Tibbets admitted that only an exceptional flier could have flown the trip Lewis did: it had required icy nerves and courage to handle the crippled transport in such atrocious conditions.
He decided not to court-martial Lewis, but “any past favors I owed him were repaid. He had used my name to get that plane. From now on, I was going to treat him like a flunky; he would do exactly what I wanted, when I wanted—or God help him.”
This meant that Lewis would draw many of the disagreeable assignments: early-morning flights, night duties, and weekend work. Lewis did not mind. He thought it “a tribute. Paul was giving me all the stuff that nobody else would tackle.”
Having made his decision about Lewis, Tibbets now resolved another matter that could not be further delayed: which men he would choose to send to Cuba for “special training.”
For days, rumors about the long-awaited trip had prevailed. In subzero Wendover, the vision of the Caribbean was almost unbearable. Plane commanders spent hours hanging around headquarters trying to pick up a whisper; gamblers like Eatherly had offered to make book on the departure date, but there were no takers; even overseas veterans like Classen began to reminisce about tropical life. Amid all the speculation, they did discover one fact: in two days’ time, Tibbets would be promoted to full colonel. But that did not make their commander more forthcoming.
Rumors reached fever pitch when the fliers learned that Tibbets was spending this morning studying the flying reports on all fifteen bomber crews. In Cuba, those chosen would carry out long-distance navigational training exercises over water at night, and continue their high-level bombing practice.
Tibbets summoned the group’s mess officer, Lieutenant Charles Perry. His orders from Tibbets were clear: arrange a round-the-clock chow line serving the best food in Cuba.
Beser was told he was going. He saw one drawback to the trip: his bodyguard would be traveling with him. He began to lay plans to shake off the man in Havana.
Finally, ten plane commanders were informed they would be flying out later in the day. The Cuba-bound echelon was assembled for a pep talk from Tibbets. “The same rules apply in Havana as here. Don’t ask questions. Don’t answer questions. Do your job. The final selection for a historic mission could be made from you men.”
Before leaving, Eatherly was consulted on the legends about hot-blooded Latin ladies. He said they were all true. The flight surgeon was reported to have packed extra cartons of condoms; the studs in the group boasted they would use them up on their very first night in Havana.
At noon on January 6, Eatherly took off. Nine other B-29s followed him into the air on the long journey south. Late in the afternoon, they landed at Batista Field, twelve miles from Havana.
Tibbets flew down in a transport, bringing Ferebee, van Kirk, and a small headquarters staff. Another transport brought a detachment of MPs, Uanna, and his agents.
All outsiders were barred from the 509th’s compound, but many got close enough to peer inquisitively at the planes. The crews reveled in the curiosity they attracted. Eatherly solemnly told a bystander that the 509th was there to protect the island against an expected coup by “unfriendly powers” planning to seize the lucrative gambling concessions. Eatherly was in high spirits. For most of the flight, he had played cards with some of his crew and had won several hundred dollars.
The fliers and ground crew all tried hard to impress the other American servicemen on the base that they were no ordinary outfit. They were coming to think of themselves as special, a feeling that Tibbets had encouraged; the foundation was being laid of the spirit which was to sustain them in the trying time ahead.
Tibbets astonished everybody by refusing even a cup of coffee until every man had been assigned quarters and been fed by Perry’s cooks. Only then did Tibbets accept a meal tray.
He had little appetite. He had learned this evening that General Curtis LeMay was on his way to Guam.
A year earlier, Tibbets, Lewis, and Sweeney had taken turns teaching LeMay how to pilot a B-29. LeMay was a difficult pupil, a flying general who found it hard to accept that because an aircraft was 99 feet long, 29 feet 9 inches high, with a wingspan of 101 feet, it was different from any other bomber he had flown. But he finally learned to listen, respect, and obey his instructors. At the end of the course, LeMay had predicted, “We can win the war with this plane.”
Now he was going to Guam intending to do just that. If LeMay succeeded, Tibbets knew he would not be needed to drop an atomic bomb.
21
General Curtis LeMay spent his first three days on Guam trying to find the answer to a paradox in his new charge, the Twenty-first Bomber Command of the Twentieth Air Force.
Why was the B-29—the world’s most superior bomber, available for the first time in sufficient numbers to strike terror into the enemy—not realizing its potential?
Here in the Marianas everybody had a different answer. The training manuals said the B-29s could operate at 38,000 feet and cruise at 350 miles an hour for 3,500 miles.
The manuals were wrong.
In the Pacific, the bombers showed signs of severe strain in prolonged flights at over thirty thousand feet. Bombers frequently failed to complete missions because of mechanical difficulties.
Then there was the weather. It was impossible for the air force meteorologists to provide accurate forecasts for the thirteen hundred miles of sky between the Marianas and Japan. Fierce jet streams crisscrossed the void, buffeting the bombers and using up their precious fuel. Over Japan, the targets might be visible one minute, then obscured the next as high winds drove in heavy clouds. Bombs dropped from thirty thousand feet were blown far from their aiming points, and results using even the latest radar equipment were proving unsatisfactory. Eleven targets selected for bombing in January remained almost undamaged. Intelligence monitoring of Japan Radio showed that morale was high and war work so far virtually unimpaired by the air attacks.
LeMay accepted the complaints about the weather, engine strain, and other malfunctions. But solving them would not answer the basic problem. The tactics being used were the ones he had developed in Europe to pierce the German defenses. Later his high-flying methods were used by B-29s operating out of China, raiding Japan from airfields around Chengtu.
China had been a costly and hazardous venture, but LeMay had made contact with a fanatical guerrilla leader. In return for medical supplies and materials, LeMay had persuaded him to radio regular weather forecasts from that area of northern China where the partisans were fighting the Japanese. The reports were invaluable for LeMay’s pilots. They often drank a toast to this man.
His name was Mao Tse-tung.
LeMay had already contacted Mao from the Marianas and arranged for him to radio weather reports to Guam. The man who would soon become the leader of one of the most powerful nations on earth was, on this late January day, proud and willing to act as a barometer for the American general he persisted in calling “Culltse Lee May.”
But Mao’s weather reports were only a partial answer to LeMay’s problem with the B-29s, and the solution LeMay proposed was revolutionary. If it succeeded, he believed he could break Japan. If it failed, his career would be in ruins.
First, LeMay intended to strip his B-29s of their arsenal of machine guns and cannons. Then he proposed to strike in darkness—having his bombers over their targets between midnight and 4:00 A.M. If necessary, they would bomb by radar, in preparation for which LeMay decided to initiate a series of intensive retraining courses. These would ensure that even the least apt radar operator was brought up to the standard he required.