Gordon Thomas: Enola Gay

The smartly dressed officer standing ramrod stiff, cap squared off—that must be the executive officer, King. Tibbets had heard about him from Classen. King was a peacetime professional, Regular Army. Tough but fair, Classen had said. The unit needed such a man, judging by what Tibbets had read in Uanna’s dossiers.

The 393rd later agreed that, standing there, Tibbets looked tough, mean, and moody. One officer put it, “He looked as if one mistake from us, and he would happily fry us for breakfast and use our remains to stoke his lunchtime stove.”

Beser thought: This is the man I want to go to war with. Feeling Tibbets’s stare fall upon him, the radar officer visibly straightened; he wished now that he hadn’t worn his cap at such a rakish angle.

Command had taught Tibbets a trick: surprise people, shake them by the unexpected. “I’ve looked at you. You have looked at me. I’m not going to be stuck with all of you. But those of you who remain are going to be stuck with me.”

This was a new Tibbets to Caron. He shared in the ripple of expectancy around him.

Tibbets continued. “You have been brought here to work on a very special mission. Those of you who stay will be going overseas.”

A muted cheer came from the rear ranks. Tibbets froze it with one look. “This is not a football game. You are here to take part in an effort that could end the war.”

This time he allowed the murmur to rise and fall of its own accord. He had them now. “Don’t ask what the job is. That is a surefire way to be transferred out. Don’t ask any questions. Don’t answer any questions from anybody not directly involved in what we will be doing. Do exactly what you are told, when you are told, and you will get along fine.

“I know some of you are curious about all the security. Stop being curious. This is part of the preparation for what is to come. Nobody will be allowed into a fenced-off area without a pass. Lose that pass, and you face court-martial.

“Never mention this base to anybody. That means your wives, girls, sisters, family.”

There was dead silence when he paused. Years ago, when he first became an officer, his mother had given him a piece of advice: sometimes he would have to be tough, but he should always try to temper it by showing the other side of his character, gentleness.

“It’s not going to be easy for any of us. But we will succeed by working together. However, all work and no play is no fun. So, as of now, you can all go on two weeks’ furlough. Enjoy yourselves.”

Classen was about to dismiss the squadron when Tibbets spoke again. “If any of you wish to transfer out, that’s fine. Just say the word.”

He waited.

Nobody moved.

“I’m glad,” Tibbets said, “really glad.”

By midafternoon, the men were already leaving the base. Many had begun to wonder why, if their assignment was so important in ending the war, they had been given two weeks’ leave. Some believed Tibbets had tried too hard to impress them.

Second Lieutenant Eugene Grennan, the engineer on Eatherly’s crew, decided after strolling down the flight line that the talk about security was “hogwash.” A hangar door had been open. He peered inside, “and there was this German V-1 rocket.”

A triumphant Grennan decided that the squadron was going to Europe “to knock down Nazi rockets.”

The rocket was a plywood mockup, and the hangar door had been deliberately left ajar—a trap devised by Uanna. Within minutes, an agent reported that Grennan had swallowed the bait. But Uanna was in no hurry to catch the engineer. He had other snares to set.

Navigator Russell Gackenbach reached Salt Lake City and was stopped by an NCO asking if Wendover was the “headquarters of the Silverplate outfit.” Gackenbach had never heard of Silverplate, but he suspected a trap and sternly warned his questioner that “darn-fool questions could get us both in the pen.”

Gackenbach had survived Uanna’s obstacle course. Others found themselves enmeshed.

Two NCOs were accosted by an officer in a Salt Lake City hotel. He said he was joining the 393rd. What sort of outfit was it? The men obligingly told him. The officer thanked them. Two hours later, as the talkative NCOs boarded a train for home, MPs stopped them and drove them back to base. In Tibbets’s office they were confronted by the officer. He was a Manhattan Project agent. Within an hour both noncoms were on the way to Alaska.

Grennan reached Union Square, Chicago, before his trap sprung. There he ran into a friend from college days. Grennan told him about “the crazy setup at Wendover.” His friend listened attentively. They parted company. Grennan arrived home to find a telegram ordering his immediate return to Wendover. There, Uanna keelhauled the young flier for talking. His friend was a project agent. All that saved the crestfallen Grennan from transfer was his fine flying record. From then on, he became one of the most security-conscious men in the squadron.

Five more members of the 393rd were netted by Uanna’s agents. They were also swiftly shipped to Alaska. Their records were not good enough to save them.

In the late afternoon, Groves telephoned Tibbets, wanting to know why the squadron had gone on furlough. He was told about the security operation now in progress.

The two men had met briefly in Washington. Then, Tibbets had been uncomfortably aware of the immense pressures the project chief was under. Now, Groves appeared to have ample time to talk. He promised new B-29s would be available soon, and reminded Tibbets that “the world is yours.”

This was Groves at his most cajoling. Now he switched moods. He talked about the scientists who would soon be descending on Wendover. They were “brilliant men,” but they had little understanding of “the military side of things.” Therefore, it would be best if Tibbets did not “inform them unduly” about the training program.

Groves wanted to restrict news of the Army Air Force’s involvement to a few scientists—and then only to those he knew supported his view that the bomb must be produced as soon as possible. He saw those who questioned the validity of what they were doing as befuddled meddlers who were straying out of the scientific and into the political arena. He sensed that if these “longhairs” were aware that a strike force now existed to drop the bomb, their protests would become shriller.

He put it differently to Tibbets.

“Colonel, what people don’t know about they can’t talk about. And that is good for security.”

Beser was ordered to remain on base. Tibbets had told him to expect important visitors soon.

When the radar officer attempted to question Tibbets, he “received the coldest stare any man could give. I just shut up, went to my quarters, and waited.”

Tibbets was being hard-nosed “because I wanted to impress on Beser, and everybody else in the outfit, that I didn’t fool around.”

Now, late in the evening of September 12, Tibbets and Ferebee finally settled down for their eagerly awaited reunion.

Ferebee was taller than Tibbets, and rakishly elegant. He could have played the hero in a war movie. He sported a neat RAF-style moustache which made him look older than his twenty-four years.

He had survived sixty-three combat missions, twenty more than Tibbets. They shared the same philosophy about war: it was a rotten business, but it was either kill or be killed.

They had flown together in Europe, been shot up, known the meaning of fear, and become firm friends. It was almost a year since they had last met, but Tibbets was pleased to see the old bonds were still there.

They rambled through the past, remembering English airfields they had flown from, German-occupied French towns they had attacked. They talked excitedly about that summer’s day in 1942 when they had tangled with Göring’s personal squadron of yellow-nosed Messerschmitts. On that occasion one of the gunners on their bomber had had his foot shot off, the copilot had lost a hand, and Tibbets himself had been wounded in the arm. But Ferebee had successfully bombed the Germans’ Abbeville air base, and in daylight. That evening the BBC had mentioned the raid on its nine-o’clock news. They remembered other fliers, men who had died, men who had vanished into German prison camps, men whose fate was uncertain.