The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [219]
The coffee was hot, and Tibbets gulped it down, his fourth cup, pushed the full plate away, knew he might regret not eating much else. But on board the plane there would be the usual boxed rations, nothing different about that. What little talk there had been in the mess hall was wrung out of the men around him, no one able to hide their nervousness. He scanned the tables, saw no one eating, some men checking their watches, a contagious gesture. At one end of the hall Tibbets saw the cook, Sergeant Easterly, his hands on his hips, a look of obvious disappointment on his frowning face. Tibbets rose, said, “Don’t worry about it, Elliott. When we get back, these boys will be ready for a full-blown feast. See to it.”
The sergeant nodded, grumbling quietly, forced to accept that all his work preparing the special meal had been mostly for naught.
“Yes, sir. Will do.”
The mess sergeant moved out of the room, a prearranged order, the man no part of any briefing. Tibbets moved away from the table, others taking his cue, rising with a clatter of metal chairs. The crews of the three observation planes moved more quickly, their takeoff time set for 1:30 A.M., a full hour ahead of the scheduled start for the strike plane. They passed by him, some nodding to him, almost no one speaking. Tibbets was surprised by their tension, their part of the mission seemingly harmless, a casual flight over targets that likely wouldn’t even respond to their presence at all. The Japanese had long understood that above thirty thousand feet, their anti-aircraft fire was virtually meaningless, and though larger formations of the great planes would still draw fire, single bombers would attract almost no attention at all. But the tension in the men’s faces told him how involved they felt in the mission, a brief moment of gratification. No one feels left out, he thought. They know how important they are, every damn one of them.
“Paul? This a good time?”
Tibbets turned, saw the group’s flight surgeon, Don Young, holding a small box. But Tibbets knew exactly what it held, a conversation with the doctor days before. Tibbets said nothing, followed the doctor to one corner of the room. The box was opened now, and Tibbets saw the capsules, knew that Young had made a precise count. There were twelve, one for each member of the Enola Gay’s crew.
Young made a faint smile, said, “Hope you don’t have to use these.”
Tibbets took the box, closed the lid, slipped it into his pocket.
“Not your concern right now. But the odds are in our favor.”
He realized Parsons was watching the scene, standing beyond the closest table. Parsons nodded grimly, had been a part of that first conversation, and so was the only man among the crew who knew what the doctor had given Tibbets. In the event the Enola Gay was to go down over Japan, the contents of the box would be distributed to each man, with an order that Tibbets desperately hoped he never had to give. The capsules were cyanide.
Parsons moved close now, said in a low voice, “Can I have mine?”
Tibbets opened the box again, fished one of the capsules out, saw Parsons hold out a small matchbox, and Tibbets dropped the pill inside, the box disappearing into Parsons’s pocket.
Beside him, the doctor said, “It’s better than putting a bullet in your head. Just keep that in mind. No pain at all.”
Tibbets held up a hand, didn’t need any more of those kinds of observations.
“Thank you, Doctor. I don’t plan on having to take advantage of either option.”
TARMAC, NORTH FIELD, TINIAN
AUGUST 6, 1945, 1:45 A.M.
His crew had moved back through their quarters, quickly retrieving their flight gear, Tibbets not forgetting to grab a healthy dose of pipe tobacco. The jeep was waiting for him, the driver matter-of-fact,