SIXTEEN
IT WOULD BE several days before the magnitude of the destruction was understood. Reconnaissance airplanes from LeMay’s XXI Bomber Command flew hourly missions in the area near and over Hiroshima, but the fires and smoke would continue to obscure the ground for the next couple of days, making damage assessments speculative. Yet we who had flown the mission knew the city of Hiroshima was gone.
While we made our final approach to North Field, Colonel Tibbets had already landed and was taxiing in. As I touched down on Runway B, I saw a throng of people who had massed on the area near Tibbets’s hardstand. The hundreds of cheering men was a sight to behold. As we rolled down the taxiway past Tibbets’s airplane, it was clear that a full-scale celebration was under way. All of the men of the 509th, the other units on Tinian, and soon the world, would know what was so special about the 509th. At about the moment we taxied by the Enola Gay, General Carl “Tooey” Spaatz, commander of all air forces in the Pacific, was pinning the Distinguished Service Cross, the second-highest medal for valor, on Colonel Paul Tibbets’s sweaty, wrinkled flying coveralls, right there on the macadam, while generals, admirals, and other officers and enlisted men looked on. The assembled mass had crowded around the Enola Gay, engulfing it and the men who had flown her. Even if I had wanted to get to Tibbets after deplaning, it would have been impossible. He and his crew would soon be whisked off to an intelligence debriefing presided over personally by Spaatz, General Farrell, and Admiral Parnell together with senior intelligence officers.
We were met by our ground crew and a waiting truck. My crew and I climbed aboard and were taken to the medical tent. Standard procedure after every combat mission was that the medics checked you over, making sure you had all your fingers and toes. Then you’d be given two shots of 100-proof whiskey for medicinal purposes. For those who declined the libation, there was always someone ready, willing, and able to step forward and help out. No sense leaving perfectly good whiskey in the medical tent.
This time we were also checked over by two doctors, one of whom was a radiologist. They were anxious to determine if we had been exposed to radiation. A methodical pass of a Geiger counter put to rest any concern that we had been irradiated. It also put to rest any lingering worry among the crew that exposure to radiation would have caused sterility. Not much was known about the effects of massive dosages of radiation. I was told later that an air burst of the bomb at 1,890 feet had been favored over a ground burst to maximize the blast effect and reduce the radiation on the ground.
Toes, fingers, and our reproductive systems intact, we were driven to an intelligence hut for debriefing. All crews returning from any combat mission had to be debriefed—it was standard operating procedure. It was in the manual. A team of intelligence officers questioned us together as a crew. They read from the usual script used after every mission: “What did you see?” “Any flak?” “How much? Light . . . medium . . . heavy?” “Any fighters?” “How many?” “From which direction?” “Anything else unusual?”
Anything else unusual? Why, yes. We’d just destroyed an entire city with a single bomb.
Of course, the main act was in another Quonset hut, where Tibbets and his crew were providing their own details to the assembled brass. And this was fine with my crew and me. We were just glad to be back in one piece, and we hoped to be on our way home soon.
Walking out of the briefing hut into a bright sunny day, I was stopped by someone who said a marine lieutenant by the name of Paul Bums was looking for me. As if the day hadn’t already been strange in ways both big and small, there, on Tinian, on that day, my future brother-in-law had come to pay me a visit. I was in the most secure facility in the world, under the most impenetrable cloak of secrecy of any unit in the military. And Paul Burns was waiting to see me. How the hell had he found me? Well, why not? This was a day on which all things seemed possible.
“Are you sure it’s Paul Burns?” I asked.
“Yeah. Big strapping guy. Kind of brash. He’s down with the crowd at North Field, a beer in each hand.”
Yup. It was Paul Burns.
I made my way down to the baseball field. The flight line had been sealed off and the celebration was in full swing. On receiving news of the mission’s success, plans for a party to welcome us back had been hastily put together that morning. A flatbed truck loaded with cases of free beer was parked on the baseball field. Thousands of sandwiches, salads, and hot dogs were prepared and ready to be served. The mood was jubilant. The talk was that the war was over, we’d all be going home soon. The party would go on all day and well into the night.
I had no trouble finding Paul Burns. At six foot two, he literally stood out among the crowd. He was dressed sharply in his marine khakis. We hugged and slapped each other on the back and expressed our joy at seeing each other. Paul was engaged to my sister Marylyn. They’d met while he was a student at Boston College and Marylyn was attending Emmanuel College. He told me he had hitched a ride over on a transport from Guam, where his unit was stationed, taking an educated guess that I might be on Tinian. He knew I wasn’t with the organization in Guam, and he didn’t think I was among the first arrivals in Saipan. He connected the dots and found me on that extraordinary day.
We shared a beer. By talking to people in the crowd, Paul had picked up the broad outline of what had happened. He had heard the term “atomic bomb.” With the need for absolute secrecy now gone, I told him I had been on the mission and that indeed we had dropped the first atomic bomb. It had destroyed an entire city. Sensing he still didn’t comprehend the magnitude of it, I explained that this one bomb had the explosive equivalent of twenty thousand tons of TNT—of thousands of conventional bombs. He nodded. What he did understand was that he and tens of thousands of other young American men would be spared further death and suffering.
I brought my future brother-in-law over to my quarters and introduced him around to Beahan, Albury, and Van Pelt. There was plenty of room in our hut to accommodate ten comfortably, so I told him he could stay with us while he was on Tinian. After a quick shower, we headed over to the officers’ club.
It was close to six P.M. when we walked in. The club was a large Quonset hut, elevated on stilts, with a small plywood bar at one end and tables and chairs scattered about. A wild celebration was under way. The walls were bulging. Although the club typically served only beer, bottles of hard liquor had appeared from unspecified sources. I suspected that maybe someone had commandeered the stash of whiskey stored in the medical department. Wherever it had come from and however it had gotten there, no one was asking any questions. All work on the island had stopped, and it is accurate to say now that the order of the day was to get drunk.
I was just about out of gas. It was then around seven in the evening, and I was exhausted. What I craved most was sleep. I bid Paul Burns a good night and had just started out when I saw Paul Tibbets. I hadn’t noticed him come in. He motioned for me to join him off to one side.
As the party raged around us, he said, “Chuck, if it becomes necessary, the second one will be dropped on the ninth. Primary target will be Kokura. The secondary target will be Nagasaki.” He paused, then added, “You’re going to command the mission.”
He went on to explain that if the Japanese still did not surrender, it was vital that they believed we had an unlimited supply of atomic bombs and that we would continue to use them. Of course, the truth was that we had only one more bomb on Tinian. Delivery of a third bomb was several weeks away. But if we were to sustain the psychological impact necessary to force a surrender, there could be no prolonged delay in the second mission. Long-range forecasts predicted that the weather would worsen over the next several days. We couldn’t wait for a perfect day. The last possible acceptable date would be August 9. After that, the weather would force a delay of at least another week, maybe longer.
Even as we spoke, Tokyo Radio was minimizing the true impact and devastation at Hiroshima, reporting that some damage had been caused at Hiroshima after B-29s dropped incendiary bombs. The Japanese military was arguing that the weapon must be so complicated it was unlikely that we had more. They were was wrong by only one. Having sustained the worst we could inflict, they could certainly fight on.
My head was in a spin. I had assumed that if a second strike were ever needed, Tibbets would be in command again. But he was entrusting me to deliver the knockout punch with my first combat mission command. “Yes, sir,” I answered.
“You’ll use the same tactics,” he went on.
I wondered about that. Three unescorted B-29s, preceded by a single weather aircraft and coming in at 30,000 feet, was now a distinctive signature. The Japanese might figure it out and throw everything they had up at us. “The same tactics?” I repeated.
“The same,” he replied.
“Yes, sir.”
Even though I had some reservations, I didn’t raise them. But my response was more than just a reflexive reaction to an order. I trusted Tibbets’s judgment and experience. If he believed that was the right way to carry out a second mission, then it was the right way.
“We’re going to have to do one more fuse test in the next couple of days, when the scientists are ready,” Tibbets continued. He explained that the second bomb would be a plutonium bomb and that it was much more complex than Little Boy.
As I left the club I was elated that Colonel Tibbets had chosen me. This was a supreme compliment from a man I admired and respected.
When I arrived at my quarters, Beahan, Albury, and Van Pelt were there, still awake. I told them the news. Nonplussed, they responded that we could do it, no problem. None of us was in a reflective mood, given the day we had had. The next morning I would assemble the remainder of my crew on the flight line and fill them in. But just then, I hit the sack and drifted off into a deep sleep.
While I slept, the Japanese had to come to grips with the reality that the prospect of “total destruction” as promised in the Potsdam Declaration was now upon them. From Washington, President Truman’s formal statement was released to the world:
Sixteen hours ago an American airplane dropped one bomb on Hiroshima. It is an atomic bomb. It is a harnessing of the basic power of the universe. We are now prepared to obliterate more rapidly and completely every productive enterprise the Japanese have above ground in any city. We shall destroy their docks, their factories, and their communications. Let there be no mistake; we shall completely destroy Japan’s power to make war. If they do not now accept our terms they may expect a rain of ruin from the air, the likes of which has never been seen on this earth.
Armed Forces Radio immediately began transmitting to the Japanese mainland the fact that the atomic bomb had destroyed Hiroshima and that more would follow. Millions of leaflets were dropped over Japanese cities:
To the Japanese people: America asks that you take immediate heed of what we say on this leaflet.
We are in possession of the most destructive explosive ever devised by man. A single one of our newly developed atomic bombs is actually the equivalent in explosive power to what 2,000 of our giant B-29s can carry on a single mission. This awful fact is one for you to ponder and we solemnly assure you that it is grimly accurate.
We have just begun to use this weapon against your homeland. If you still have any doubt, make inquiry as to what happened to Hiroshima when just one atomic bomb fell on that city.
Before using this bomb to destroy every resource of the military by which they are prolonging this useless war, we ask that you now petition the Emperor to end the war. Our President has outlined for you the thirteen consequences of an honorable surrender. We urge that you accept these consequences and begin work on building a new, better and peaceloving Japan.
You should take these steps now to cease military resistance. Otherwise, we shall resolutely employ this bomb and all our other superior weapons to promptly and forcefully end the war.
Evacuate your cities now!
To the president’s message, and to the millions of leaflets dropped, there was no response.
On August 7, Curtis LeMay would launch 152 B-29s to inflict more conventional destruction upon Japan.
There would still be no response.
On August 8, 375 B-29s would pound Japanese cities, including 224 B-29s that would firebomb the industrial city of Yawata, an event that would have grave consequences for me and my crew the next day. Fifty years later, a revisionist historian on CNN’s program Crossfire, in an attempt to characterize the Japanese in 1945 as the victims of American aggression, would tell me face-to-face that General LeMay had stopped firebombing Japan in late July. I believe he read it somewhere. Thus, his story went, because Japan had been militarily defeated before either atomic bomb was dropped, the missions were unnecessary.
Still there would be no response from the Japanese.
In spite of military and diplomatic efforts to convince, coerce, and otherwise force the Japanese to stop fighting, the samurai mentality of their militaristic society made the notion of accepting unconditional surrender inconceivable. And as hundreds of thousands of American troops anxiously waited at staging areas in the Pacific, dreading the possibility of an imminent invasion, the jubilation America was feeling at this moment was now tempered for me by the growing realization that the Japanese were going to continue the war.
With barely enough time to digest and reflect upon the historic event my crew and I had participated in on August 6, we had already begun preparing to do it again.
August 7 dawned brightly over our Pacific home with what I thought might develop into an international incident, with me at the center of the storm. I should have sensed that something was amiss when Paul Burns casually mentioned at breakfast that he had gotten into a little beef the night before and hoped it wouldn’t embarrass me. A few punches had been thrown; no one had been hurt. In fact, I did dismiss it. Unlike the other services, the air force was much looser and more casual about rank and protocol among its officer corps. Rank was never a barrier, particularly when we partied. I remember one incident at Grand Island when a renowned general and a major, both pickled, got into a no-holds-barred fistfight over a comely blond at one of the officers’ club’s Saturday night dances. The next day, no hard feelings, no court-martial, just business as usual. In any other branch of the military, the incident would have ruined one, if not both, careers.
So, given the celebration of the night before, how much everyone had been drinking, the general aura of goodwill, and the fact that Paul Burns wasn’t in the stockade, I reasoned, how bad could it be? But gradually Paul gave me at least the vague details of what he could remember, and others began to fill me in as the day progressed.
Paul, being Boston Irish, had an antipathy toward the British. It was ingrained in his psyche. Half in the bag, he managed to find his way into the company of the only two Englishmen on Tinian, Group Captain Leonard Cheshire and British scientist William Penney, Winston Churchill’s personal representatives. He’d decided to provide them with a little entertainment in the form of a particularly satiric rendition of a song calling into question the manhood of the British in the war effort:
I don’t want to be a soldier,
I don’t want to go to war.
I’d just rather hang around
Piccadilly Underground
Living off the earnings of some ’ighborn lady . . .
I was told by observers that this musical interlude had been punctuated by increasingly vitriolic argument, mostly emanating from Paul, who by then was pickled beyond reason. Finally, either Paul or Cheshire invited the other to settle the matter like gentlemen. So my future brother-in-law, a six-foot-two marine first lieutenant combat veteran, and Churchill’s personal representative and holder of the Victoria Cross, the equivalent of our Medal of Honor, stepped outside.
At this point the story gets unclear. According to Paul, he taught the Englishman a lesson. According to other witnesses, the fight ended inconclusively after a few ineffective punches were thrown. In any event, Paul didn’t look the worse for wear.
To this day I don’t know if Leonard Cheshire, who was a gentleman in every sense of the word, knew that Paul was with me. After the war, I would maintain a warm friendship with Leonard and his wife, who was a member of the House of Lords. But on August 7, 1945, I expected the boom to drop on my head. Thankfully, it didn’t. In fact, when I saw Group Captain Cheshire the next day, he was pleasant, conversational, and fine. Obviously the incident hadn’t caused him any concern and was soon forgotten.
A crisis with Great Britain averted, I still had a mission to prepare for. I attended to the details that any commander must see to prior to a mission.
I went over to the intelligence hut. Reconnaissance photographs were providing a better view of the destruction on the ground as some of the smoke cleared. Sixty percent of Hiroshima had been laid waste. Preliminary casualty estimates were 80,000 killed or seriously wounded. It was still uncertain exactly what effect the radiation might have. The city’s industrial base had been crippled, if not destroyed. Its activities as an urban center had ceased.
This had to be the end. No nation could ignore the breadth of destruction there and continue to offer up its own people.
I caught up with Paul Burns at lunch. So far his visit had provided a certain relief, a soothing feeling of a connection with home, from all else that was swirling around me. Plus, I liked his company. He was a good and loyal friend. Our relationship was built on a mutual respect that allowed for continuous good-natured razzing and kidding. At lunch we went back and forth about who was responsible for winning the war, the marines or the air force. Our positions were pretty evident.
He knew I was going again on the ninth, if necessary. In response to some barb, I mockingly said, “I’d take you on this mission, Paul, but you don’t have the nerve.”
Paul shot back, “I’ll go anywhere you go.”
We each upped the ante, progressively calling each other’s bluff. Finally, I threw the ultimate tramp card on the table, “I’ll take you, you son of a bitch.”
And I really intended to take him. I had been given a lot of flexibility and could include on my crew just about anyone I wanted within certain limits. This one would be really close to the limit, though—a marine lieutenant without orders on an air force secret mission. I decided I had better run it by Paul Tibbets.
Tibbets puffed on his pipe and said, “I have no objection.” I thought I had it made. “But,” he added, “I think we’d better clear it with Parsons.”
Captain Parsons had no formal command, but he was the military liaison with the Manhattan Project, and we always wanted to make sure everything was done with his concurrence—to make sure Manhattan, Alberta, and Silverplate all marched to a single drummer.
I asked Captain Parsons. Like Tibbets, he had a relaxed, confident way about him. And, as could Tibbets, he could simply mandate that something happen or not. But it was not his style to mandate unilaterally, which made him a well-liked and respected officer.
He heard me out and then rationally offered, “Well, I don’t really have any objection. But on the other hand, if anything went wrong, it would look strange.”
I felt this was his way of telling me the idea was not a good one. “That’s the better part of wisdom, Captain,” I responded.
Paul Burns had came within a whisker of going on the second atomic mission.
Of course, I didn’t let him get away that easy. I later accused him of getting to Parsons before I spoke with him to make sure Parsons wouldn’t approve.
The last time before the mission that I would see Paul Burns would be at dinner the next night. We would both know what was ahead for both of us. But we wouldn’t talk of the mission or the war. We would talk about the good times in the past and those to come. Paul would take me in a big bear hug, and say, “See you when you get back.”
“Tell the medics to be ready with that hundred-proof Old Crow,” I’d reply.
It wouldn’t be macho bravado. It was a way men in a war deal with the moment.