The horror, and the glory, of Little Boy and Fat Man

"Seventy-Five years later, the people in Hiroshima still remember the day that man-made sun, scorched their city. But the people of Japan and the United States, have gone from sworn enemies, to best friends."

Today is August 6th. It is the 75th anniversary of the United States of using an atomic bomb named Little Boy, over the sky of Hiroshima, Japan. In one split second, and for the first time in history, mankind was able to duplicate the power of the sun - over a city full of human beings. When I was in high school, I read a pocket book about Hiroshima. It was written by a survivor. It went into very graphic detail, and after reading it, I could not put it out of my mind. 

Two days later, another bomb named Fat Man, was dropped over Nagasaki, Japan. The carnage was similar to what happened to Hiroshima. Between the two cities, it is estimated that 200,000 Japanese citizens died. The number is probably higher, as the long term effects of radiation is often times, fatal. The suffering of those who were wounded, but did not perish, is beyond comprehension.

To remember this occasion, I celebrated by lighting off a string of firecrackers I had left over from the Fourth of July. Wait - some might be thinking I just described the horror of bombing these two Japanese cities. Why would I celebrate the 200,000 the deaths, sometimes vaporization, of human beings? Because the decision to drop these two bombs, were perhaps the most gut wrenching decision ever made by this country.

The battle for Okinawa had just concluded. The name for that invasion was Project Iceberg. We knew it would be tough and bloody, but we underestimated how entrenched, and resolute the Japanese soldiers were. The battle did not take weeks as expected - it took months. By the time the very few remaining Japanese soldiers finally gave it up, 50,000 US fighting men lay dead. Many more wounded. Hundreds of our ships were sunk by Japanese Kamikaze bombers. The number of dead Japanese was off the charts. They truly did almost fight to the last man.

I was stationed in Okinawa in 1970. That was 25 years after Operation Iceberg. I walked the beaches, visited the bunkers and toured tunnels the Japanese used. So much ordnance was used, that 25 years later, they were still finding live ordnance on the beach. The Japanese knew how important Okinawa was. To lose it, would give the Allies a foothold towards an invasion of their homeland. To them, it was a hill worth dying for.

Our Admirals and Generals were scared after Okinawa. They saw a side to the Japanese fighting machine which gave them pause to think. The upcoming invasion of Japan, code named Operation Downfall, could have truly been the "Mother of all Battles." One general said it would make Okinawa look like a "cake walk". It was estimated, we would lose up to 1,000,000 men, and Japan would lose four times as many. To ask our brave soldiers, sailors and airmen, to give that much sacrifice, after fighting so hard, for so long, gnawed at the President. The Manhattan Project was about ready to go. Either use it, with all its horror, or unleash Operation Downfall, and hope the projections were wrong.

The rest is history. Reluctantly, we used two atomic bombs over Japan. We saved many, many lives by doing so. Truthfully - we were more concerned by the American lives saved than the Japanese lives saved. Some of us Baby Boomers would not be here right now if our fathers had not made it through Operation Downfall. But it never happened. The war ended, lives were saved, and our fighting men came home.

Seventy-Five years later, the people in Hiroshima still remember the day the man-made sun scorched their city. But the people of Japan and the United States have gone from sworn enemies, to best friends. The relationship between Prime Minister Abe and President Trump is rock solid. Hopefully, we all learned from the past, and the peoples of Japan and the United States will not face each other in anger, ever again.

A postscript, as was penned many years ago...

It was a bumpy, nerve racking flight. The pilot of the Boeing B-29 Super-fortress was trying to stay cool and alert as well as having to fight some moderate turbulence. A racing heart and sweaty palms betrayed the cool, calm, and collected manner he was known for. For certain, this was not the way that Colonel Tibbets reacted to previous missions. He knew this bombing run was going to be different. He was about to make history. No, if the boys on the “Project” had this right, he was about to change history – forever.

The past few weeks had been hectic. Tibbets and his twelve-man crew flew from their home base in Wendover, Nevada to Tinian, a North Pacific island in the Marianas. Components for the bomb they would carry were delivered by other aircraft from the 509th Composite Group, which was his home squadron. For security purposes, certain components of the bomb were sent using the USS Indianapolis.

Everyone was sworn to secrecy – the Manhattan Project was given the highest security classification ever issued. This was a “buttoned down” operation. Even though time was of the essence, every detail was tested, re-tested, and then tested again. This applied to everyone – from the wizards who developed the bomb, to the flight crew that would deliver it. If the device worked, the war would end sooner and thousands, maybe tens of thousands of American lives would be saved. The problem was to accomplish this, the Enola Gay would have to drop a bomb so fierce, a civilian city in Japan would literally become “Hell on Earth”.

Tibbets had named his aircraft after his mother. He did that out of respect- in addition, he thought it would bring good luck. The bomb they would carry was a different story. It had a code name of Little Boy. There was also another bomb ready to use named Fat Man. Nobody asked Tibbets if these were good names or not. That was a good thing, as he thought they might be the dumbest code names ever invented. It did not matter however, as once the bomb bay doors were opened and the “super bomb” was away, code names would mean truly little.

During the 1,600 mile run up to Japan, the weather was constantly being monitored. Various candidate cities were considered - the one which would be chosen depended largely on the weather. Other than the weather, one city was as good as any other for the drop.

The date was August 6, 1945. One of the targets on the list, a city called Hiroshima, had clear weather which was very suitable for a successful drop. At 8:15 a.m., the bombardier on the Enola Gay using a Norden Bombsite, picked up the Aioi Bridge, the target bull’s eye. He pulled his IC over his mouth and shouted, “Target acquired sir!” Colonel Tibbets hesitated for just a second and then calmly responded, “Open bay doors. When fully deployed, drop, I repeat, drop Little Boy.”  

The doors to the lumbering bomber opened up and Little Boy was released. The bomb was so big, it looked out of proportion to the plane.  Enola Gay turned away from the target as thick blinds were pulled down over the windows. At an elevation of 1,900 feet above the city, the bomb detonated. It had missed the center of the bull’s eye by less than 800 feet.

In an instant, the center of the city became as bright as the sun. People who were looking in the direction of the blast had their eyes melt onto their cheeks an instant before the shock wave turned their bodies into human missiles. Thousands died immediately – some were vaporized, others burned beyond recognition. Thousands more died painful deaths in the days and weeks afterward.

For the first time in human history, the atom was split in anger. It had become an instrument of war. The world changed that morning. Everything changed. The world of warfare, our world, would never be the same. What had been the best kept secret in the world was now been revealed through unparalleled death and destruction in Japan.