FOURTEEN
SUNDAY, AUGUST 5, I attended morning mass as had been my practice since childhood. The priest from the Eighth Bomber Group conducted the service under a brilliant blue sky, behind him a distinct horizon separating the ocean from the sky, heaven from earth. It was a balmy, tropical morning. A faint wind blew across the rows of worshipers. My faith has always been a source of comfort to me, and that morning I felt peace, a tranquillity borne of belief in a higher power.
The predictable ceremony of the mass, spoken in the mysterious and lyrical cadence of a language long since extinct, allows for reflection. I prayed that the carnage of four years of war would soon be brought to an end. My faith teaches the innate goodness of man. Yet how do we explain the barbarism man inflicts? The answer found in our teachings is that evil also dwells among us. Not as the symbolic serpent in the Garden of Eden, or as some metaphor for bad acts, but as a living force. We are engaged in a constant battle for our souls, a struggle that demands more of us than being just passively good. We must confront and overcome evil.
Never in my lifetime has evil been more clearly defined than in the specters of the Third Reich and the Japanese military of Emperor Hirohito.
I received Communion. During the previous evening’s confession, I had taken Colonel Tibbets’s prohibition about discussing our impending mission literally, even within the priest-penitent privilege of the confessional. I would silently commune with God and tell Him about our mission.
After breakfast, George Marquart and I met with Colonel Tibbets to briefly go over some of the details of the mission. All the crews would receive a final briefing later in the evening, a few hours prior to takeoff. We reviewed the basics: take off at approximately 0230 (2:30 A.M.), fly at 8,000 feet to conserve fuel, rendezvous over Iwo at 0600, prior to reaching target climb to 30,000 feet. Strict radio silence would be observed. Our codes and radio frequencies were confirmed. The aiming point at the primary target would be the T-shaped Aioi Bridge across the Ota River in the center of Hiroshima, a geographic feature that would be distinct even at 30,000 feet.
It had also been decided that because of concerns that a crash on takeoff might detonate the bomb, we would take off with the bomb unarmed. Captain “Deak” Parsons would arm Little Boy, the name given to the uranium bomb, en route to Iwo Jima and before we climbed to 30,000 feet. The firing mechanism on the bomb was relatively simple. A uranium bullet was fired down a gun-barrel-like cylinder at a core of uranium in the nose of the barrel to create a “critical mass” that would start a chain reaction. It was feasible to keep the cylinder blocked, preventing the uranium slug from smashing into the uranium core by accident, and arm the bomb in flight. This would be a delicate and laborious task for Captain Parsons in the cramped confines of the bomb bay, but it was a better option than the unthinkable if a crash occurred. The B-29, carrying a full load of fuel, a full complement of men, and a nine-thousand-pound bomb, would far exceed the maximum weight specifications for a safe takeoff.
George and I lingered for a few minutes after the meeting. George was the perfect man to be with us on this first mission. He was a serious guy when it came to flying. Not dour, but intent on getting the details perfect. You knew that if you told George to do X, he would do X perfectly. He absorbed what he was told. For this mission, nothing less would be required.
The news of the day was that there was no news, except for the names of killed and wounded added to the daily list of casualties. The Japanese had given no indication that they were ready to quit. In fact, the official Japanese response to the Potsdam Declaration had been to characterize it as beneath contempt and unworthy of a response.
Even if one didn’t get the message in the stultified language of diplomats, the actions of the Japanese military continued to speak clearly. During Curtis LeMay’s air campaign, we had dropped leaflets on four potential targets to be firebombed the following night, yet the Japanese leaders refused to evacuate civilians from those cities. The next night two of the cities would be obliterated. It was extraordinary that the Japanese would absorb the crippling devastation of the nightly firebombings and still go on. But they did. It was within their power to end the war at any time by surrendering. We didn’t have this option.
As we got closer to the time of takeoff, the anticipation of flying the mission became paramount. My full concentration was on what we were about to do. There was no more time to think about the events unfolding daily across the theater, or about the reports we had received on Tinian detailing the brutal treatment reserved for captured B-29 crews. There was only the mission. It was what I had trained to do, and it was now the single focus of my world.
After lunch I went down to the flight line, where my airplane was parked at its hardstand. The entire runway complex and the interconnecting roads, rampways, and paths were sealed off and under heavy guard. MPs with carbines and Thompson submachine guns were prominently posted everywhere. By that time the breezy warmth of the morning had given way to the blazing heat of the tropic’s midday sun beating down on and reflecting off of the black asphalt. The ground crews were dressed in shorts and most were bare-chested, busy getting The Great Artiste ready and checking all systems. On the hardstand across the way, about fifty yards from me, I could see similar activity where Paul Tibbets’s airplane was parked. The arrowhead in a circle on our tails signifying the 509th had been painted over with a large block letter R for another group assigned to the Twentieth Air Force. Every detail, including confusing the enemy as to our identity and point of origination, had been thought of by Tibbets. I spoke with each member of the ground crew, a practice I always followed before any flight.
From three to four in the afternoon, I tried to get a little shut-eye, but I couldn’t sleep. The heat, humidity, and anticipation made sleep impossible. Beahan, Albury, Van Pelt, and I ended up sitting around in our hut making conversation, no one mentioning what was really on our minds.
Later that afternoon, while I was resting in my quarters, Armed Forces Radio announced the release of a new feature motion picture starring Fred MacMurray and titled Captain Eddie. It was the story of World War I ace Eddie Rickenbacker. That war to me seemed like ancient history.
The day was dragging. I wanted to get going. It has been said from the beginning of time—by everyone from ancient Greek warriors to those huddling in the slit trenches of World War I—the waiting is the hardest. Waiting is the most wearing on the mind. I tried to fill the time, but I was only killing it. After the evening meal at 1800, I again went over to the flight line. I walked around my airplane, looking for nothing in particular, just looking. I knew that the “special,” which was how we now referred to the weapon, had already been loaded into the bomb bay of Tibbets’s airplane.
Some civilian scientists from Project Alberta were making adjustments to the sensitive measuring devices stored aboard my airplane. On the mission, Drs. Luis Alvarez, Lawrence Johnston, and Harold Agnew would monitor the instruments from positions in the rear compartment. These men were among the most brilliant people in the world. I felt honored to be in their company. In the preceding days I’d had the chance to get to know them and Dr. Norman Ramsey, who headed Project Alberta on Tinian. For all their brilliance, these scientists didn’t have their heads in the clouds. They were committed to the project and clearly understood what was at stake.
In one of our secure discussions with Drs. Ramsey and Alvarez and some of the Project Alberta working group, I had asked the question, “What is the potential if this works the way you want it to?” They answered that this bomb would be a “firecracker” compared to what might eventually be developed.
I had nothing to compare their prediction with, even in theory. That is until after Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Only then would the comparison have substance, a reference point from which to glimpse into the future. If what I had witnessed over those cities was only a “firecracker” compared to potential future atomic weapons, then the nature and ultimate stakes of any future war were forever changed. For the scientists whose domain was the expansion of human inquiry, the knowledge they had acquired could not be erased. As Einstein had warned President Roosevelt, the science to build an atomic weapon was known. It was only a question of who would develop it. How would human nature adjust to the greater infernal possibilities knowing that in any future war the ultimate price of aggression could be annihilation?
At 2200 hours (ten P.M.), our final briefing began in the briefing hut. Prior to going over to the brief, all crew members deposited their personal belongings with a designated man in their quarters for safekeeping, as is required before every combat mission. We were to carry only our dog tags. In the event of capture, we would give the enemy no more than was required by the Geneva Convention—name, rank, and serial number. Any information, no matter how inconsequential, could be used by the enemy to break you.
Everything was a go. The weather looked good; it would be a cloudless day over Japan. Intelligence reported no changes in air defenses at the three targets since the fourth. Air-sea rescue would be on station and ready. The Japanese had not surrendered. Recall codes were reviewed in the event we were ordered to return. Our call sign for the mission would be Dimples.
The intelligence officer stepped forward to synchronize our watches. On his instructions, we set our watches at 11:30, with the second hand at 12. He began, “Thirty seconds, twenty-five, fifteen, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, hack.” In unison, we all pushed our winding stems in. The second hands began their sweep.
We then proceeded to the Dogpatch Inn, the name given to the 509th’s mess hall, for our preflight meal. If all went well, we would be back at this mess hall in about thirteen hours. The three weather crews had already finished up and were being trucked to the runway, when, at about midnight, Tibbets came into the mess hall. Our three crews quieted down as he spoke. Again, without using the words atomic or nuclear, he told us we could end the war by dropping this very powerful bomb. He reminded us to do our jobs, the jobs we had trained so hard to do. He then asked Chaplain Downey to step forward and offer a prayer.
Our heads bowed, the 509th’s chaplin’s deep, rich voice invoked the Lord’s blessing for us and our mission. He beseeched Almighty God to deliver us safely so that we might bring the war to a speedy end.
Each crew boarded a six-by-six lorry that deposited it at the Personal Equipment Supply Hut, where we each drew and signed for a parachute, a flak vest, a flotation device, a combat knife, a survival kit with first-aid package, fish hooks, food rations, a drinking water kit, and a .45-caliber automatic pistol with ammunition.
I gathered up my stuff, dumped it into the back of the truck, and climbed up front with the driver. I strapped on the web belt from which the holstered .45 hung and removed the clip of ammunition and placed it in the leg pocket of my flying overalls. I never carried a loaded weapon, remembering my father’s admonition that I should be careful I didn’t shoot my foot off.
Boxed lunches and jugs of pineapple juice and water that had been delivered from the commissary earlier were also loaded onto the trucks. As each crew was ready, the three trucks proceeded to North Field and the assigned hardstands. It was now a little after one A.M. The weather airplanes were already conducting their final preflight checks and would be airborne in about half an hour.