The Final Storm (64 page)

O
VER THE
P
ACIFIC
O
CEAN
A
UGUST
6, 1945, 8:00
A.M
.

There had been very little sleep, the glimmer of sunlight to the east sweeping away any notion of a nap. He looked at Lewis, saw the co-pilot writing on the reporter’s pad, felt a hint of curiosity, but the skies were full blue now, and Tibbets knew there was far more to do.

The flight thus far had been made at low altitude, but Tibbets knew that no matter the target, the bomb run would be made at 30,700 feet. He ignored Lewis, gunned the throttles slightly, eased back on the yoke just enough to feel the plane begin its climb. Lewis stopped writing, glanced at his watch, said nothing. The climb took several minutes, and Tibbets felt the impatience, wanted to goose the throttles more, held himself back, no need to waste fuel. He stared at the altimeter, desperate impatience, saw the needle rotating like a second hand of a broken clock, moving around the dial far too slowly.

“Three zero thousand.”

It was the first word from Lewis in hours, and Tibbets responded, “I see it. Leveling out at three zero and seven hundred.”

“Pilot, Radio. Coded message received from
Straight Flush.
”

“Hold on. I’m on my way.”

Tibbets crawled up from his seat, saw anxiousness on Lewis’s face, yep, I know. Now we learn something. He moved down toward the radio desk, Nelson reading a pad of his own writing. Tibbets leaned over his shoulder, saw Y-3, Q-3, B-2, C-1.

“Sir?”

“Easy as pie, Private. Cloud cover is less than three-tenths coverage at all altitudes. He’s giving us advice too. Bomb the primary target. Guess I already knew that.”

Tibbets straightened, felt a nervous rush, moved back to the cockpit, settled into his seat. He cleared his throat, keyed the intercom, said, “Boys, it’s Hiroshima.”

He saw Lewis point silently, straight ahead, and Tibbets saw it now,
the first land they had seen. He knew the maps by heart, thought of Dutch Van Kirk, his navigator. Damn good work. That’s Shikoku. And right past … the Iyo Sea. Son of a bitch, we’re right on target.

He felt his hands gripping the yoke, couldn’t help the sweat that gathered inside his flight suit. He keyed the intercom again, said, “Deak, those lights still green?”

“Armed and ready.”

The clouds were scattered beneath them, no response from any Japanese gunners on the island below. Nope, we’re just small fish up here. Pay us no mind. He glanced at his watch, 8:05, stared out through the wind-shield, the strip of water passing below, and now, through the wisps of clouds he saw a glimmer of sunlight coming from the ground, a scattering of reflections from the morning sun. They were buildings. It was a city. It was Hiroshima.

“Co-pilot, bombardier, navigator. I want confirmation. Do you all agree that the city in front of us is Hiroshima?”

The confirmation was immediate and unanimous, and Tibbets felt his hands gripping harder to the yoke. In his ear came the voice of Van Kirk, the navigator.

“IP dead ahead. Time to AP, ten minutes.”

“Roger.”

Tibbets knew the
Initial Point
from the many maps and photos they had studied, a point of geography obvious even from their altitude. The
Aiming Point
was drilled into him as well—the T-shaped bridge. He waited for Van Kirk’s voice, ticking off loud seconds in his brain, and it came now.

“IP.”

Tibbets turned the yoke, engaged the ailerons and rudder, turning the
Enola Gay
in a sharp left-hand turn, watched the compass, leveled out, heard Van Kirk, verifying what his own compass said.

“Course two seven two degrees. Speed two zero zero.”

“Roger. Two seven two. Speed two zero zero.”

“AP in ten minutes.”

“Roger. Ten minutes.”

“Winds south at ten.”

Tibbets felt a stab of alarm. The prevailing winds over this part of Japan came from the west, and he cursed silently, realized Parsons was standing just behind him, nothing left for the man to do. Tibbets said, “Dammit, Navigator, give me a course correction.”

“Working on it, sir.”

The voice was Ferebee’s, the bombardier fully aware how to correct for any variation in wind speed. Tibbets waited, agonizing seconds, heard Van Kirk’s voice now.

“Correct to two six four.”

Tibbets eased the plane slightly to the left, stared at the slow turn of the compass, said, “Roger, two six four.”

Ferebee’s voice came now, the man agitated, high-pitched, Tibbets not concerned, knew that even the most professional bombardier would feel
this
strain.

“Okay, I’ve got the bridge.”

Van Kirk said, “No question about it.”

Tibbets strained to see, knew both men had a far clearer view from the Plexiglas nose cone of the plane. He saw it now, the distinct T-shaped bridge, heard Van Kirk again, “Ninety seconds.”

Tibbets said, “Bombardier, it’s all yours.”

He lifted his hands slowly from the controls, felt the plane quiver slightly, Ferebee taking control. Behind him, Parsons leaned low, said, “Forty-seven seconds. Remember that. From the time the bomb leaves, you’ve got forty-seven seconds to get the hell out of here.”

“You get out of here! Get back to your damn lights. I know what to do!”

There was no time for an apology, Parsons backing away, and Tibbets wouldn’t think of that now, knew no one would be pissed off by a short temper, not now. Tibbets sat back, gazed out across the vast sweep of the city, scanned skyward, no sign at all of enemy planes, no anti-aircraft fire. He had a burst of thought, keyed the intercom again, said, “Goggles. All of you. Put ’em on!”

Tibbets had his own resting up on his forehead, would wait until the final second. He knew Ferebee was working intensely with the bomb sight, the man wonderfully good at his job. Come on, Tom. One more job. That’s all.

The tone came now, a high-pitched sound generated by one of the electrical connections to the bomb itself. Tibbets was startled, scolded himself nervously, knew to expect it. It was one small part of Parsons’s instrument panel, triggered by a connection that had been strung to the bomb sight, controlled by Ferebee. When the bomb dropped, the wires
would pull free, and the tone would quit. But Tibbets knew that when the tone began, there was one meaning. One minute to go.

Tibbets stared ahead, nothing else to do, felt a hand on his shoulder, Parsons, the hand letting go. All this time. All this work. Everything … and then he heard the violent rush of air, the bomb bay doors opening, and in an instant, the radio tone was silent. The plane suddenly lurched upward, the voice of Ferebee in his ear.

“Bomb away.”

Tibbets took the controls again, paused for a glance at his watch, nine-fifteen and seventeen seconds. He pulled hard on the yoke now, the plane in a sudden steep bank to the right, the compass spinning, Tibbets struggling to hold tight to the yoke. The plane bounced, the tail settling downward, just as it always had, the
Enola Gay
fighting the unnatural angle, Tibbets fighting with her to prevent a full roll, keeping the tail up just enough to avoid the stall. He slipped one hand from the yoke, a quick jab at his face, the welder’s glasses down over his eyes, total blackness, the instruments gone completely. Son of a bitch! He raised the goggles again, just enough, had to see, watched the compass, thought, hell I’ll be going the other way. Forty-seven damn seconds … the image of the tail gunner flashed in his mind … Caron, you jackass, you better not forget those goggles. How many seconds has it been?

“Tail gunner! See anything?”

“Not yet … oh …”

The cockpit suddenly filled with a soft glow, and Tibbets felt his heart racing, felt a tingling sensation, had a sudden metallic taste in his mouth, thought, what the hell? He fought the distraction, kept his eyes on the panel, straightened the flight of the plane, glanced to the side, the blue sky changing to pink and purple, engulfing the plane, bathing the cockpit in eerie light. In the tail Sergeant Caron stared through the welder’s glasses, tried to make out any detail, blinded by the light of ten suns, and he pushed the buttons on the camera, again and again.

N
ORTHERN
O
UTSKIRTS OF
H
IROSHIMA
A
UGUST
6, 1945, 8:15
A.M.
(L
OCAL
T
IME
)

T
hrough the long night he had slept close to his wife, the tragedy of her trip to Tokyo hard on both of them. For more than a week she had sought out missing relatives, learning that two were confirmed dead, others not heard from at all. The refugees from the great city had been fleeing the destruction there for weeks, seeking refuge in the countryside, some with family, some homeless, traveling anywhere they could find food and shelter. Her return the evening before had brought a flood of tears, triggered mainly by the sight of her husband in his surgical gown, his hands thick with blood. The tears had been unusual, the product of so many days sifting through wreckage, the impromptu need for a nurse for some injured stranger. It had been nothing different from what she had seen before, and yet the magnitude of it had seemed to overwhelm her, the outpouring of her emotions triggered by little more than her husband with blood on his hands. He had tried to soothe her with words that belied his appearance, that he was the fortunate one, they both were,
healers
, in a place where so much was needed. On this one night he had to concede that the healing was not as helpful as it might have been. More often he spent his time in the clinic ministering to the injured, whether soldier or
civilian, usually some wound from the collapse of a building, a direct hit from an American bomb. But there had been no bombing raids on the city for the past two days, and she had arrived just as Hamishita had completed an emergency cesarean on a pregnant woman. What should have been a small glimmer of light in a dark world had instead been a tragedy all its own. The baby was stillborn, the mother barely surviving. As a trained nurse, his wife had seen as much blood and as much tragedy as he had, but the death of the baby was one more knife in her emotions, one more weight for a woman who had struggled through too much of her own.

As quickly as possible, he had closed the clinic for the night, changing from the surgical garb, removing any sign of the sadness of his own day. They had eaten an evening meal in silence and candlelight. It had been common for some time, all of Hiroshima blacked out, logical precautions against an American raid. With the darkness swallowing the city and everything around them, she had pulled him to the bed, a woman who needed the secure arms of her husband. He had obliged her, had kept himself awake while he tried vainly to soothe her tears. His last thoughts were of the morning, that he would make some effort to find some flowers, something cheerful, to wake her to color and light and a smile. But his own exhaustion was overwhelming, and when he woke, it was to daylight. The shock of that had pulled him from his bed in a quick scramble, and he had moved outside to the comforting warmth still in his nightclothes. The day was bright blue, and he thought still of the flowers, knew she would not sleep late, would rise to find him gone. He moved quickly out the short walkway to the road, saw a spread of wildflowers beyond, sad, shriveled, thought, well, it will be something. There was no one on the road, the usual silence since the lack of gasoline had taken away the cars. He glanced down at his embarrassing dress, thought, well, who will care anyway? He heard the sound now, familiar, the distant drone of a great plane, looked up, thought, they come already? Can they give us no relief, not even for a few days? He searched for it, caught a glimpse of reflection, the plane very high, and he shook his head, thought, just … do it somewhere else, somewhere south of the city. Let me do my job today without the blood of wounded men. His eye was held to the plane, a dark speck falling from it, and he stared in curiosity, had not usually seen the bombs. He waited, watched, the speck falling, toward the center of the city, closer now to the castle. Strange, he thought. The sound of the plane abruptly changed, and even at that distance he could hear an odd pitch to the usual whine. He
saw the reflection changing, the sun catching both wings, a great silver bird in a wide sweeping turn. He had never flown before, thought of the men on the plane, no different from the men he had treated that week. Perhaps you know of them, your own, left behind while you continue to do your awful work. But … one plane? Are you here just to remind us what kind of power you have? He thought of Hata, the old field marshal. He is not intimidated by you. Perhaps you should be afraid of our power, of what we will do to you when you finally have the courage to put your troops on our soil. He felt a strange anger, looked toward his house, knew it was not about planes and pilots, and the prisoners he had treated in the dungeon of the great castle. Just … leave us alone. Hata, the generals, and admirals, and all their speeches, their radio broadcasts. All of you. Allow us our love for our emperor, to love all it is to be Japanese. Why must you all make war? What have you done that makes our lives any better? End this foolishness. I will not be a part of Hata’s bloody wall, and neither shall I surrender. I will repair the flesh, but I will not share your lust for a fight.

He began to move back toward his house, felt foolish, cursing at airplanes, cursing at his old friend. He ignored the plane now, stepped out in the road, saw a group of men coming up from the town, soldiers, one more march, one more drill into the countryside. He hurried his steps, moved out of their way, and the sky seemed to burst above him, a blinding flash of orange and purple, a low roar, growing louder. The roar drove him down to the ground, deafening, a hard hand pressing him flat, the ground beneath him moving, rumbling, a gaping crack, a ditch, his body sliding, driven hard into a low place. The darkness covered the sky, he saw nothing at all now, the immense brightness changing to black, smoke and dirt, then no sky at all. He stayed flat, immovable, the darkness covering him, crushing in on him, obliterating the road, the flowers, and he felt a hard punch of wind, ripping the ground around him, debris whistling past, a piece of something hard striking his stomach. He tried to call out, turned to the house, terror in his mind, thoughts of his wife, raised his head in the violent storm, saw the house suddenly collapse to one side, flattened. More debris blew past him, and he tried to stand, impossible, was driven deeper into the ditch, the wind still shrieking over him, dirt and dust and pieces of everything covering him. He called out for his wife, but there was no sound but the roar of the storm. He closed his eyes, felt heat now, tried to curl himself up, too much wind, felt himself pulled up from the low place, scraping the ground, dragged by an invisible hand, his clothes ripped away,
searing heat on his back. He rolled to one side, more debris falling, and he covered his face, but his hands were stripped away, his body beaten by the force of the wind. He slid farther along the ground, shoved into another hole, felt his legs crushed against a fallen tree, stopping his slide. He held to the tree, blinded, still crying out, nothing else to do, nowhere to go, his home and the sky and the city simply gone, filled by a swirling storm of fire and debris and the scattered bits of men.