Tibbets was staggered that Lewis did not realize he “had broken every rule in the book.” The nearest Lewis came to contrition was a sheepish “Gee, I wouldn’t want to do that flight again!”
Eight days later, the time had come for Tibbets to make a decision about Lewis. He had taken soundings from a number of sources. The consensus was that Lewis was “a goddam fool, but also a goddam fine pilot.”
Tibbets admitted that only an exceptional flier could have flown the trip Lewis did: it had required icy nerves and courage to handle the crippled transport in such atrocious conditions.
He decided not to court-martial Lewis, but “any past favors I owed him were repaid. He had used my name to get that plane. From now on, I was going to treat him like a flunky; he would do exactly what I wanted, when I wanted—or God help him.”
This meant that Lewis would draw many of the disagreeable assignments: early-morning flights, night duties, and weekend work. Lewis did not mind. He thought it “a tribute. Paul was giving me all the stuff that nobody else would tackle.”
Having made his decision about Lewis, Tibbets now resolved another matter that could not be further delayed: which men he would choose to send to Cuba for “special training.”
For days, rumors about the long-awaited trip had prevailed. In subzero Wendover, the vision of the Caribbean was almost unbearable. Plane commanders spent hours hanging around headquarters trying to pick up a whisper; gamblers like Eatherly had offered to make book on the departure date, but there were no takers; even overseas veterans like Classen began to reminisce about tropical life. Amid all the speculation, they did discover one fact: in two days’ time, Tibbets would be promoted to full colonel. But that did not make their commander more forthcoming.
Rumors reached fever pitch when the fliers learned that Tibbets was spending this morning studying the flying reports on all fifteen bomber crews. In Cuba, those chosen would carry out long-distance navigational training exercises over water at night, and continue their high-level bombing practice.
Tibbets summoned the group’s mess officer, Lieutenant Charles Perry. His orders from Tibbets were clear: arrange a round-the-clock chow line serving the best food in Cuba.
Beser was told he was going. He saw one drawback to the trip: his bodyguard would be traveling with him. He began to lay plans to shake off the man in Havana.
Finally, ten plane commanders were informed they would be flying out later in the day. The Cuba-bound echelon was assembled for a pep talk from Tibbets. “The same rules apply in Havana as here. Don’t ask questions. Don’t answer questions. Do your job. The final selection for a historic mission could be made from you men.”
Before leaving, Eatherly was consulted on the legends about hot-blooded Latin ladies. He said they were all true. The flight surgeon was reported to have packed extra cartons of condoms; the studs in the group boasted they would use them up on their very first night in Havana.
At noon on January 6, Eatherly took off. Nine other B-29s followed him into the air on the long journey south. Late in the afternoon, they landed at Batista Field, twelve miles from Havana.
Tibbets flew down in a transport, bringing Ferebee, van Kirk, and a small headquarters staff. Another transport brought a detachment of MPs, Uanna, and his agents.
All outsiders were barred from the 509th’s compound, but many got close enough to peer inquisitively at the planes. The crews reveled in the curiosity they attracted. Eatherly solemnly told a bystander that the 509th was there to protect the island against an expected coup by “unfriendly powers” planning to seize the lucrative gambling concessions. Eatherly was in high spirits. For most of the flight, he had played cards with some of his crew and had won several hundred dollars.
The fliers and ground crew all tried hard to impress the other American servicemen on the base that they were no ordinary outfit. They were coming to think of themselves as special, a feeling that Tibbets had encouraged; the foundation was being laid of the spirit which was to sustain them in the trying time ahead.
Tibbets astonished everybody by refusing even a cup of coffee until every man had been assigned quarters and been fed by Perry’s cooks. Only then did Tibbets accept a meal tray.
He had little appetite. He had learned this evening that General Curtis LeMay was on his way to Guam.
A year earlier, Tibbets, Lewis, and Sweeney had taken turns teaching LeMay how to pilot a B-29. LeMay was a difficult pupil, a flying general who found it hard to accept that because an aircraft was 99 feet long, 29 feet 9 inches high, with a wingspan of 101 feet, it was different from any other bomber he had flown. But he finally learned to listen, respect, and obey his instructors. At the end of the course, LeMay had predicted, “We can win the war with this plane.”
Now he was going to Guam intending to do just that. If LeMay succeeded, Tibbets knew he would not be needed to drop an atomic bomb.
21
General Curtis LeMay spent his first three days on Guam trying to find the answer to a paradox in his new charge, the Twenty-first Bomber Command of the Twentieth Air Force.
Why was the B-29—the world’s most superior bomber, available for the first time in sufficient numbers to strike terror into the enemy—not realizing its potential?
Here in the Marianas everybody had a different answer. The training manuals said the B-29s could operate at 38,000 feet and cruise at 350 miles an hour for 3,500 miles.
The manuals were wrong.
In the Pacific, the bombers showed signs of severe strain in prolonged flights at over thirty thousand feet. Bombers frequently failed to complete missions because of mechanical difficulties.
Then there was the weather. It was impossible for the air force meteorologists to provide accurate forecasts for the thirteen hundred miles of sky between the Marianas and Japan. Fierce jet streams crisscrossed the void, buffeting the bombers and using up their precious fuel. Over Japan, the targets might be visible one minute, then obscured the next as high winds drove in heavy clouds. Bombs dropped from thirty thousand feet were blown far from their aiming points, and results using even the latest radar equipment were proving unsatisfactory. Eleven targets selected for bombing in January remained almost undamaged. Intelligence monitoring of Japan Radio showed that morale was high and war work so far virtually unimpaired by the air attacks.
LeMay accepted the complaints about the weather, engine strain, and other malfunctions. But solving them would not answer the basic problem. The tactics being used were the ones he had developed in Europe to pierce the German defenses. Later his high-flying methods were used by B-29s operating out of China, raiding Japan from airfields around Chengtu.
China had been a costly and hazardous venture, but LeMay had made contact with a fanatical guerrilla leader. In return for medical supplies and materials, LeMay had persuaded him to radio regular weather forecasts from that area of northern China where the partisans were fighting the Japanese. The reports were invaluable for LeMay’s pilots. They often drank a toast to this man.
His name was Mao Tse-tung.
LeMay had already contacted Mao from the Marianas and arranged for him to radio weather reports to Guam. The man who would soon become the leader of one of the most powerful nations on earth was, on this late January day, proud and willing to act as a barometer for the American general he persisted in calling “Culltse Lee May.”
But Mao’s weather reports were only a partial answer to LeMay’s problem with the B-29s, and the solution LeMay proposed was revolutionary. If it succeeded, he believed he could break Japan. If it failed, his career would be in ruins.
First, LeMay intended to strip his B-29s of their arsenal of machine guns and cannons. Then he proposed to strike in darkness—having his bombers over their targets between midnight and 4:00 A.M. If necessary, they would bomb by radar, in preparation for which LeMay decided to initiate a series of intensive retraining courses. These would ensure that even the least apt radar operator was brought up to the standard he requ
ired.
Most important of all, the bombers would go in at between five thousand and nine thousand feet. LeMay was going to gamble that intelligence was right, that the Japanese had not developed a night fighter or converted their antiaircraft guns to radar control. He hoped that, manually operated, the weapons would react too slowly to his low-level assault.
Removing the guns because of the hoped-for absence of night fighters would also increase each bomber’s payload. That, too, was crucial, for LeMay intended the B-29s to carry only incendiaries, and thus put the torch to Japan’s vulnerable wooden buildings.
While formulating his plans about the new tactics he meant to employ, LeMay went on listening, something he was very good at. This very lunch hour on January 20, while listening to a weather officer explaining his problems, LeMay had overheard a naval officer from CINCPAC saying that Admiral Chester Nimitz was raising hell over some flying unit in the States that was trying to get itself shipped to the Marianas.
It sounded an unlikely story to LeMay. The unit was something called a “composite group.” And LeMay knew there was no such designation in the air force.
22
Groves had decided that it was not yet necessary to inform General Douglas MacArthur about the atomic bomb. He approved of the letter Fleet Admiral King had prepared on January 27 for Admiral Chester Nimitz. It was short and to the point, and should end the irritating queries emanating from CINCPAC. Written on King’s official stationery, the letter read:
My dear Nimitz:
It is expected that a new weapon will be ready in August of this year for use against Japan by the 20th Air Force.
The Officer, Commander Frederic L. Ashworth, USN, bearing this letter will give you enough details so that you can make the necessary plans for the proper support of the operations. By the personal direction of the President, everything pertaining to this development is covered by the highest order of secrecy, and there should be no disclosure by you beyond one other officer, who must be suitably cautioned.
I desire that you make available to Commander Ashworth such intelligence data as applies to the utilization of the new weapon.
Sincerely yours,
E. J. King,
Fleet Admiral, U.S. Navy
Ashworth was an Annapolis graduate and combat veteran whom Parsons had personally engaged for the Manhattan Project. Groves respected both naval officers for their professionalism. They spent much of their time shuttling between Wendover and Los Alamos helping to solve the last problems associated with fuzing and detonating the atomic bomb.
Groves doubted that Ashworth would welcome the trip to the Pacific which would take him away from his test work, but the project chief planned to use Ashworth as more than just a courier. He wanted Ashworth to choose the overseas base for the 509th.
Groves favored Guam. It had sophisticated military workshops for any last-minute modifications to the weapon, and a deep-sea harbor. Tibbets preferred Tinian. It was said to have the best runways in the Pacific.
Ashworth was to look at both islands.
23
Beser had spent an hour getting his bodyguard drunk, urging him to relax and enjoy their last few hours in Cuba. The man was sitting glassy-eyed in the base’s officers’ mess, staring stupidly into a fresh daiquiri—the eighth he had consumed in an hour. He was too drunk to notice that Beser had gone.
The Western Pacific
Beser had hurried to the base motor pool to collect a truck. A Silverplate authorization had overcome the initial objection of the transport officer to part with the vehicle. Then Beser had driven into the old quarter of Havana and supervised a gang of Cubans loading crates into the truck.
Now, the whole secret operation, which so far had gone “like a dream,” was being threatened by an MP at the gate to Batista Field. “Lieutenant, I want to see inside this truck.”
Beser eyed the policeman: he couldn’t be bribed; he would have to be threatened. Crooking his finger—he had borrowed the gesture from a university professor—Beser told the MP to come closer. “What’s your security rating, son?”
Beser was barely twenty-three. He sounded like a middle-aged general.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Then you had better find out—quick! Move, soldier!”
The MP backed off.
Beser slammed the truck into gear, and it bounded forward into the air base. He drove several times around the administrative blocks to make sure he was not being followed. Satisfied, he then drove to the part of the apron where the 509th was located.
A group of fliers was waiting for him. Beser jumped down from the driver’s cabin, and a human chain formed between truck and bombers. The unmarked boxes were stacked in the cavernous bomb bays of the B-29s.
It took almost an hour to transfer the cargo. Each box contained twelve bottles of the best-quality whiskey.
Beser had discovered a Havana wholesaler offering the liquor at a quarter of the price it cost in the United States. The 509th had needed no persuasion to lay out the money for this bonanza.
The escapade was typical. In the past three weeks, the 509th had established a reputation as hell-raisers. Havana, used to the carousing of servicemen, was astonished by the group. They lived and loved at a frenetic pace, fought those who challenged them, and led charmed lives when authority intervened.
An MP patrol picked up drunken 509th mechanics in a street brawl and took them to the military lockup. Their arrest was reported to the 509th’s duty officer. He checked his rosters; the men were scheduled to service a bomber in the morning. He demanded their release. When the MPs refused, the officer used “Silverplate” to rouse the local commander. He checked his records, found the code rated the highest priority, and ordered the mechanics set free. The legend grew that the 509th were “The Untouchables.”
Tibbets had surprised the rest of the 509th at Wendover by flying back early from Havana to supervise personally the training of the crews he had not sent to the Caribbean. He was determined that when the day came, every one of his fliers would be capable of carrying out an atomic strike.
He worked the five crews still at Wendover hard, sending them back and forth to the Salton Sea bombing range. Without actually saying so, he conveyed to the fliers the impression that although they had not been sent to Cuba, they might still be chosen for the big upcoming mission.
Tibbets received regular reports from Cuba. He was particularly pleased to see that his engineering crews were already showing their mettle: the 509th’s planes were losing less than half the number of engines through malfunction that other air force squadrons based on the island were losing. It was what Tibbets had come to expect from his men.
But he was not willing to do what executive officer John King wanted: “turn the squadron into a spit-and-polish outfit.”
Tibbets knew that King meant well, but he also realized that the officer did not understand his methods: the easy familiarity he had with the enlisted men, the way he invariably called all his officers by their first names. King was “Regular Army; he had never experienced the unique camaraderie of flying as a team, where lives depend on each other.”
Tibbets would never allow anyone to stifle what he believed was a requisite for any fighting air squadron: spirit. To maintain that spirit, Tibbets was spending more time than ever with his men. His wife and small sons rarely saw him. When he did see the children, he was usually too tired or preoccupied to play with them. The shiny new model bombers the boys had received at Christmas were broken, and he never found time to fix them. His wife looked accusingly at him. Their marriage continued its downhill progress.
Tibbets could see what was happening—and hated himself for making no move to stem the destruction of his family life. The truth was, as he would later admit, that he did not know what to say to mend matters.
He was also not prepared to give up watching over his fliers to be with his family. When he had first married Lucie, he had warned her that “I was a different ki
nd of cat from the ordinary man,” and that nothing would stand between him and his work.
In the first flush of marriage, she had accepted that. But now, isolated, reduced to listening to long technical conversations her husband had with the officers he occasionally brought home, Lucie Tibbets knew there could be no future for them together.
Even though he was aware of her feelings, Paul Tibbets was “only able to cry inside myself. She never knew, nobody knew, what I was feeling.”
Tibbets and Beser, who had returned with the others from Cuba on February 3, felt they were passing their lives on an endless treadmill between Wendover and Los Alamos.
This morning in early March, they found the sentries at the compound gate more nervous than ever. Both men’s ID cards were checked more thoroughly than usual, even though Tibbets and Beser were now familiar faces.
When they eventually entered the site and were greeted by Ramsey, they found the usually unruffled scientist, in Beser’s opinion, “hot and bothered.”
It was Oppenheimer who told Tibbets the reason for the increased tension. Groves had just ordered that the first plutonium bomb must be ready for testing at Alamogordo by the middle of July, and the first uranium bomb must be available for war purposes by early August.
The deadline placed an additional burden on men and women who had been working under great strain for two years. Tempers flared. There were angry exchanges between the scientists and security men.
The weather did not help. The spring rains were late in coming, and an arid wind blew from the desert over the settlement, withering the grass and drying up the pond in the center of the compound.
Water shortages had always been a problem. Now, water for personal use was rationed. Workers and their families were advised to brush their teeth with Coca-Cola.
Enola Gay Page 9
