The Final Storm: A Novel of the War in the Pacific

  It seemed to matter little to LeMay that Tibbets had once been the most sought-after pilot in Europe, had been the primary pilot for Generals Eisenhower and Mark Clark, and had scored more than forty successful bombing missions in the workhorse B-17. LeMay had his doubts that a pilot with no experience in the Pacific had any business commanding this kind of critically important mission over a target area he had never seen. LeMay knew that Tibbets had received a very definite order that he was never to engage in any kind of practice run over any part of Japan. Should something go wrong, from anti-aircraft fire or mechanical failure, Tibbets’s capture by the Japanese could become a security disaster that might jeopardize the entire project. Tibbets took no insult from that. He had no interest in finding out just how much torture he could take from a sadistic Japanese officer, or whether his moral backbone could withstand the worst kind of interrogation the Japanese might inflict on him.

  Even LeMay knew that Tibbets’s orders came directly from Washington, and LeMay was sharp enough not to make enemies in places where his own career path might be decided. After the rage had passed, LeMay had reluctantly agreed that Paul Tibbets might be the right man after all, though LeMay had one request. For at least one training mission, LeMay wanted Colonel Butch Blanchard, his operations officer, to go along for the ride, just to see if these boys who had done most of their work over Utah knew anything about what it took to handle a B-29 in the Pacific.

  The voice came through the intercom from his navigator.

  “Target dead ahead, sir.”

  “I see it, Captain.”

  Tibbets leaned back, made a slight glance at Blanchard, said into his intercom, “Note the time, if you will, Colonel. Unfortunately, my navigator has miscalculated. We’re ahead of schedule by four seconds.”

  Blanchard said nothing, the message very clear. Tibbets looked to the altimeter, the plane straight and level at thirty thousand feet. He spoke into the intercom again.

  “Major Ferebee, it’s your bird.”

  The bombardier responded, “Got her, sir.”

  Tibbets pulled his hands back from the controls, scanned the skies to the front for any sign of Japanese anti-aircraft fire. The island of Rota was still in enemy hands, though no one, including the Japanese, seemed to give that much thought. The island was less than a hundred miles to the south of Tinian and for now made the perfect target for test bombing runs. Today, they carried a single five-hundred-pound bomb, and other than giving the B-29’s crew one more opportunity to test their skills, Tibbets had designed this flight to serve only one purpose: a demonstration of the prowess of the men Tibbets already knew to be the best he had ever flown with. Impressing Colonel Blanchard would be fun.

  “Ten seconds to target, sir.”

  “Roger.”

  “Bomb away.”

  Ferebee’s voice was calm, none of the raucous cheerleading, no excitement from any of the others. Ferebee had been with Tibbets from his earliest days in the B-17s, as had his navigator, Captain Dutch Van Kirk. Both men knew exactly what this particular flight was about, and so far there hadn’t been a single hitch.

  With the bomb’s release, Tibbets’s hands moved quickly back to the controls, and in one jerking motion he pulled the plane into a steep banking move. It was a maneuver he had practiced a dozen or more times, knew already that the turn would reach an angle of 155 degrees, the best angle the plane could withstand to carry its crew as quickly as possible away from the bomb’s eventual target. It was not a challenge any of them had faced before, but when the moment came, and the enormous power of the atomic bomb was unleashed over a Japanese target, no one, not the physicists, the military officers, not Tibbets himself, had any idea what would happen to the plane that dropped it. This one part of their training had appealed to Tibbets with perfect logic. Turn the plane as sharply as possible and get the hell out of there.

  Tibbets had braced himself for the violence of the turn, knew the rest of the crew had done the same. Behind him, the one man who did not expect the maneuver squawked into the intercom, “What the hell? What’s happening? We’re stalling!”

  Tibbets held hard to the controls, felt the tail of the plane sag, the natural reaction to such a tight turn. He suddenly had no patience for his passenger, said in a clipped shout, “We have to stall the tail. Only way to do the turn at this angle. You tell me if there’s another way I should be doing it.”

  “Okay! Enough!”

  “Not yet, Colonel.”

  Tibbets pulled back on the controls, the plane suddenly veering upward, nearly vertical, the engines straining, the nose skyward, the plane slowing, seeming to bounce softly on its tail. The plane stopped flying now, the perfect stall, nearly motionless, but now the violence returned, the nose suddenly swinging over to one side, the plane in a momentary free fall. The ocean below was in full view now, the plane in a steep dive, and Tibbets focused on the altimeter, heard a gurgling sound through the intercom, a chattering voice, “You’re going to kill us!”

  “Not today, Colonel.”

  He pulled back slowly on the wheel, the plane’s nose rising, his stomach settling hard, the smoothness returning, the wings straight and level.

  “Navigator, what’s the heading to base?”

  “Zero two zero, sir.”

  “Zero two zero, roger.”

  He could already see Tinian, could see the shape of the island, so much like New York City, Manhattan, and he wondered, did Groves know that? No, too much irony there.

  “Tinian tower, Dimples Eight Two. Request permission to land.”

  “Dimples Eight Two, clear to land Runway Able. Winds eleven knots at zero eight zero.”

  “Roger, Tinian Tower. Dimples Eight Two out.”

  He nosed the plane toward the runway’s western end, the B-29 responding with perfect precision now. He glanced over to Lewis, thought of letting him handle the landing, thought, no, let’s keep this by the damn book. This jackass behind me’s probably puked on his shoes, and he’ll still be looking for something to bitch about.

  The plane settled low, hovered slightly, then dropped the last few feet, touching down with a squeaking jerk. Tibbets pulled the throttles back farther, touched the plane’s brakes, said, “Time, Colonel Blanchard?”

  There was a silent moment, and Blanchard responded now.

  “Yes, we’re exactly fifteen seconds late. I’ve seen what I needed to see, Colonel.”

  Tibbets smiled, said nothing. The instructions came from the tower, but he knew the configurations of the taxiway, moved the plane that way, to the special security area, away from the other squadrons. He applied the brakes, the plane rolling to a stop, the engines shutting down completely. He sat for a moment, the roar of the engines still in his ears, fading to a soft hiss. Blanchard was up already, moving out from behind him, and Tibbets saw a smile on his co-pilot’s face, heard Blanchard’s voice.

  “Thank you for the demonstration, Colonel Tibbets. It will be my recommendation to General LeMay that you and your crew proceed with your mission as ordered.” He paused. “You proved your damn point.”

  HEADQUARTERS, 509TH COMPOSITE GROUP, TINIAN

  JULY 26, 1945

  He sat on the small porch of his quarters, the smoke from the pipe rolling up around him, carried off now by a warm breeze. The sun was sinking rapidly, and beside him the chaplain sipped from a china cup, the coffee Tibbets knew was strong enough to melt tin. After a silent moment, the chaplain said, “How can you drink this stuff?”

  “Iron stomach. Comes from training in a B-29. Never had any sweat in a B-17, like flying in your mama’s lap. I’ve gotten all kinds of heartburn from these bigger birds. Some engineer took a few shortcuts, I guess. War Department probably got in a hurry, said, just build the thing, let the pilots worry about keeping them in the air.”

  Tibbets took another deep pull at the pipe, the smoke delicious, the most relaxed he had been all day. He glanced at the chaplain, said, “My old man still doesn’t understand how an
y plane stays in the air. I’ve tried explaining it to him, he just … stares at me. But I’ll never forget that first day … he bit his damn tongue and let me go up. Probably scared the wits out of him. Imagine watching your boy, a twelve-year-old for God’s sake, going up in a biplane with some stranger you don’t know from Adam.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Miami. There was a promotion by the people who made Baby Ruth candy bars, and my father was the local dealer for the company. They were giving the stuff away, trying to get people hooked on ’em, I guess. The idea was to fly over the Hialeah Race Track, then the beach. It was summer, the places packed with people. Some old barnstormer got the job from the candy company to do bombing runs, swooping low over the crowd, dropping small bags of Baby Ruth bars, attached to little parachutes. Doug Davis. Yep, that was his name. He looked the part, the leather hat, the goggles, just what a twelve-year-old wanted to see. I jumped all over the guy, made myself as obnoxious as I could, let me go, let me go.” Tibbets laughed. “He gave in, no matter that my father was probably begging him not to. But I had to work for it. Tied every damn one of those parachutes myself. Davis did the flying, I did the bombing. All I remember is that it was over way too quick. Greatest damn adventure any kid could have. No Arabian prince on his magic carpet ever had a thrill like that. Changed my whole damn life.” He looked over toward the chaplain, drew another cloud of smoke from his pipe. “Guess that’s pretty obvious.”

  “Maybe. Sounds to me like you were meant to fly, maybe before you were twelve. We all have our place. There’s a path, and you were led to yours. You’re fortunate to know that, to appreciate it. Most people never find theirs. Some poor souls stare at the right path, and then walk right by.”

  “So, Chaplain, I’m flying because God wants me to?”

  “Didn’t say that. If you’re happy, truly happy, then God is happy right along with you. He doesn’t create the path, just gives you the free will to find it for yourself. Make choices, live with a clear conscience, a good heart.”

  “Damn, Bill, you make me sound like I oughta be on some painting in the Vatican.”

  “I’m Lutheran, Paul. Don’t spend a lot of time chatting with the pope. How’s Lucy?”

  Tibbets was surprised by the change of topic, knew too well why Downey had asked.

  “She’s okay, getting by taking care of the boys.” He paused. “Well, hell, I’m not going to lie to a damn chaplain. Things aren’t that good. She’s not happy I’m so damn far away. I thought she enjoyed being at Wendover, having the family together and all, but even then I could tell there was a problem. Hell, I was gone all the damn time. The job … well, you know. They had me flying all over the damn place. Naturally, we can’t have families out here, so now she’s stuck back home, and sure as hell, she lets me know about that. What can I do, Bill? It’s the job, and right now it has to be the job. She’s gotta understand that. This’ll be over one day, then maybe things will be all right.”

  “Of course they will. We’ll all be better off once the war’s over. She’s not any different from every wife and every mother who’s sitting home getting all they can from a letter every few days. They all want this to end, get all of you back home.”

  Tibbets looked at Downey, saw youth, the fresh face of a man who knew very little of family life.

  “What are you, twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Yeah, thought so. Tell you what, Minister Downey, you go home and have a half-dozen kids, then haul your ass to some seminary somewhere for six months. Tell me how happy they’ll be about that.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”

  Tibbets took a hard pull on the pipe, the smoke turning bitter in his mouth, no comfort at all.

  “You didn’t. It just … never goes away. This isn’t any kind of life for a married man. And the kids. Jesus, Bill, I miss my boys.” He looked at Downey, saw no change of expression. “Sorry. ‘Don’t cuss at the chaplain.’ Learned that in basic.”

  Downey started to protest, and Tibbets knew there was no offense taken at all. They all knew that the chaplain had enormous tolerance for the various adventures enjoyed by the 509th since their earliest days together, adventures that often included things best kept away from church. Tibbets had always liked Downey, though Tibbets had rarely gone to Sunday services. The excuses were always there, mostly unspoken. Neither man would believe that his absence at church was only because he just didn’t have the time. But Tibbets was still self-conscious about his Sunday absences, had heard the occasional comment from some of the men in his command.

  “I’d be at your services more often, if I could. It’s just that … well, I’ve always felt that any time I needed to chat with God, I prefer doing it without a middleman.”

  Downey laughed, said, “Yeah, so you’ve told me. Tell me more about your sons.”

  “Toughest thing about being here. I miss ’em, sure as hell. They’d go crazy out here watching these big birds coming and going. I’d end up having to haul them both up one day. Well, Paul, anyway. He’s nearly five. Gene’s just a baby still. But I could stow Paul someplace where nobody’d see, maybe in the tail gun. Sergeant Caron wouldn’t mind if I stuck him back there once in a while. Caron would get a kick out of teaching Paul how to squeeze off a few rounds with the fifty cal. I guarantee it would be just like Miami was for me. He’d never forget that. Hell, both my boys might end up flying. Gotta make sure they stick to the big birds though. Every damn kid who goes to flight school wants to be a fighter pilot. All that adventure, the silk scarf, the girls dripping off you. Bunk. You want adventure, try emptying a bomb bay over a Kraut city while flak cuts you to pieces and a Messerschmitt’s on your ass.”

  “Maybe not as much fun as a Japanese city.”

  “Can’t talk about that.”

  “I know. Not asking anything. Just wondering if this might be a good time for you to show up in church. You can still have your private chat with God. But it’ll do the rest of the boys some good to see you there. There’s a lot of nervousness here, a lot of uncertainty. I’m not talking about secrets, Paul. They’ve gotten used to all the cloak-and-dagger stuff. But they’re getting hit pretty hard by the other crews all over Tinian. I heard about the rock throwing. Some of the other crews make it a point to toss rocks up your tin roofs when they come in from a bombing mission. The boys know they can’t respond, not to that, or to anything else. That’s tough, I know.”

  “They know they’re in on something unique, something special. Not much else I can give them.”

  “Maybe. Let ’em know you’re aware how tough this is. You’re carrying some heavy-duty secrets around with you, and they know that. They also know they’re being watched, they know someone’s checking up on ’em, reading their mail.”

  “Can’t be helped.”

  “Oh, I know that. Your Doctor Young came by yesterday, talked to me awhile. Asked a few questions that seemed, well, unusual, coming from a flight surgeon.”

  Tibbets knew exactly what Downey was referring to. For weeks now, Don Young had served not only as the 509th’s chief medical officer, but as the eyes and ears for one more type of security. There had been growing concern that the stress of the mission, and the secrecy and shadowy rumors the men were forbidden to discuss, might be causing the entire unit to fray at the edges. Tibbets had given the order himself, that the doctor was to observe the men in every aspect of their routines, including their playfulness, temperament, their speech pattern, how they interacted with one another. If anyone’s behavior was changing in a pronounced way, it might be cause to eliminate him from the final mission. So far the problems had been few, the symptoms of the stress not important enough to take someone off the team. But the doctor’s observations were having an impact of their own, adding to the sense of jumpiness that was already affecting the unit well before they left Wendover.

  Downey sipped from the coffee cup, then tossed away the last dregs, said, “It has to happe
n soon, Paul. They’re winding tighter every day. You know the talk. This mission … well, I’ve heard the same rumors everyone else has, at least right here. Not sure what’s flying around the rest of this island. But if you’ve got a chance to end this war …”

  “Can it, Bill.”

  Downey was silenced, and Tibbets looked at him, tapped the pipe on the metal chair, cleaned out the spent tobacco. Downey nodded, said, “Not another word, Colonel. Just doing my job.”

  “I know that. Look, the mission will happen when it happens. No one needs to know more than that. Not even me, actually. This is being handled the way it has to, and when it’s all over with, everyone will understand that. I can’t coddle anyone right now. Sure as hell, no one’s coddling me.” He suddenly had a flash of an idea. “Tell you what. Write a prayer. When … or if the time comes, I want a eulogy, or an invocation, or whatever the hell you call it. Some sort of send-off, something to make the boys feel like God’s watching over them. Something … kind. Oh, hell, maybe that’s corny as hell.”

  “No, it sounds perfect. Absolutely. I’m flattered you’d ask.”

  “Don’t be. You’re the damn chaplain. That’s your job.”

  Downey smiled.

  “Yes, Colonel, it is. I’ll get started right away. I assume I have a day or two, anyway?”

  “Can’t answer that.”

  Tibbets saw the figure approaching, was surprised to see one of his MPs. The man stopped short, stiffened, saluted.

  “Sir, forgive the interruption. Oh, hello, Chaplain. Very sorry. I can come back.”

  Tibbets returned the salute, said, “Spit it out, Sergeant. What’s up?”