lieutenant was exiting the commander’s hut and walking in the direction of the entrance to the camp. As usual, the lieutenant wore his Showato – an officer’s sword – on his left side so it could be drawn across the body. Granier wondered if the lieutenant was righthanded and if he kept his grandfather’s coin in his right pant pocket. The odds were in his favor. The sword concerned him too. Unlike the samurai swords of old made by skilled craftsmen, the Showato was made of cheap steel, stamped using power hammers and tempered with oil. Even so, the officers wore it with pride and kept the blade’s edge razor-sharp. Once out of its sheath, it would be deadly. Not such a bad thing, but not before he retrieved what was his. To stand any chance at all, he would need to stay close to his enemy.

It will be a matter of timing, thought Granier. Will the column of prisoners cut across his path in time and force him to wait until they pass before proceeding? If he stops, this may be the only chance I ever have. Granier had abandoned his belief in a higher power long ago. But at this moment, he couldn’t help himself. He prayed as he drew closer to the lieutenant. God, if you exist, I will only ask for this one thing before I die. A chance. Just give me one last chance.

To Granier’s amazement, the lieutenant stopped to berate one of the guards near the fence for having loosened the top button on his uniform.

Maybe there is a god. Granier moved closer, one foot in front of the other, his remaining muscles tensing, adrenaline coursing through his veins, the beast within rising once again.

As he was about to enter the entrance to the camp, Granier stepped out of line and walked to the lieutenant. A guard yelled at him. He didn’t stop. The lieutenant turned to see why the guard was yelling. A prisoner was walking past him. The lieutenant reached for his sword. He would strike the impudent Frenchman, severing his head from his shoulders as he passed. Granier pivoted behind the lieutenant, reaching out with his left hand to grab the hilt of the sword, keeping the lieutenant from drawing it from its sheath. He swung in back of the lieutenant and slid his right hand into the lieutenant’s pocket. The lieutenant struggled to pull his sword out, not realizing the prisoner was stopping him. He looked down and saw the dirty hand on the hilt. His thrust his elbow backward hitting Granier in the chest. Granier was weak and couldn’t hold his ground. He fell backward, landing on his ass in the dirt. He raised his hand holding the coin up, locked eyes with the lieutenant and said in English, “Mine.”

The French prisoners behind the wire gathered to watch the fight. They had a morbid curiosity of how the lieutenant was going to kill their fellow prisoner.

Guards rushed forward. The lieutenant yelled for them to get back. He would deal with the prisoner alone. He reached for his sword. “Draw that sword, and I’ll stick it up your ass,” said Granier in English climbing to his feet.

The French prisoners were shocked to hear Granier speak English and exchanged surprised glances.

The lieutenant was surprised by Granier’s language. It was in English. He had heard it before. No matter. The prisoner would be dead in a moment. He drew his sword and prepared to strike. “I warned, ya,” said Granier with a snarl, tucking the coin in his pocket.

Granier’s survival was about luck and a bit of psychology. There would be no second chance. Granier needed to predict the direction of the stroke of the lieutenant’s sword. If he was wrong, he was dead. The lieutenant was arrogant, and Granier had embarrassed him in front of the men he commanded. He’ll want my head, thought Granier. He’s too angry to consider anything else. That’s his weakness… pride.

The lieutenant stepped forward raising his sword above his head. A feint, thought Granier. Poor predictable bastard. Granier thrust his arms out to the lieutenant’s right side in preparation for a downward side stroke. He guessed correctly. As the sword came down, the lieutenant shifted his arms and swung for the prisoner’s head. Granier lunged forward and used both his hands to grab the lieutenant’s forearm. Granier twisted counterclockwise into the lieutenant’s body while holding his arms, keeping the sword away. The lieutenant was caught off guard by the speed of the prisoner’s maneuver. Granier locked his foot behind the lieutenant’s boot. He released his right hand from the lieutenant’s forearm and drove his elbow into the officer’s cheek. The lieutenant stumbled backward from the blow, and as he did, Granier’s foot tripped him. The lieutenant let go of his sword as he fell. Granier reached out with his right hand and caught the falling sword by the hilt. He swung the sword around as the lieutenant landed on his ass in the dirt. He stopped the blade an inch from the side of the lieutenant’s throat and said, “Pussy.”

A corporal ran up and struck Granier in the side of the head with the butt of his rifle. Granier was stunned as he fell sideways and released the sword, letting it fall into the dirt. The lieutenant recovered, picked up his sword, and stood above Granier. He raised his sword to strike. A simple straight stroke, thought Granier as he looked up from the ground at the enraged lieutenant. Nothing fancy. Split my head like a watermelon. Quick. Painless.

A man’s voice called out. The lieutenant froze, his face full of anguish, wanting to proceed with the prisoner’s death, but afraid. Granier turned to see a Japanese major standing on the steps of the command hut. He had come out when he heard a commotion. He had seen everything. He walked down the steps and over to the lieutenant and Granier. He scolded the lieutenant in Japanese. The lieutenant bowed obediently and re-sheathed his sword. The major turned to Granier on the ground and said in English, “You spoke English.”

Granier said nothing. “Your accent… you are an American, are you not?” said the major.

Granier remained silent. “I studied economics at the University of San Francisco before the war. Beautiful city. Especially the Golden Gate Bridge,” said the major studying the American. “Why are you here in Vietnam?”

Granier kept quiet. The major’s face hardened. He wasn’t used to being ignored, even by the enemy.

“You assaulted an officer. Be glad you did not kill him. You will be punished. There is no other way,” said the major as he motioned for the guards to take the prisoner away. “Perhaps we may talk later when you are ready.”

Granier was picked up by the arms and dragged to the hot box – a sheet metal box with barely enough room to fit a man with his legs bent and his head bowed. Once inside, the guards used a wooden mallet to drive wedges in place to hold the door shut. Granier was left to cook in the sun and freeze in the night from his clothes drenched in sweat. No food. No water.

 

Three days later, Granier was dragged from the hot box and carried to the commander’s hut by two Japanese guards. His uniform was even more tattered and stained with salt marks from the sweat. He smelled of urine. His lips were blistered, cracked, and bleeding. His legs were cramped and spasming. He was unable to walk on his own. One more day in the hotbox would have killed him.

The guards sat him in a chair in front of the major. They moved back and stood next to the door. Granier had trouble sitting upright. “It’s the dehydration,” said the major pouring a small cup of hot tea. “It can make you dizzy, and you can lose your sense of balance. Drink this. It will help.”

Granier wanted to refuse anything offered to him by the major, but he was sure he would pass out any minute. He picked up the teacup and moved it toward his lips. His hand was shaking with tremors. He brought his other hand forward, and it was just as bad. The major gave a nod to one of the guards. The guard stepped forward and helped steady Granier’s hands as he drank. “You are to be transferred to Tokyo. Your presence, along with the other American prisoners, will help protect the city from being bombed by the allies. You will be shielding the emperor and his family.”

“I’d rather die,” said Granier, his voice scratchy and hushed.

“That is not an option. While you wait, you will be moved back into the compound with the French. You will no longer be required to work in the forest. Conserve your strength. It will be a long journey to my country. The lieutenant you attacked will not be allowed to seek retribution against you. It is his punishment for losing his sword. You are a lucky man. He has a most foul temper. He has been reprimanded several times for decapitating prisoners. See that you do not cross him again. If you obey, I will let you keep the gold coin you fought so hard to obtain.”

“It was mine.”

“Nothing is yours. You are a prisoner. If you disobey in any way, I will see that the coin is removed. That will be your punishment. Do you understand?”

Granier took a moment to consider, then nodded.

 

Granier was escorted back into the compound by the guards. The tea had helped him regain some of his strength. He was able to walk most of the way slowly until the guards became impatient and picked him up by the arms and carried him.

Laurent and another French prisoner took Granier from the guards and helped him to sickbay. “So, you are American. That explains your attitude,” said Laurent in French.

Granier smiled. His lips cracked and stung.

“You think this is a joke? That lieutenant almost killed you. Had the major not intervened, you would be missing your head. So, what do we call you while you are still breathing, which I doubt will be long?”

“Buck.”

“How do you know French?”

“Born in France. Moved to the States.”

“French and American. Passionate and pigheaded. I’m amazed you lasted this long. No matter what you were told by the major, you must stay away from the lieutenant. He’s a mean bastard.”

“He’s a pussy. ’Sides…going to Tokyo… with other Americans.”

“Good. The sooner you are out of here, the safer you will be. This war is winding down, and we are winning. It won’t be long before the Japanese are forced to surrender. But that’s when we really need to worry. Many of the officers will probably commit suicide. It’s their way. But before they do they may decide to take a few prisoners with them. Everyone needs to keep their head low or see it loped off.”

 

 

August 9, 1945

 

North Field airbase took up almost half of the island of Tinian. It was a six-hour flight to Japan and home to American 313^th Bombardment Wing. The 509^th Composite Group had been attached to the 313^th but was assigned its own area of operations on the Northern tip of the island. The 509^th had very little to do with the 313^th, and almost all contact between the aircrews was prohibited. Their mission was one of the biggest, well-kept secrets of the war.

 

Major Charles Sweeney sat alone in the mess hall nursing a cup of coffee. His crew was already boarding the B-29 Superfortress nicknamed “Bockscar” after having finished their final briefing in the early hours of the morning. He had given his co-pilot, First Lieutenant Don Albury, an excuse that he had left something in his quarters. In truth, he just needed a few moments alone.

Sweeney had flown the blast measurement instrumentation aircraft, another B-29, during the first atomic bombing of Hiroshima. He knew better than almost anyone the power of the weapon called “Little Boy.” Now, it was his turn to pilot the Superfortress that would deliver the second bomb, called “Fat Man.” The thought made him queasy. This was the most important mission of his life.

The commander of the atomic bombardment operation, Colonel Paul Tibbets, passed by the doorway and caught a glimpse of Sweeney as he went by. He stopped for a moment in the hallway and thought about whether he should speak to Sweeney. He knew what he was feeling. Tibbets had piloted the Enola Gay when it dropped Little Boy three days earlier. Tibbets turned, entered the mess hall, and said, “Are you okay, Chuck?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m great. Very excited. The whole crew is. I’m just drinking a half a cup of coffee to help me stay awake during the flight,” said Sweeney.

“Yeah. You won’t need that. Adrenaline will be pumping through your body the entire flight. It did for me. You know it’s okay to have reservations?”

“Really? Did you?”

“Yes. Of course. I knew what I was dropping and what it would do.”

“And yet…”

“We do our duty. That’s why they chose us.”

“Yeah. I suppose you’re right. I’d better get going,” said Sweeney, rising.

“What’s on your mind?”

Sweeney stopped and thought for a moment, unsure he should speak, then... “I’m very grateful to be given this honor…”

“I know you are. But time is limited. So. let’s cut through the bullshit. Spit it out.”

“Why two?”

“Yeah. I thought that might be it.”

“I understand why we needed to drop Little Boy. The Japanese had to know it was real and its power. But didn’t the deaths of all those people send the message? They’re done. We know it, and they know it. Hell, the Russians just entered the war and our marines are already on Okinawa. It’s over.”

“And yet the Japanese haven’t surrendered.”

“It’s only been three days.”

“That’s enough time. They could have surrendered if that’s what they wanted. They’ve made the decision to continue fighting.”

“That’s insane.”

“I agree. But it was insane to start the war in the first place, and here we are. One hundred and sixty thousand American soldiers dead. Over twenty million Chinese soldiers and civilians dead and countless wounded. More will die if we are forced to invade Japan, not to mention the millions of Japanese civilians that will most likely die. We need to end this war now. This is the best and fastest way to do it.”

“I keep telling myself that. It doesn’t make it any easier.”

“You’re a good soldier, Chuck, and a hell of a pilot. I have no doubt you’ll do your duty.”

“I will. Now if you will excuse me… I have worlds to destroy.”

Tibbets smiled at the reference to Robert Oppenheimer’s quote as they saluted each other and Sweeney headed out to the airfield. Tibbet’s expression darkened as soon as Sweeney was out of sight. He knew Sweeney would do his duty, but he also knew he would never be the same once his mission was complete. It was the sacrifice they both had decided to make for their country. One cannot commit mass murder, even if it is their duty, without it taking a toll on the soul.

 

It was a little after three in the morning when Sweeney walked out of the officers’ quarters and on to the tarmac. In the distance was “Bockscar” – the aircraft that would drop the second atomic bomb. He could see Albury through the aircraft’s windshield checking the switch settings in the cockpit. His crew was top-notch and worked well together. Sweeney was the newest member, having taken over as pilot less than a month ago. Albury had been the pilot before Sweeney. Naturally, Albury was disappointed at the demotion from pilot to co-pilot, even though he knew that just being in the cockpit would assure him a place in history. Albury had great respect for Sweeney. He had watched Sweeney closely during training, and the five practice runs they had flown together. Sweeney knew the mission like the back of his hand and had a firm manner of command. Sweeney’s professionalism soothed the blow of being denied the honor of dropping Fat Man. It was the way the brass wanted it – best crew and best pilot. They weren’t taking any chances.

Bockscar was a beautiful aircraft and one of the world’s largest. Even at night, the work lights reflected off the bomber’s highly polished skin. Bockscar was a Silverplate - one of ten B-29 Superfortresses that had been modified by the US Army Air Force to drop an atomic bomb. ‘Silverplate’ was the codename used for the bomber designed to carry the top-secret devices developed by the Manhattan Project. Unlike the other B-29s, the Silverplates’ engines were fuel-injected and had reversible props. All of the gun turrets had been removed to compensate for the additional weight of the atomic bombs. Except for the tail gun position, the Silverplates were defenseless. The aircraft’s bomb bays had to be extensively altered to accommodate the new bombs. Each Silverplate was capable of carrying either Little Boy or Fat Man type bombs. They could also carry conventional bombs.

As Sweeney approached, Albury saw him through the cockpit’s spherical windshield and gave him a thumbs up. Sweeney performed a visual and physical inspection of the aircraft. He knew Albury would have done his own inspection before entering the plane and would have notified him immediately had he found anything amiss. Albury was that kind of officer – professional and thorough. Sweeney felt privileged to have such an experienced airman as his co-pilot. But even though he trusted Albury with his life, Sweeney would perform his own inspection. Two sets of eyes were better than one, and this mission was too important for anything to be overlooked.

America had spent two billion dollars developing the weapons and modifying the aircraft. It was money hard spent during a war that seemed to consume every nickel available. Everyone from the generals that oversaw the project and the scientists that created and tested the devices, on down to ground crews that maintained the aircraft, had worked hard to reduce any risks to an absolute minimum. They were the best and the brightest America had to offer.

The maintenance crew chief was doing his own last-minute inspection of the mechanisms that would release Fat Man, already loaded in the bomb bay. Sweeney poked his head up through the open bomb bay doors and said, “Any luck with getting that fuel transfer pump working?”

“No, sir. It’s still froze up like a nun. We’re still ‘go’ though, right?” said the crew chief.

“Yes. We are still go.”

“You know I could still replace that thing in three or four hours.”

“No. The decision has already been made. There’s not enough time before the weather front moves in. We’re going as is.”

“I’m real sorry about it – the transfer pump.”

“Stuff breaks, Chief. It’s the nature of the beast. We’ll be alright.”

“Yes, sir. Just don’t spend too much time on target. She gobbles fuel like a son of a bitch.”

“I am well aware. You and your crew have done a hell of a job keeping her ready. I’m grateful.”

“It’s been an honor, sir,” said the chief, standing inside the bomb bay, snapping to attention and saluting.

Sweeney saluted back and resumed his inspection.

 

At 3:49 in the morning, Bockscar lifted off from North Field on Tinian. Fifteen minutes into the flight, the aircraft’s weaponeer, Commander Fredrick Ashworth, entered the bomb bay and swapped out the electronic safety plugs. Fat Man was armed. The first leg of their journey was to Yakushima Island where Bockscar would rendezvous with two more B-29s – The Great Artiste and The Big Stink – each carrying blast measurement instrumentation and photographic equipment. From there, the three planes would proceed to the city of Kokura – the primary target.

 

When Bockscar arrived at Yakushima Island, Sweeney began circling at 30,000 feet, as planned in the mission profile. Within a few minutes, The Great Artiste, piloted by Captain Fredrick Bock, arrived and linked up with Bockscar. The Big Stink, piloted by Major James Hopkins, was nowhere to be found. The two aircraft continued to circle the island burning their precious fuel as they waited for The Big Stink.

 

After the allotted rendezvous time of fifteen minutes came and went, Sweeney grew concerned. Ashworth was in charge of the bomb, but Sweeney was in charge of the plane. It was Sweeney’s call whether to continue without The Big Stink. Sweeney called Ashworth on the intercom, “What are you thinking, Dick?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should break radio silence,” said Ashworth.

“Absolutely not. Tibbet was very clear on that.”

“Then, we should wait. Keep circling and see if Jim shows.”

“You know we don’t have our reserve fuel?”

“Yeah. But The Big Stink has the camera equipment. Do you really want to drop this thing without any photographic evidence?”

“I think there will be plenty of evidence once it explodes.”

“Chuck… it’s history.”

“Yeah. I know. Alright. We’ll wait a while longer, but that means less time over target.”

“Let me worry about that. Just keep an eye out for Jim.”

 

While they circled, the Enola Gay and Laggin’ Dragon, the two B-29s assigned as weather planes for the mission, reported that the cloud cover was acceptable at both the primary and secondary target areas. “Well, that’s good news,” said Albury. “For a minute there, I was worried.”

Sweeney shook his head with a chuckle at Albury’s attempt at levity.

 

Sweeney waited another twenty-five minutes in search of The Big Stink. It never showed. Fuel was low. “I’m calling it,” said Sweeney to Albury. “We’re heading for Kokura.”

They banked the aircraft and headed north.

In the bomb bay, Ashworth felt the plane’s turn and said, “Ah, shit. Fuckin’ Hopkins.”

Bock, the pilot of The Great Artiste, followed Sweeney’s lead, banked his aircraft and headed north.

 

Kokura was one of Japan’s largest shipping ports and a key industrial center. It had been the secondary target for the Enola Gay. If Hiroshima had been clouded over, Kokura would have been hit by Little Boy on the first atomic bombardment. But instead of being let completely off the hook, the city had become the primary target of the second bomb – Fat Man.

When Bockscar and The Great Artiste arrived, only thirty percent of the city was visible. Over two hundred B-29s had firebombed the industrial installations in nearby Yahata the previous day. The smoke from the fires that continued to burn had blown in, and a thick haze had settled over Kokura.

Sweeney piloted Bockscar over Kokura. Flak bursts cracked below the aircraft. With only three minutes remaining before passing over the aiming point - Kokura Arsenal - Sweeney turned the controls over to his bombardier, Captain Kermit Beahan. Sweeney called out to the crew to put on their goggles. He kept his off so he could see what he was doing. He knew the risks.

Beahan watched through his Norten bombing sight and was unable to spot the aiming point through the haze. “I can’t see it! There’s smoke obscuring the target,” shouted Beahan over the hum of the four engines.

“Shit,” said Sweeney as they passed over the position of the intended aiming point. “I’m taking control.”

“You have the aircraft,” said Beahan and released the controls.

The flak was getting closer as the anti-aircraft batteries below dialed in the aircraft’s altitude. There was a swift discussion among the crew. The tail gunner reported that flak was bursting at their altitude. The crew was scared. Making a second pass was far more dangerous than the first. The initial surprise of the bomber’s attack was gone, and the anti-aircraft battery crews would be ready. “Everybody, shut up,” said Sweeney over the intercom. “We’re going again. We’ll change our altitude to thirty-one thousand and hopefully shake off the ack-ack.”

Sweeney swung the aircraft around for another pass. He again turned the controls over to Beahan and called for the crew to put on their goggles. Again, Beahan stared through the sight’s reticle and again encountered the heavy haze. “No good. No good,” yelled Beahan. “I can’t see it.”

“Damn it,” said Sweeney. “I’m taking control.”

“You have the aircraft,” said Beahan, again releasing the controls.

“What about using radar?” said Albury.

“No. Visual only. Those were the orders,” said Sweeney.

“We got Zeros on their way up,” said Sergeant Spitzer, one of the two radio operators, with alarm in his voice.

“We’re going again,” said Sweeney over the intercom as he banked the aircraft.

“What about the Zeros?” said Albury.

“They can’t shoot worth shit at thirty thousand feet. ’Sides, it’ll take ’em a few minutes to reach us.”

“Good to know. For a second there I thought we might be in real trouble.”

Sweeney couldn’t help but laugh. “Don, I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Is that what you call that?” said Albury, not getting the reaction from Sweeney that he hoped. “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.”

The flak was exploding right outside the Bockscar’s fuselage, shaking the aircraft violently. It would only take one well-placed shell-burst to ignite their remaining fuel or set off Fat Man. Sweeney changed altitude again, climbing another thousand feet. As they approached the aim point for the third time, Sweeney turned over the aircraft’s controls to Beahan and said, “Don’t fuck this up, Captain.”

Beahan watched the reticle. Nothing but haze. “No go,” said Beahan, deflated.

“I’m taking control of the aircraft,” said Sweeney, similarly dejected.

“You’ve got control.”

Sweeney knew that if they went again, he and his crew would die. If the anti-aircraft batteries didn’t hit them, then the Zeros surely would. He knew that Bock would never leave without Sweeney and his crew. He would be signing their death warrants too. Sweeney’s mind raced.

Albury turned and could see the determination in Sweeney's face. “What about Nagasaki? It can’t be any worse than this,” said Albury. “We still have enough fuel for one pass if we go now.”

Sweeney considered for a moment, then said in the intercom, “We’re going to the secondary target.”

His crew took a collective sigh of relief as the Bockscar banked and headed south. The people of Kokura never knew how close they had been to annihilation. Nagasaki was only ninety-five miles away.

The flight engineer, Master Sergeant John Kuharek, ran some quick calculations on his slide rule. The blood drained out of his face. “We’re not gonna make it,” he said to himself.

“What?” said Albury, overhearing him.

“What’s up, Master Sergeant?” said Sweeney.

“We don’t have enough fuel to make it back, Major,” said Kuharek.

“You mean to Tinian?”

“No. Not anywhere. We can’t even reach Okinawa.”

“What if we go now?” said Albury.

“No. It’s already too late,” said Kuharek

“It’ll be alright. We’ll ditch in the sea if we need to. They’ll find us,” said Sweeney.

“Like they found the crew of the Indianapolis?” said Albury.

“Let’s finish the run, and I’ll figure something out.”

“Finish the run?”

“You’re damn right we’re gonna finish it.”

“Alright. I guess it doesn’t matter either way.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

 

The Bockscar flew on. Sweeney tipped the aircraft’s wings to signal Bock. The Great Artiste followed. The Zeros over Kokura assumed they had chased off the two American bombers and returned to their base. The crew of the Bockscar was out of danger from being shot down for the moment. It was little consolation as the news of ditching in the sea rippled through the aircraft. Everyone remained quiet; some said prayers.

Sweeney and Albury watched through the windshield as Nagasaki neared. Cumulus clouds had moved in over the city. “It’s socked in. A layer of cumulus at seven thousand feet,” said Sweeney.

“If we’re gonna do anything, we gotta do it quick,” said Kuharek.

“It’s gonna be trouble if we try and land with Fat Man still in our belly,” said Albury.

“Not to mention the six hundred gallons of reserve fuel we’re still carrying,” said Kuharek. “We could ditch the device in the sea.”

“If we’re gonna do that, we should just drop the damn thing over the city. We could get lucky,” said Albury.

Sweeney considered for a brief moment, then said, “Dick, what do you think about using radar?”

“But you said—” said Ashworth.

“Forget what I said. Can we hit the target?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Do it.”

The crew in Bockscar readied themselves. The tone was activated, and the radar scanned the valley below. Beahan took one last glance through the Norten bombsight. It was still socked in, then a break in the clouds appeared, and he could see the two Mitsubishi arms factories below. “I got it! I got it! Two factories right below us.”

The factories Beahan was looking at were in the Urakami Valley almost two miles away from the designated aiming point. “Alright, boys. Here we go. Googles on,” said Sweeney over the intercom, once again leaving his off. “Captain Beahan, you have the aircraft.”

“I have control,” said Beahan, his eyes fixed to the target as seen through the bombsight reticle.

At two hundred miles per hour, there wasn’t much time before the Bockscar would fly beyond the factories. Beahan flipped the switch to the bomb bay doors. He only had forty-five seconds to set the Norten bombsight on the new aiming point, kill the drift, and kill the closure on target. Once ready, he acted immediately and pickled the bomb release switch. “Bombs away,” he said, then caught his mistake. “I mean, bomb away.”

The aircraft lurched as Fat Man, a five-ton bomb, was released from its cradle and started its descent. “We did it,” said Albury, looking a bit shocked.

“Yeah. We did,” said Sweeney with a slight grin. “Well done, Kermit. I’m taking control.”

“You have the aircraft,” said Beahan, relieved.

During the moments following the release, Sweeney had one job - put as much distance as he could between Fat Man and his crew.

 

The crew of the Great Artiste saw Fat Man drop from Bockscar. They hustled to release the three instrument packages on parachutes that would measure the explosion. Once released, Bock followed Sweeney with the same mission – get the hell out of Dodge.

 

Fat Man dropped for forty-two seconds before it detonated at one thousand six hundred and forty feet above the factories. The valley was surrounded by low hills that contained the blast and protected Nagasaki’s largest residential neighborhood less than a mile away. But for the people in the valley, it was a different story. Thirty-five thousand factory workers, soldiers and civilians were killed in a matter of seconds, engulfed by the blast and the firestorm that followed. The factories, as well as the surrounding buildings and homes, were demolished. Forty-four percent of Nagasaki laid in ruin. At twenty-two kilotons, Fat Man’s explosion was almost twice the size of Little Boy’s.

 

The Japanese lieutenant’s wife and son were killed in an instant. They were less than a quarter of a mile from ground zero. She was holding her son as she hung laundry in the backyard of her brother-in-law’s house. The bodies of the wife and son disintegrated together. There was no time for surprise or even pain. They were just gone.

 

Inside Bockscar, Sweeney saw a bright flash beyond anything he had ever seen. White spots exploded across his retinas. For a moment, he wondered if he was blind and considered turning over the controls to Albury who was wearing his goggles. He held the aircraft steady and waited. His vision came back slowly, and within thirty seconds he could see well enough to pilot the plane. “You okay?” said Albury.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” said Sweeney.

A few seconds later, three shockwaves hit one right after the other. The plane shook violently, and several crew members were thrown to the floor. For the moment, the worst was over. They had survived. Everyone that could made their way to a window to observe the blast.

The mushroom cloud rose above the city. The top was bright bluish, while the bottom was salmon pink where the firestorm was wreaking havoc. It took the cloud forty-five seconds to reach the same altitude as the two bombers and continued to rise as it grew in size. “Ah, Major… the mushroom cloud is coming at us,” said Spitzer.

Sweeney immediately dove Bockscar to pick up speed and banked hard right to avoid the cloud of atomic ash and smoke.

Bock also dove The Great Artiste but banked in the opposite direction. They could rendezvous later when they were out of danger. At the moment, Bock needed to do what he thought best to save his crew and aircraft.

At 30,000 feet both aircraft leveled off. The crew of Bockscar was giddy and hopeful. They talked about the end of the war and returning home. Sweeney and Albury knew that was not likely. They were 457 miles from the nearest US airfield on Okinawa. There wasn’t enough fuel to make it. They would have to ditch the aircraft in the sea. Sharks would be attracted to blood from the wounds they would surely suffer. It would take hours for any rescue ships or aircraft to reach them. The only good news was that they had linked up with The Great Artiste again and Bock would be able to identify the location of the crash when he reached Okinawa. It wasn’t much, but it was something — a veiled hope.

Sweeney remembered something Tippet had told him when he was instructing the crews on Tinian. It was called “Descending by steps.” The idea was simple – use your altitude to increase your speed and shorten the time in the air to reach your destination without using more fuel. Out of options, Sweeney decided to give it a try. Without increasing his throttle, he dove two thousand feet then leveled off. It had worked. He had increased speed without using more fuel. He tried it again with the same results - more speed, no more fuel. He didn’t dare go any lower for the time being. They were still above Japan, and the anti-aircraft batteries continued to take potshots at the two aircraft as they passed overhead. There was also the threat of Zeros that might be patrolling the area. Bockscar didn’t have any spare fuel for a dogfight, not to mention most of its weaponry had been removed. He needed to fly in a straight line to Okinawa if they were going to have any chance of making it. That meant he couldn’t fly around any of the know Japanese airfields. They would have to take the risk and hope all the Japanese squadrons where out on missions.

When Bockscar passed over the last Japanese Island with an airbase, Sweeney proceeded with his steps in descent maneuver. “How we doing on fuel?” said Sweeney.

“We’re still short, but it’s improving. Just keep doing what you’re doing,” said Albury. “Do you think it’s cold?”

“What?”

“The water. The air’s warm.”

“Ah, hell, Don. It ain’t the water you gotta worry about. It’s the sharks.”

“I know. I know. But I’m not a big fan of the cold.”

“Remind me to bring you a blanket next time.”

“You think there will be a next time?”

“Not if you don’t stop blabbing and let me focus.”

“Right. Right.”

 

When the island of Okinawa came into view, the crew cheered. Bockscar was riding low over the water at two thousand feet. Sweeney had run out of steps. “Fuel?” said Sweeney.

“All main tanks show empty. We’re running on fumes,” said Albury.

“Sergeant Spitzer, have you reached the airfield’s control tower yet?” said Sweeney.

“No luck, Major. I think the blast may have damaged the radio.”

“Alright. I want you to fire our flares.”

“Which color?”

“All of ‘em. Hopefully, we’ll get their attention.”

Spitzer grabbed the flare gun, opened a porthole on the right side of the aircraft, and fired out the first flare. He reloaded and fired the second. “Mix it up. Side to side,” said Sweeney.

Spitzer moved across to the opposite side of the fuselage, opened a portal and fired the third flare. He moved back and forth, reloading, and firing until all the flares had been expended.

Sweeney could see the fire trucks moving out from their hangers and aircraft taxing away from the runway. “Good job, Sergeant. I think you got their attention.”

At that moment, engine number two coughed and shutdown. They were still a mile out from the edge of the runway. “We lost number two,” said Albury.

“Yep,” said Sweeney. “I’m gonna have to keep our airspeed up as much as possible in case we lose another. We’re gonna be coming in hot.”

“Copy that.”

With only three engines still running, Bockscar dropped at an alarming rate. The landing gear lowered, creating even more drag. “You see those B-25s parked on the right side of the runway? Probably don’t want to hit those,” said Albury.

“Ya think?” said Sweeney.

“Just trying to help.”

“Is that what you call that?” said Sweeney with a grin.

Bockscar cleared the end of the runway with less than ten feet of altitude. “Everyone hang on. This is gonna be a little rough,” said Sweeney.

Another engine coughed and stopped. “Great,” said Sweeney.

Bockscar came down hard on the runway and bounced twenty feet back up in the air. Sweeney and Albury forced the aircraft back down. Another hard landing, but this time the wheels stayed down. “Brakes,” said Sweeney as he stood on the brakes and reversed the pitch on the propellers still turning.

Albury also pressed on the brake pedals with everything he had.

The wheels smoked as they heated up, locking, unlocking, locking again. The aircraft whizzed past the B-25s parked along the runway. Disaster averted. The end of the runway was approaching fast, and Sweeney wondered if the brakes would give way. With only twenty-five feet to go and the aircraft moving at a fair clip, Sweeney cranked the steering wheel and turned the plane one hundred and eighty degrees. Bockscar skidded sideways to a stop.

Nobody said anything for a long moment, their eyes wide. Sweeney slowly turned to Albury and burst out laughing. Albury and the rest of the crew joined him.

 

Albury and Sweeney stepped from the aircraft as a jeep pulled up. General Doolittle, the famed aviator and base commander, stepped out of the driver’s seat. “Who the hell are you? And why the hell did you land on my airfield without permission?”

Sweeney and Albury snapped to attention and saluted. “Major Sweeney and First Lieutenant Albury, General. As to why we landed on your airfield… we kinda ran out of gas, and our radio was out,” said Sweeney.

“We just dropped Fat Man on Nagasaki,” said Albury.

“That’s Bockscar?” said Doolittle, surprised.

“Yes, sir,” said Albury.

“We thought you crashed.”

“So did we, General,” said Albury.

“We completed our mission, General. As ordered,” said Sweeney, choking up a little.

Doolittle studied them both for a long moment, then said, “Well done.”