by Colin Gee
0708 hrs, Wednesday, 29th May 1946, airborne, one hour from Alternate 2, Kyūshū Island, Japan.
Jeppson was in the bomb bay, removing the final safeties from L-9, turning an inanimate object into an all-powerful weapon of war.
The rest of the crew were quiet, the normal banter that broke up mission boredom absent, probably as the enormity of their task started to gnaw away at them.
Hanebury surveyed the sky, seeking signs of enemy aircraft approaching, and saw nothing but the lightening sky.
Once, he had caught sight of some of the escort, at distance, behind and slightly above them, intent on shepherding the trio of B-29s to the target and back to Okinawa intact.
He unscrewed his thermos flask and took a belt of the sweet black coffee.
As he tipped his head back he caught the minutest flash of light, a microsecond that revealed the presence of something sharing the sky with them.
His reputation for having the eyes of a hawk was well deserved.
“Tail gunner, unidentified aircraft above and behind, distant, probably six thousand.”
The message galvanised the entire crew, with the exception of Jeppson, who remained working in the bomb bay, blissfully unaware that there was a possible threat close at hand.
The three B-29s were flying in a relaxed V, but, with the imminent threat, drew in tighter.
The radio waves burst into life, imploring the escort to deal with whatever it was that was closing fast.
0709 hrs, Wednesday, 29th May 1946, airborne, just over an hour from Alternate 2, Kyūshū Island, Japan.
Hanebury had got it wrong.
There were two of them, flying tight together, making the spotting error extremely easy.
To give them their proper designations, the pair of killers were Nakajima Ki-87 fighter-interceptors, designed specifically to counter the B-29 threat.
The creaking Japanese manufacturing base had managed to produce five before Nakajima’s Mushashino facility received a visit from the very aircraft they were designed to shoot down, and production was ended permanently.
Such important beasts were entrusted only to experienced pilots, and the two Japanese fliers were as experienced as they came.
The three B-29s were led by ‘Miss Merlene’, the nose position being considered the least vulnerable.
“Zuiho-Two, take the right. On my order… attack!”
The two Ki-87s moved apart, each pilot focussing on one of the rear bombers.
Interception group commander, Lieutenant Commander Kurisu Ashara, bore down on ‘The Great Artiste’, ready to let fly with the array of 20mm and 30mm cannons.
His wingman, Chief Petty Officer Kenzo Nobunaga, shouted a warning and made his own rapid manoeuvre, as tracers swept past the left side of his aircraft, passing through the space he had only just vacated.
Both pilots moved their Mitsubishi engines into emergency power, the turbochargers adding even more impetus as they dived away, pursued by Mustangs from the escort.
Ashara had the reflexes of a cat, but still a few bullets struck his machine as he flicked left and rolled away underneath the bomber formation, turning to starboard after his Number Two..
No fire came from the three B-29s, for fear of hitting one of their saviours, although many eyes followed the two killers as they were hounded by friendlies.
Pushing the boundaries of their upper 430mph limit, the two Nakajimas of Zuiho flight continued on a starboard turn, trying to come back round and up behind the B-29s, intent on making a successful run against the lumbering heavies.
The escorting USAAF fighters knew their business, and the curving attack approach suddenly became very dangerous, forcing both Nakajimas to flick away to port.
Six escorts suddenly became twelve, as the rest of the Mustang squadron entered the arena in pursuit of three Nakajimas Ki-84 Hayates.
Unlike the aircraft of Zuiho flight, the three Hayates were not in their prime, were equipped with worn out engines, and using sub-standard fuel.
Hanebury was able to call out the destruction of two in as many seconds, before the last survivor, and the gaggle of pursuers, disappeared from his view.
By the time he looked back at the two Ki-87s, he winced as a smoking Mustang rolled over and the pilot pushed himself out into the morning air.
The tail plane hammered into the man’s form hard enough for those who watched to be able to imagine the sound reaching their ears above the drone of aero-engines. The body, for he must surely have died on impact, dropped away towards the sea below, and there was no sign of a deploying parachute to offer the hope of a heart still beating.
His killer, Ashara, exploited the pause and flicked onto an attack path, again selecting ‘The Great Artiste’ for attention.
The Ho-105 cannon had an effective range of under 1000 metres, just about half that of the defensive armament on the B-29, so Ashara was already taking fire from the tail gunner’s .50cal.
However, the 30mm Ho-105 packed a lot more punch when it arrived on target, and so it proved, as first the rear gun position and then the tail plane suffered appalling damage.
Ashara manoeuvred slightly left and introduced the 20mm Ho-5s into the attack.
‘The Great Artiste’ staggered under the brief attack, the port outboard engine coming apart, the combination of its own energy and the damaging impact of explosive shells proving too much.
The entire engine dropped away, leaving a hollow mounting that trailed flame until the fuel was cut, and there was nothing left to feed the fire.
Ashara pulled up and to port, pursued by a pair of vengeful Mustangs.
Nobunaga failed yet again, his attempted attack run interrupted by the melee of escort fighters.
Two bullets clipped the tip of his wing but otherwise, he was unscathed.
Conscious of his lowered fuel state, he knew he could make one last effort before breaking off the attack.
He seized a moment, created by the Mustang’s anticipating that he would turn again for a rear shot, and rolled into a sharp port turn.
The Ki-87 slipped through the air, responding to his commands like a thoroughbred, prescribing a tightening arc around the nose of the lead aircraft before, lining up a swift burst on the port front quarter, Nobunaga pumped some 30mm shells into the lead bomber, before dragging the nose to starboard and sending a few more 30mm into the already damaged ‘The Great Artiste’.
A shudder and sudden lack of response signalled some damage, as the tail gunner of the lead aircraft, ‘Miss Merlene’, put a few .50cal on target.
Nobunaga dove hard, believing that he could out dive the Mustangs.
“Zuiho-Two breaking off, diving to sea level, over.”
“Zuiho-One breaking off, will join you, course 003, out.”
The two sleek Japanese fighters dropped away unpursued, the USAAF escort commander calling off his eager pilots, keen to conserve fuel for the full operation and content with driving off the enemy at the cost of three of their dwindling fighter assets.
As Ashara and Nobunaga made their escape, the drama continued above them.
Parsons was in deep discussion with Crail.
“I’d say they can’t go on, but that ain’t my call, Captain.”
The two men had taken turns to view the smoking B-29 on their port rear quarter.
‘The Great Artiste’s’ pilot made the call, and reluctantly informed the mission commander that the B-29 had to return.
After the normal acknowledgements and best wishes, the damaged B-29 turned gently and headed for Okinawa, escorted by a pair of Mustangs.
“Mission abort?”
It was not a question, more the opening of a short discussion.
Parsons, as mission commander, had that call, whereas Crail, as aircraft commander, made decisions on his B-29 and its capabilities.
“Captain, she was the numbers bird. We can’t do the measuring the high-ups want but, unless I’m missing something, her loss doesn’t take us below mission succes
s parameters.”
“And us? What damage have we got and are you waving the mission off?”
Crail shook his head dramatically.
“No way, no how, Captain. My numbers all look good, and the aircraft feels good, so unless my boys find something,” the crew had been detailed to do a damage inspection, “We are good to go.”
The shells had struck in the bomb bay and central area, slightly injuring both Jeppson and Burnett, the flight engineer.
Jeppson was already inspecting L-9 for any sign of damage, and the rest of Crail’s boys were looking for anything that might inhibit the huge airplane in her mission.
Parsons looked at his watch, mentally allocating a decision point.
Before it was reached, Crail was able to confirm that ‘Miss Merlene’ was fit for purpose.
Jeppson’s report was less encouraging, and Parsons virtually leapt from the cockpit to go and see the damage to the atomic bomb’s tail assembly himself.
Crail busied himself with re-checking every part of his aircraft’s performance and, once satisfied, checked it all over again.
A voice in his ear, one that sounded heavy with the stress of command, requested the bomb-aimer to come to the bomb bay.
The B-29 was a pressurised vessel, with the crew spaces airtight and regulated.
The bomb bay was open to outside air and unpressurised, something that had meant modification to enable the bombs to be armed and de-safetied in the air.
This modification did not permit three men to work on the bombs at the same time, neither did it enable a single man to work on the damaged tail assembly.
It only just permitted a modicum of sight on the tail, but there had been enough for Jeppson to see damaged metal present.
Richard Loveless, the bomb-aimer, squinted through the observation port and took in as much as he could.
His eyes assessed the damage and he gave a running commentary as he thought through the issue.
“The good news is it’s only the internal structure, not the external faces.”
The tail assembly of the L-9 was a square box stabiliser, mounted on four angled fins. It was clear that one of these fins had been damaged, and the metal twisted.
“Definitely gonna affect the trajectory and move it off line some. What are you asking me, Captain?”
“Is it safe to drop from your point of view? I need to know that it’s not going to go a-wanderin’. I want to know that you’re confident you can still put the thing on target enough to do the job.”
Loveless moved back into the same compartment as the two naval officers.
“Captain, it’ll move off course some, bound to, but if I can’t put the goddamned thing on top of a city… well… then you can throw me out after it.”
Parsons smiled, nodded, and thumbed his mike.
“Mission commander speaking. We are go, repeat, we are go.”
Centerboard One moved closer to the Empire of Japan.
Another psychological hurdle had come and gone, with the thought that the mission might be scrubbed because of the loss of ‘Artiste’ or the damaged fin, followed by the confirmation that it was still on, and the bomb would be dropped, come hell or high water.
Jones, radioed back a sitrep along with Parson’s decision to carry on.
Pretty much everyone on the crew expected some sort of guidance or interference from base, but there was none; just a curt acknowledgement.
Whilst the automatic routines of flying combat missions were performed without thought, the concept of the attack, the nature of their weapon, and the likely human and moral cost, became the focus of their active minds.
Only Loveless, on his own in the nose, and Hanebury, happy with his own company in the tail, could not discuss the matter with one of their friends.
At the control, Crail sat pondering the enormity of what he was about to do.
All of them had received psyche evaluations and training, preparing them for the mission, the expected results, and the impact on their moral soul, as one of the padres had put it.
They had taken it in their stride, as young men do, but now, in the reality of the minutes before visiting hell upon thousands of people, it was different.
Very different.
So different as to make all their previous thoughts and preparation meaningless.
‘Damn.’
“Major?”
Crail had given voice to his thought.
“Sorry?”
“You said something, JP.”
“I did?”
“Yep. Worrying isn’t it?”
Crail flicked his eyes across the gauges, giving himself time to reply.
“They haven’t prepared us for it, not right, I mean.”
His co-pilot hummed in agreement.
“All that mumbo-jumbo, all that bullshit about righteous act, saving lives, ending the war, blah blah blah… it doesn’t mean shit when you’re up here about to do the deed… leastways that’s how I feel. What about you, George?”
“I agree, JP. I thought I was ok with it… but I’m not so sure now… I mean… we all gotta live with it after the thing is done.”
The two dropped into the sort of heavy silence generated by minds deep in thought.
Crail started, his mind suddenly overcoming a hurdle. He thumbed his mike.
“Dick, come up to the deck will you.”
Loveless appeared a moment later, his face inquisitive.
Junior Pershing Crail got straight to the point.
“You got any problems with dropping the bomb, Dick?”
The reply was instant.
“Not a one, JP.”
Nelleson barked back immediately
“None at all?”
“None, George, none whatsoever.”
Dick Loveless looked at the two Doubting Thomases in front of him, and at the silent spectators, Burnett sat at the flight engineer’s panel, and Blockridge, the assistant flight engineer, stood beside him.
As he took in their concerns, Parsons and Jeppson came back into view, their checking of the bomb complete.
Parsons couldn’t help himself.
“Trouble, Major?”
His hand automatically checked the presence of his firearm.
“No, Captain, we’re just talking here.”
Loveless looked at Crail, silently seeking advice on whether to continue, or just disappear back into his greenhouse.
Crail bit the bullet.
“Carry on, Dick.”
“Okay, Major. I have absolutely no problem with this whatsoever, and I’ll tell you why.”
Loveless pushed the cap back, adjusting the headphones so he could hear his own words properly.
“For a start, the Nips started it. We didn’t… so they have whatever coming.”
The silence drew him on.
“Yes, we’re bringing something new and awful, but they’d use it on us for sure…” he waved his finger to emphasise his point, “You know they’d use it on us, so I have no problem with that.”
Parsons piped up.
“Well, they tried that plague stuff out at the start of this war, and on the Chinese in the last war, so we know they have no moral stops on killing hundreds at a time with anything they can get their hands on.”
George Nelleson jumped on that comment immediately.
“We’re not talking hundreds, we’re talking thousands, and not just military personnel either. We’re going to kill a fucking city here!”
Crail went to speak, but Loveless was faster.
“Yes, George, we are. We are going to kill thousands of people in one moment of light.”
He cleared his throat and continued.
“Is that any worse than killing millions slowly by starvation, eh? The Nips are starving, dying in their droves every day, because we blockade them and they can’t work the land. Any worse than shooting them down in their tens of thousands when we try and invade… when our soldiers too will be shot down in their thousands on
the beaches and in the goddamned paddy fields, all because the war goes on and on and on, eh?”
“No but…”
“No, but nothing, George.”
He slapped his friend’s knee, trying to defuse the sudden adversarial tension.
“I don’t believe half of the bullshit that we were spoon-fed, no more than any of us do, I ‘spect.”
Loveless suddenly realised that everyman who could see was fixed on him, eyes staring directly at him.
“Err, don’t forget we’ve an aircraft to fly here, folks!”
The moment broken, the pilots and flight engineers looked over their instruments, the two naval officers relaxed their tensed muscles and leant against the bulkheads.
“Look fellahs, I really believe that this’ll shorten the war and save lives. I actually believe it’ll save Japanese lives too, in the long run. It has to, surely?”
He left that hanging for a moment.
The point had been debated and turned over many times before, but not in this situation… not on the flight deck of a B-29 less than an hour out from deploying the first atomic bomb ever dropped on an enemy state.
Such imminence of action crystallised thinking much more than debate in some warm and safe Quonset hut back on Saipan.
Burnett spoke up from the flight engineer’s position.
“Yeah, but look at Hamburg and Dresden. Conventional bombing was supposed to shorten the war, and look at what those RAF boys went through afterwards from the press and politicians. And that was normal bombs and stuff, not atomics. Just imagine what lies in wait for us poor doggies, eh?”
1st Lieutenant Fletcher, the navigator, joined in.
“Fair point, Ralph. Even Prime Minister Churchill had his piece of that action.”
“Yeah, exactly… plus Hamburg, Cologne, Dresden, and all the others put up a defence. These poor bastards ain’t got a chance.”
Crail couldn’t help himself.
“So it would all be fine if they could shoot us down, yeah? Well, in case you boys ain’t noticed, we’re already sporting a little extra ventilation, and that’s before we do the deed.”
His voice carried the humour he intended and again the situation relaxed perceptibly.
Crail’s mind had debated, listened to the words of others, and made a firm decision.
