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far as Iwo Jima, then land and taxi to a position close beside a pit in the ground that had been dug exactly as the one on Tinian. That plane, the Top Secret, would serve as a spare, in the event some mechanical trouble developed on the Enola Gay on the outbound portion of the flight. An additional plane would trail the Enola Gay by several miles for the primary purpose of dropping sensor equipment by parachute after the bomb’s blast, gathering data for the scientists, several of whom were allowed aboard the trailing plane to witness the immediate aftermath several miles shy of the final target. Tibbets also knew that on that plane, The Great Artiste, cameras would be in high gear, every man who had one certain to use up as much film as he could capturing the moment and its aftermath.

The final briefing began an hour before midnight on August 5, the first time Tibbets revealed to the flight crews details of the mission, which, rumors aside, the men knew very little about. For the first time, the men were told of the destructive power of the single bomb that hung in the bomb bay of the Enola Gay. The response was much as Tibbets expected, silence, the men digesting the numbers tossed out at them by Deak Parsons, numbers that were of such overwhelming magnitude that Tibbets knew they would respond as he had, no one really able to grasp just what kind of power the bomb held. No matter how many charts and graphs the physicists displayed, none of the men who had dropped bombs on enemy targets could fathom just how much more potent this single weapon would be. As if to emphasize the point, Parsons began to distribute goggles to the crew of the Enola Gay, and the others, the men who would be closest to the actual detonation of the bomb. The men had their own, of course, the usual flight goggles to protect anyone from any frigid blast of air. But these were not flight goggles at all. The lenses were thick and dark, welder’s goggles. The instructions were simple. When the bomb leaves the bomb bay, put them on and keep them on. There would be no exceptions.

When the briefing concluded, there was one more detail, a signal from Tibbets, the men surprised to see their chaplain, Bill Downey, moving up to the platform. Downey had done as Tibbets asked, and he pulled a paper from his jacket pocket, the men quick to understand why Downey was there. In the stark silence, Downey looked at Tibbets, saw the nod, Tibbets knowing that even those men who gave the chaplain little heed would be attentive now. Downey cleared his throat, seemed nervous, read from the paper:

Almighty Father, Who will hear the prayer of them that love Thee, we pray Thee to be with those who brave the heights of Thy Heaven, and who carry the battle to our enemies. Guard and protect them, we pray Thee, as they fly their appointed rounds. May they, as well as we, know Thy strength and power, and armed with Thy might, may they bring this war to a rapid end. We pray Thee that the end of the war may come soon, and that once more we may know peace on earth. May the men who fly this night be kept safe in Thy care, and may they be returned safely to us. We shall go forward trusting in Thee, knowing that we are in Thy care now and forever. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

After the ninety-minute briefing, there had been a preflight breakfast, a menu chosen mostly by Tibbets himself. For the first time in many weeks, the men were given real eggs, genuine pork sausage, rolled oats, and apple butter, with all the coffee and cold milk the men could hold. But Tibbets knew that, despite the wonderful aroma of the food offered them, his own lack of appetite would be no different from the appetites of the flight crews. They had become accustomed to eating preflight meals at ridiculous hours, and usually the food had been just one more detail, most of the men scarfing down whatever was offered them. But whether it was the briefing, or the gravity of the chaplain’s prayer, the crews spent a tedious half hour in the mess hall they called the Dogpatch Inn, mostly poking and prodding