Colin Gee - Initiative

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 success 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.