The Final Storm (55 page)

No, it’s not funny. Not even close. The military says we need this, and it’s hard to argue against that. Already we’re mobilizing hundreds of damn transports, and gathering up every healthy GI for a beach party that will make Normandy look like a rainy day in Miami.

The noise that came from the Japanese High Command was as militant as ever, defiantly anticipating that the Americans would make their next move against the mainland itself, which was exactly what was planned. The invasion was scheduled for November 1, a massive surge into the harbors and across the beaches at several points near key Japanese targets. The operation had been given a name,
Olympic
, and Truman had been briefed by the joint chiefs that the first phase of the invasion would involve more than a half-million American ground troops, with that many more to follow close behind. George Marshall and the other planners assumed the operation would carry on through the spring of 1946. Despite the most optimistic estimates, it was apparent that the war would last for another year, possibly longer. As for casualties … Truman pondered that,
all those estimates of American dead, some far more optimistic than others. Some of those boys think that if they feed me baby food, I’ll give my okay to their plans without a second thought. Sorry, but no general has to tell me what a ground war looks like, because I’ve seen one. I know exactly what will happen to our boys. If I thought the Japanese could be convinced they ought to quit, fine, show me how to convince them. Nothing, not a damn thing has worked so far. We’ve been busting up their bases and driving their people into hell for better than three years, and no one’s given me any sign that they’re any less willing to die for their damn emperor today than they were in 1942.

It was disturbing to him that some of the very scientists who developed this extraordinary weapon were now hedging their bets by insisting it not actually be used on a target, but only as a demonstration, a show of force that could not be ignored. That’s pure bull, he thought. Every report says their people are more enthusiastic about fighting now than ever. We won’t be fighting just their army, we’ll be fighting every damn Jap citizen. Call it what you will, their
Home Guard
, or militia. It means that sooner or later every GI will stand face-to-face with some
mama-san
holding a musket, or a pitchfork, and they won’t just step aside. What will that do to our boys, faced with civilians who are as dangerous as the soldiers? How many more cities will General LeMay have to incinerate before he eliminates that threat? Hell, we’d do the same thing if the Japs landed a fleet of invasion ships on the California coast. American civilians would put up a hell of a fight if they were defending our homes in San Francisco or Los Angeles. Put anybody’s back to their own wall and they’ll turn up the volume. So, sure, if there’s a chance to end this sooner … there’s no argument that trumps that. We sure as hell don’t need pussyfooting about this, not after so much has gone into it, and by damn, every one of those scientists and every damn general knows this decision is mine, and mine alone, and
that
order left my office a month ago. Right now it doesn’t much matter which city it’ll be … if this son of a bitch works, we’ll hit those people hard enough to make even the emperor take a little pause.

Truman began to pace now, caught a glimpse of the guard in the shadows, moving with him. He stopped, hands clasped behind his back, turned to the shadows.

“Come out here. You’re giving me the jitters.”

The man emerged, two more to one side.

“Sir. Sorry, but you know our orders.”

“No problem there, boys. But you can knock off the cloak-and-dagger stuff.” He paused. “You know what I’ve done?”

The man seemed puzzled by the question, searched past Truman toward the railing.

“Not here, you … sorry. You know the kinds of decisions I’ve gotta deal with? Every damn day?”

“Yes, sir. Difficult decisions, sir.”

“You have no idea, son. But there’s one I’ve made that wasn’t difficult at all. It has to be done.”

“Yes … sir.”

Truman felt a dangerous need to talk about it, a simple conversation, letting off some of the pressure. But his brain held him back, and he looked back out toward the moon, the low swells, heard the hum of the engines beneath his feet. Those damn scientists will keep chewing on this, he thought. But the decision has been made, and it might be the only time in this job when I’m completely sure I’m right. Just tell me that the son of a bitch works.

B
ABELSBERG, NEAR
P
OTSDAM
,
S
OUTHWEST OF
B
ERLIN
, G
ERMANY
J
ULY
16, 1945

No matter what other goals could be met by a face-to-face meeting with both Churchill and Stalin, for the Americans the primary goal was to secure Soviet cooperation in the redevelopment of Europe. It was hoped, of course, that Stalin would allow those countries he now occupied to accept Western influence along with Western aid. But there was one other critical matter that Truman intended to put before Stalin. The Soviets had yet to declare war on Japan, for complicated reasons of their own that made almost no practical sense to anyone in the West. Truman intended to change Stalin’s mind, and hoped, in the spirit of
Allies
, that the Soviets would understand that if the war was to drag on for another year or more, it was essential that the Soviets do their part. The carrot Truman offered was one he knew would matter significantly to the Soviets, one way to smooth over a major sore point for the Russians since their embarrassing defeat by the Japanese in the Russo-Japanese War, which ended in 1905. Russia had lost territory, islands north of the Japanese mainland, which no doubt Stalin wanted back. But if Americans were going to carry the load in any invasion of Japan, Truman was adamant that the Russians would have to make
some significant contribution before they received any kind of reparations of their own. He went to Potsdam knowing that Stalin could not really be forced into backing away from anyplace he now controlled in Europe. But at least the Americans and the British might have something to offer that would soften the Soviet demeanor.

S
talin had not yet arrived at the conference, and Truman had received a carefully worded intelligence report that the Soviet leader might have suffered a mild heart attack. The news had inspired a cascade of feelings, some of them distinctly unsympathetic, but very quickly after Truman’s arrival, Soviet officials had come to call, assuring him that Stalin would arrive the following day. No one mentioned a heart attack.

The house Truman occupied was called the Little White House, a diplomatic nicety from the Soviets that mattered little to anyone, not the least because the house was yellow. But Truman’s entourage was busy in every available space, spread out in other houses down the street. The officials who had accompanied Truman included Secretary of State James Byrnes and Truman’s press secretary, Charles Ross. Military men were there as well, most prominently his chief of staff, Admiral William Leahy, who for a while had held the same position under Roosevelt. Leahy was the one loud voice close to Truman who objected completely to the construction and use of the atomic bomb, an unexpected voice against using a weapon of such magnitude. Truman respected Leahy, as had Roosevelt, but Leahy’s viewpoint was distinctly in the minority, and the admiral seemed to accept that with a grudging acknowledgment, though he never failed to be a bug in Truman’s ear about the fatefulness of the decision. I sure as hell don’t need that right now, he thought.

Truman held the note in his hand, glanced at it one more time. For the moment all the important matters that the conference was to address seemed utterly trivial. He knew Churchill was housed about two blocks away, wondered about making another visit, this one unofficial, just to … talk. He studied the note again, thought, Churchill will know of this soon enough. This isn’t about
gossip
, after all. Hey, Winny, look what we did!

He sat, but couldn’t stay still, rose again, went to the window. Babelsberg had been a German resort town, thick woods, something of an artists’colony. But all that had been erased, the three-story house where he stood just one more piece of the Soviet occupation. The house faced a lake, and
he stared at that now, imagined Germans swimming, a holiday, full of joy and whatever passed for carefree to Germans. But his heart was racing, and his eyes rose past the water, staring into blank sky, any thoughts of carefree far removed. He tossed the paper on the table, realized, right now, I have to just … shut up. But by damn, this is a day we will remember. Maybe the whole world. The paper seemed to float slightly, pushed by a gentle breeze from some open window beyond the door. He moved quickly, picked it up, folded it, stuck it in his pocket. He couldn’t help the shivers, the strange excitement, knew that Leahy’s doubts were about to be realized with as much gravity as the enthusiasm of the men who had pushed so very hard for the creation of the massive weapon.

The note had come to him in a specially coded message from the secretary of war, Henry Stimson. The wording had been cryptic and vague, lest any Soviet agent might examine it, but the code had been prearranged, and Truman knew exactly what Stimson was saying. It had happened at 5:30
A.M
., in the bleak desert near Alamogordo. Under the gaze of the men who had created it, watched by military men and carefully chosen newspaper reporters, the first atomic bomb had been exploded. It had worked.

The man who could rightfully be called the Father of the Bomb, Dr. Robert Oppenheimer, had observed the extraordinary flash with one thought rolling through his mind, the words from the ancient text of the Hindu people, the Bhagavad Gita.

I am become death, the destroyer of worlds
.

H
EADQUARTERS
, 509
TH
C
OMPOSITE
G
ROUP
, T
INIAN
J
ULY
18, 1945

T
he B-29 was warming up, the shimmy from the four massive engines shaking him down to his toenails. He checked the gauges, knew that Lewis, beside him, was doing the same. On the panel in front of him the instruments sprang to life, needles pointing where they should, temperatures and pressures rising. Behind him, he knew that Blanchard was watching every move both men made, making mental notes, or even paper ones, jotting down anything Tibbets and his co-pilot were doing wrong. Tibbets tried to ignore the man’s presence, thought,
asshole
.

He pushed the throttle forward, the plane rolling toward the taxiway, the last stretch of pavement before the runway. The plane rumbled, shaking still, the roar of the engines growing louder, and Tibbets pressed the transmission button on the radio mike, said, “Dimples Eight Two to North Tinian Tower. Ready for takeoff on Runway Able.”

The response was immediate, the voice crackling in his ear.

“Roger, Dimples Eight Two. Cleared for takeoff, Runway Able.”

He didn’t hesitate, jammed the throttles forward, the plane responding after a slight hint of delay, lagging just behind the immediacy of the command from Tibbets’s hand. But the speed increased quickly, the plane
bouncing, a slight swerve that Tibbets corrected. The B-29 continued to gain speed, the bounces more undulating now, no glance at Lewis. For now there was nothing for the co-pilot to do but watch, as he was, staring straight ahead toward the far end of the field, 8,500 feet away. He waited for it, felt it now, the nose rising slightly, the plane seeming to pause, gathering air beneath the massive wings, then smoothness, the wheels clear of the runway, the plane rising, pulling his stomach down, the sensation so familiar. He shifted his hands on the throttles, pulled one backward, heard the roar of the engines drop by a quarter, one engine shutting down, the prop feathering. He spoke into the intercom now.

“Engineer, confirm engine number one is shut down. Then feather engine number two.”

The engineer, Duzenbury, replied, “Yes, sir. Confirmed. Number one feathered. Shutting down number two.”

Tibbets smiled, would not look back at Blanchard, knew the man would be puzzled, possibly a full-blown panic. Just handle it, you jackass. I’ve got no time for chitchat, not right now. He struggled slightly with the plane’s controls, compensated for the sudden loss of half the plane’s power. To one side the props on the two idle engines had slowed considerably, propelled only by the wind speed of the plane, the B-29 held aloft now by only two of its engines. It had been Tibbets’s plan, and his flight engineer had been prepared for the order, the entire crew knowing that their
special guest
was being given a demonstration of what the B-29 was capable of, and more important, what her pilots could do about it.

He looked to the altimeter, the plane rising past a thousand feet, then eleven hundred, gaining altitude far more slowly with half power. Suddenly Tibbets banked the plane hard, the silent engines now downhill, one wing pointing toward the blue ocean, and he said into the intercom, “Nice view, Colonel? Tinian’s the hottest airfield in the Pacific. More B-29s fly out of here than anywhere in General LeMay’s command. It’s not the prettiest place, but we’re making do.”

He looked over to his co-pilot, saw Lewis glancing back toward Blanchard, a smile, no response from the guest behind him. Tibbets returned Lewis’s smile, his eyes moving to the gauges again, keeping the plane in a steep bank. There was little drop in altitude, but he knew that wouldn’t last, the bank too steep, the flight characteristics of the B-29 only allowing for so much lift before the plane simply fell out of the sky. The voice came now, high and tight, a slight stutter, Blanchard.

“Okay, Colonel. I’m satisfied. The engines are performing well. Can we complete the mission?”

Tibbets turned to Lewis, winked, said, “Certainly, Colonel. I thought I might shut them all down, show you our glide characteristics, but that can be a risky maneuver, especially at low altitude.”