Enola Gay: Mission to Hiroshima by Gordon Thomas & Max Morgan-Witts

Author:Gordon Thomas & Max Morgan-Witts [Thomas, Gordon & Morgan-Witts, Max]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: 20th Century, Aviation, History, Japan, Military, Nuclear Warfare, United States, Weapons, World War II
ISBN: 9781497658868
Google: EZS4AwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00KQZY3IE
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-07-01T03:00:00+00:00

3

Squatting around an upturned crate, Beser and the other players tried to concentrate on their game. Even now, in the sudden tropical darkness, the cloying, enervating heat was stifling. The only garment each man wore, shorts—khaki trousers cut off about six inches below the crotch—was soaked with sweat.

As the evening wore on, the men around the makeshift card table had to raise their voices to make their bids heard. Not far away, a stream of B-29s were taking off on another firebomb raid.

Tonight, as usual, the officers in the hut counted the number of aircraft, keeping score by the distinctive sound of engines being boosted to maximum power prior to takeoff. So far, the tally was 249 bombers airborne.

Silence returned to the island. But Beser offered a side bet that another bomber would take off within the next half hour, to make a round total of 250. Nickels and quarters were tossed onto the crate.

Soon afterward, the unmistakable roar of four 2,200-horsepower Wright Cyclone engines starting up shattered the silence, and Beser collected his winnings.

Tired now of their game, he and the others listened to the bomber going through its preflight engine tests. Navigator Russell Gackenbach—the young lieutenant who had survived the security snares on that first day at Wendover—went out of the Quonset hut to watch the takeoff.

It was a pitch-black Tinian night, moonless, with a hot breeze blowing in off the sea.

Gackenbach sensed, rather than saw, the B-29. His ears followed the bomber as it left the apron and taxied to the runway. He glimpsed short stabs of flame from the engine exhausts. The engines were boosted to full power, the stabs grew brighter, then disappeared as the bomber roared down the runway.

Gackenbach cocked his head: one of the engines was out of pitch. He shouted into the Quonset hut. The others had also heard the sound. They joined Gackenbach. The group listened as the aircraft continued to roar down the runway.

“He’s airborne!”

Gackenbach’s shout of relief was followed by Beser’s warning. “He’s not going to make it!”

The words were followed by a bright, orange-red flash, low in the sky over the runway, enveloping the bomber.

A split second later, the roar of high-octane fuel exploding over incendiary bombs reached the horrified watchers. The flash spilled across the night sky, briefly lighting up an area of several hundred square yards.

The flames and noise faded as the wail of crash trucks took over.

The 509th officers turned and went back into the hut. They all knew that the most the crash trucks could do was sweep up a few charred remains.

Lewis switched on the intercom and told the crew to prepare for landing. Until now, it had been an eventless journey. Some fifteen miles ahead, Tinian appeared as an indistinct mass, hidden by a morning sun haze.

At his station, a small, windowless cubbyhole just forward of the front bomb bay, radioman Dick Nelson tuned the radio compass to Tinian’s signal. Three days in the air, interspersed with brief stopovers where the food and accommodations were poor, had dampened Nelson’s enthusiasm.

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