Alternate Gerrolds (7 page)

THE GUNNERS, TAYLOR AND JOHNSON, stood apart by themselves, whispering about something. I wondered if they were going to take their traditional good-luck piss under the tail of the plane before take-off. Would they even dare with all the guards looking on and all the brass who were supposed to be here? The rest of us stood around under the plane like we always did, smoking, worrying and pretending not to care.

There were twenty armed marines spaced in a circle around the plane, so most of us in the crew stayed close to the boarding hatch and kept our eyes averted from their weapons. We weren’t sure we appreciated the honor. Were the guards there to keep everyone else out—or us in?

We looked from one to the other and traded lights off each other’s cigarettes. We talked about whisky, poker, women we had known, chocolate, beer, cigarettes, everything but what really counted. Our terror.

Meanwhile, the fog kept rolling in. It was so thick that even the specially outfitted B-32 above us was only a darker shape in the gloom. The ground crew would be putting out flares all the length of the runway. If we went. I was beginning to wonder. The case under my arm, with all my weather charts and maps was getting heavy. I didn’t know if I wanted to go or not. I didn’t want my work to be wasted. On the other hand....

The sound of an engine was followed by the ruddy glare of headlights, and then three trucks came rolling up to the belly of the ship. The middle one had a flat bed, with a tarp-covered shape clamped securely into place. The other two trucks were hooded and carried more armed marines. They spilled out of their vehicles in silence and quickly formed a secure circle around the loading operation.

Ollie, one of the two ordinance officers, climbed out of the shotgun side of the second truck and began gently cooing instructions to the bomb crew; he was so polite it was eerie. The scuttlebutt was such that you could roll a Jeep over his foot and he wouldn’t even say ouch. He was a corpulent man, but he moved like a dancer—and he was scrupulous about the loading, watching over every move like a mother hen with a single egg. He demanded precision and delicacy. Before the war, he and his partner Stan had been piano movers. Stanley was the quiet one. Once we were in the air, they’d actually arm the device.

Bogey, the bombardier, chewed an unlit stogie and looked skeptical. He’d had that stogie since the war started and he wasn’t going to light it until he was sure he could get another one to replace it. He held a couple of steel ball-bearings in his right hand, which he rotated nervously while he waited. Despite our incessant drilling and practicing and studying, Bogey remained outspokenly skeptical. He was only going along for the ride, he said. After the war, he was going to reopen his gambling salon in Morocco. Uh-huh. Most of us didn’t believe he’d ever been farther east than the Brooklyn Bridge. But it was his finger on the button. He’d look through the Norden bombsight, he’d press the release when the moment came. Maybe his tough-guy attitude was his way of not letting himself think about it too much.

While we watched, the bomb crew lowered specially designed clamps from the plane and attached them to matching hooks on the bomb, then they locked each one carefully into place, with two men checking each clamp. The clamps wouldn’t be unlocked until just before release. They handed one set of keys to Lt. Bogart. The other set of keys would be given to Colonel Peck.

As soon as the last clamp was secured, they began the arduous and delicate process of hoisting the bomb up into the belly of the ship. The chains began to clank. The slack was taken up, there was a hesitation and then the vehicle eased itself and sighed as the weight was lifted
away. Simultaneously, the plane
groaned
. We could hear its back straining. That baby was
heavy
.

Slowly, slowly the bomb rose up, hanging precariously in the space between us. We watched its studied ascent with a mixture of curiosity and fear. We had all seen the test in Nevada. We were still dazed by the memory of that white-flashing roar of heat and wind. We were terrified of what it would do to a city. White-faced, Jaeckel had screamed to Bogey, “Holy smokes! What is that?” Bogey had answered grimly, “It’s the stuff that screams are made of.”

Even now, it was still difficult to believe that so much destructive power could be contained in this solid black cylinder. Someone had written in bold white chalk on the side, “Heil
this
!” But as it rose, I saw that someone else had carefully inscribed in bright yellow paint: “
Sh’ma Yisrael, Adonai Elohainu Adonai Ehod.
” Beside it was a list of names—the men who had actually designed and built the bomb. I’d heard there had been quite a fight about the prayer and the names; but apparently Dr. Karloff and Dr. Lorre had told General Tracy, “No prayer, no names—no bomb.” I couldn’t imagine “Spence the Fence” saying no to either one of those two grand old gentlemen, and I was glad he hadn’t.

But there were a lot of rumors floating around. We weren’t supposed to repeat them, but we did anyway. We’d heard that Dr. Lugosi was already designing a more powerful bomb. We’d heard that Dr. Karloff was having second thoughts, that he’d written to the president and asked him to demonstrate the bomb on an uninhabited island so the Axis nations could see its power before we actually used it on a city. Rumor had it that Secretary of War Capra had advised against that as “too humanitarian.” We needed to hurt the enemy
hard
—so hard that the war would come to a screeching halt.

President Cooper never said what he was thinking throughout the entire debate, but when the question was finally asked, he simply issued his characteristic “Yup” and that was the end of that. The prayer on the side of the bomb probably represented a compromise.

It bothered me. I understood—at least I thought I did—the urge behind it; but at the same time, I didn’t think a bomb, and certainly not
this
bomb, was the right place to paint a prayer of any kind. But then again, I wasn’t Jewish. I wondered how I’d feel about it if I were.

All of us were volunteers. At the beginning, we hadn’t known what we were volunteering for, only that it was dangerous and important.
Then they’d taken us out to Nevada and shown us. We were going to end the war. We were going to obliterate a city. We were going to kill a hundred thousand people in a brilliant bright flash of light.

We had dark goggles to protect our eyes. And radiation meters. Jaeckel, the new kid, would have the best view of all. He was the bellygunner. He’d been issued a 16mm Bolex loaded with special Eastmancolor film. He was supposed to photograph everything we saw. He was excited about the opportunity, even though it meant he had to wear lead-foil underwear.

And then, the bomb was secured and the trucks were rolling away. We still hadn’t seen Colonel Peck. Or Colonel Reagan, our co-pilot, either. And the fog wasn’t clearing up. Worse, it was getting thicker. My shirt collar was sticking damply to my neck. I checked my watch. So far, we were still on schedule, but time was tight. If we were going to get in the air at all this morning, it would have to be soon.

I was pretty sure that Colonel Peck was uneasy about the mission. I knew him too well, all his mannerisms. He’d been brooding about this ever since Nevada. And the closer we got to take-off, the more irritable he became. He kept ordering me to check the maps, over and over, plotting alternate courses, fuel consumption figures, alternate targets, everything. His tension was infectious. None of us were happy.

And now this. A morning so gloomy it felt like twilight. Could we even get off the ground?

We stood around underneath the plane, an uncomfortable clump of men in baggy flight-suits, and listened to the awful stillness of the fog. Far away sounds were simply swallowed up. Nearby sounds were amplified. Lieutenant Hope—I was suddenly struck by the irony of his name—wouldn’t shut up. Even when I moved away to the other side of the bird, I could still hear his inane little jokes. “This is Bob ‘fogged-in’ Hope calling anybody. Is anybody out there? Say, did you guys hear the one about the leprechaun and the penguin?” There were groans and a
thump
as somebody hit him with a parachute. “Don’t worry about me, fellas,” he said, climbing back to his feet. “I’m goin’ home after this. I’m not spending
my
Christmas with the army.”

A chorus of hoots and catcalls greeted this response. I turned away in annoyance and saw the headlights coming out of the fog. I stubbed out my cigarette and called out, “Ten-
hut!”
The crew snapped to attention where they stood.

Generals Gable and Donleavy climbed out of the Jeep. Colonel Peck and Colonel Reagan climbed out after them, followed by the new sky-pilot. “At ease,” said General Donleavy; he looked unhappy. General Gable stepped forward and spoke gruffly. “I just wanted to come out here myself and ... wish you godspeed. I know some of you have been having second thoughts about this. I don’t blame you. I would too. I’ve been having second thoughts about this since the day I was first briefed.

“But I want you to know that despite all my fears and concerns, that I fully support this operation. In fact,
I envy you.
You men are going to save a lot of lives today. If this device works as well as we hope, then millions of young men—on both sides of this terrible war—will not have to meet on the battlefield. You have it in your power today to save millions of lives, both civilian and military, and spare the world years of suffering and destruction. Just keep that thought in mind and you’ll do fine.” He glanced over at Captain Fonda. “If any of you want to see the chaplain before you take off ....”

At first, most of us were too embarrassed, but then Stan and Ollie stepped over to Captain Fonda and bowed their heads. And then Bogey. And Colonel Peck. I followed. And the others came behind me. All except Taylor and Johnson, the skeptics. They strode down to the tail end of the plane and ... upheld their military traditions. General Gable glanced over, decided not to say anything, and deliberately turned his back.

Captain Fonda was slim and gentle, almost too gentle for a war. He had a long, lanky way of speaking; the words came softly out of him like honey poured from ajar. He was a different kind of sky-pilot. He didn’t talk about God so much as he talked about the spirit of God inside each and every one of us. “You know what’s right in the world,” he said. “Stand for it. And others will stand with you.” It made me feel good to listen to him.

Afterward, I noticed, Jaeckel, the new kid, hung behind and knelt to confess. Captain Fonda made the sign of the cross over him, then helped him back to his feet with a friendly clap on the shoulder. That was what I liked about him; he knew how to be just an ordinary guy.

Colonel Peck collected his keys from Ollie, then the two of them, the pilot and the copilot, walked slowly around the plane, shining flashlights up into the wheel housings and looking for oil leaks under the
engines. When they finished, they came back, saluted the generals and shook their hands; then they ordered the rest of us up into the bomber. From here on out, the responsibility for delivering the device was all ours, nobody else’s.

The solemnity of the moment left us all subdued. That plus the unusual circumstances of two generals and a chaplain coming all the way out to the end of the field for our departure. There was none of the usual wiseass chatter as we climbed into our seats, hooked up our oxygen and buckled our harnesses. We went through our checklists without the usual banter. Even Hope kept his mouth shut for a change. Finally, Colonel Peck started the engines and they clattered explosively to life. They sputtered and smoked and then abruptly caught with a bang. The bird began to vibrate like a 1932 Ford on a rutted road. Colonel Reagan fussed with the fuel mixture to compensate for all the water vapor in the air.

We rolled out onto the end of the runway and turned into the wind. Colonel Peck closed his eyes for a moment—a silent prayer?—then picked up his microphone and asked the tower for permission to take off. The tower’s reply was crisp. “Go with God.” It would be our last communication. From here on out, strict radio silence would be observed.

Colonel Peck ran the engines up, louder and louder until the plane was howling like a banshee. He turned in his seat to look at the left wing; Reagan turned to look at the right. Satisfied, they both turned back. Colonel Peck put his hands firmly on the wheel, bit his lip and let the plane leap forward. I glanced out the front windshield, but all I saw was a gray wall of haze. He had to be steering by the line of flares along the sides of the runway. I glanced out the side window and tried to gauge our speed by the passing red pinpoints. Faster and faster—they leapt out of the gloom ahead of us and vanished into the gloom behind. Colonel Reagan began calling out airspeed numbers.

At first I didn’t think we were going to make it into the air. The bird was heavy and the air was thick and wet. The engines weren’t happy. The bird was bouncing and buffeting. Colonel Peck must have been having a hell of a time keeping us on the concrete. And the end of the runway had to be getting awfully close ... but at the last moment, the colonel gunned it, grabbed hold of the sky and pulled us up over the trees—so close, I could feel the branches scraping our belly.