Captain Lewis saluted. Tibbets returned the young man’s salute.
“Permission to speak, sir.”
Tibbets nodded. Formality. He damn well knew what this was about.
Hell, he’d expected this.
Yesterday afternoon, in the middle of the weekly softball game. Colonel Tibbets had pulled a maintenance tech sergeant out of the bullpen. He ordered him to fetch a ladder, some aircraft paint, and an airbrush and paint the strike plane with a woman’s name. He handed the sergeant a piece of paper spelling out that name. The young man smirked, but Tibbets cut him off. “This is my mother’s name,” he said, thus removing all doubt that some floozy was being referred to. The sergeant took the piece of paper and did as he was told.
The game continued without him. Tibbets walked over to the hanger and watched him apply the stencils, fire up the airbrush, and begin to paint the B-29. A few minutes later, #82 had a new name, his mother’s maiden name. Such a little thing, but Tibbets felt deeply satisfied. The pilot probably wouldn’t like it. Well, fuck him.
Today, as Tibbets had foreseen, the pilot clearly didn’t like it.
Fuck him.
“Permission to speak freely,” said Tibbets.
The pilot couldn’t speak.
“What is your problem, Captain Lewis?”
“The name—”
“What name?”
“The name of the plane, sir.”
“The new name?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The name that I ordered?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Lewis was starting to lose his nerve. Not 100% sure he’s in the right.
Tibbets barked at him.
“You got a problem with that name?”
Just a second of hesitation. But Lewis spit it out. Stood his ground, as ludicrous as it was.
“Yes, sir. Yes, I do.”
“Mmm-hmmm. Listen, son. You’re one of my more experienced pilots—but that’s about the only experience you seem to possess.”
“Sir –”
“Is the VICTOR 82 your personal property?
“No, sir.”
“Whose property is it?”
“Uh….the United States Government’s?”
“Precisely. And who’s the commanding officer of this Group?”
“You are, sir.”
“That’s right. And as commanding officer, it is my right to put any name I care for on any aircraft in the Group, including the VICTOR 82. And it’s your duty to fly it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But not this time.”
“Sir?”
Surprise, you little shit.
“I’m flying it, son. On this mission, you’ll be the co-pilot. God was temporarily unavailable, so you’ll have to do.”
Poker face.
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
After sending Lewis off with his tail between his legs, chastened but wiser, Colonel Paul Tibbets fired up his third Lucky Strike of the afternoon and made a manful effort to get back to his pre-strike preparation for tonight’s mission. Then he spotted someone else standing in the doorway. His old friend, Captain Theodore “Dutch” Van Kirk, clutching a bundle of charts under one arm.
Dutch’s deep, basso voice carried across the room.
“Well, sir … Captain Lewis will never wonder whose plane it is anymore, now will he?”
Tibbets said nothing.
Lewis seemed abashed. He almost dropped the charts.
“Sorry, sir. I couldn’t help but overhear the whole thing.”
“Yeah. Standing in the doorway like that, I guess you couldn’t.”
The Colonel smiled wickedly, saluted and motioned for his friend to enter.
Dutch returned the salute with a big, expansive grin. He was bathed in ninety degree Tinian sweat like the rest of them. The sun was going down, but damned if it felt like it.
“Bob is Bob.”
“Bob is indeed Bob.”
“I can’t put a finger on his behavior. What’s the explanation?”
“Bob’s young. He’s a hothead. Don’t like my mama’s name on his plane. That’s the explanation. End of story. Fuck him.”
“Competent pilot, though.”
“No shit. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be on this mission. But fuck him anyway.”
“Yeah. But why …”
“Why what?”
“Nothing. Nothing, sir.”
Dutch laughed and ran off with his sorryass charts.
Why’d you include this insubordinate hothead on this historic mission? Lewis has got a problem with your orders? He doesn’t want your mom’s name on “his” plane? Why didn’t you rub his face in the dirt?
Dutch didn’t want to come out and say all that.
But why indeed?
Could’ve grounded him, of course. On the other hand?
Tibbets wasn’t doing the little shit a favor by taking him up. Not with this particular payload. They had all these cute little names for the goddamn thing. Fat Man. The Gadget, shit like that. Back at Los Alamos, Oppy clammed up about it, but Dr. Ramsey gave Tibbets the lowdown, as much as he could, anyway. Said the thing was going to explode with the force of 20,000 tons of TNT. Tibbets had never seen a pound of the stuff go off, let alone a hundred. But he figured it’d make one hell of a big bang. With a bang like that, you need a competent wingman, hothead or not.
Based on high school trig, the Enola Gay would be 1,500 feet up and have 40 seconds or so to make a 159-degree turn to put as much distance as possible between the aircraft and the goddamn thing went it went off.
Hairy, you think? Not a milk run by any means.
Which is why Tibbets had been practicing.
Lewis and the rest thought they knew what they were in for. They sure as hell didn’t. Tibbets suspected the guys in the labcoats didn’t either.
He’d practiced a helluva lot.
Dutch was back. Just standing there, holding on to those charts looking for a place to put them down.
“Dutch, goddamnit, go ahead and sit down. And put those charts down.”
Dutch dropped the load on his desk. One chart unfurled like a roll-up blind and knocked his mother’s picture off at the other end. It crashed on the floor.
“Dutch, you clumsy horse’s ass!”
“Yeah, I am. Sorry, Phil.”
Tibbets scowled and picked up the shattered Bakelite frame. Spiderweb pattern on the glass across his mother’s face. Gingerly, he pulled the photo from behind the broken glass.
“Picture’s OK. Frame ain’t.”
He flattened the photo on his desk, smoothing it out with another piece of paper so his sweaty hand wouldn’t touch it.
The visage of his mother looked up at him.
Enola Gay. Her maiden name.
It was all thanks to her.
Mom was the reason he was here in the first place.
His dad never supported his flying ambitions. Dad hated airplanes, even more than he hated motorcycles. Wanted him to stay in med school. But Mom was on his side, 100%. Paul, if you want to fly airplanes, you go right ahead. Thanks, Mom. He went ahead. He flew. And now he was here.
Dutch figured it out.
“That your mother?”
“Hmmm-hmmm.”
“Think she’ll appreciate the honor?”
“She’ll appreciate the sentiment, Dutch. I’m not sure how much of an honor it’s going to be.”
Dutch grunted. Muttered ‘war is hell’ or some vacuous slogan under his breath, thus creating the ludicrous implication he had the faintest idea of what hell might be. He sure as hell didn’t.
Tibbets shit-canned the shattered frame. Glass and Bakelite fragments rattled in the metal trashcan.
“Let’s go over those charts again.”
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