The right wing started to disintegrate as the starboard outer engine caught the ground and was ripped off, turning the B-29 more to the right.
By a miracle, the left wingtip swept over the top of a number of huts which, although unoccupied at the time, would have added to the risks for ‘Miss Merlene’s’ crew.
Through the glasshouse, Loveless observed the approaching fuel bowser and fuelling station, the pair sat inevitably in the area through which the Superfortress would pass.
He gritted his teeth, and a slow moan escaped his mouth as the aircraft took the shortest possible route towards…
…towards…
With a lurch, Dimples-nine-eight came to a halt less than four feet from the bowser, the nose stove in but not breached, the soft earth surrounding it like a rolled comfort blanket.
“Crew out! Crew out!”
Pilots and flight engineers switched off everything and undid their harnesses, as the others rightly broke world records in their haste to get outside of the death trap, the smell of aviation spirit heavy in the air already.
Crail stood back as Fletcher dragged the unconscious Jones to the hatch and passed him out to the waiting Nelleson and Loveless.
Jeppson, bleeding heavily from a head wound, stumbled past, disorientated by the crash-landing and the blood in his eyes. Crail grabbed him and guided him to safety, the heavy fuel fumes already causing his brain to ache.
He dropped to the ground, ignoring the momentary pain, and urged the men to move away from ‘Miss Merlene’.
Faithful to the last, the aircraft did not catch fire, and soon the crew were overwhelmed with rescuers of all shapes and sizes.
Ambulances opened their doors and Crail counted the boys in one by one, sharing hugs and handshakes with each and every man.
When all but he and Nelleson were loaded up, Crail saw what had happened to his aircraft, appreciating for the first time how lucky they had all been.
But there was something else that suddenly exercised him, and he ran as best as his sprained ankle allowed, closely followed by his co-pilot, moving towards the gaping hole that used to have a tail attached.
“Oh my lord!”
Nelleson shared the sentiment, the absence of either man quite apparent.
Both of them turned to look back down the runway, barely acknowledging the low run of ‘Necessary Evil’, a gentle wing waggle showing their relief at the incredible landing.
The tail section lay virtually upright, no more than a degree or two out of the vertical.
Three vehicles were in position, and both men could see rescuers moving slowly, unhurried, and lacking in urgency.
A USMC jeep screeched to a halt.
“You two’s wanna see the rest of your plane?”
No second invitation was needed, and the pilots hopped aboard as the jeep sped off towards the other bit of ‘Miss Merlene’.
The reason for the lack of urgency was soon apparent.
Blockridge was sat smoking a huge cigar, courtesy of a US infantry officer who, despite still being out of breath from his ‘olympic’ run to assist, had found time to produce a Cuban to celebrate the incredible survival of the two airmen.
A navy corpsman was working on Blockridge’s broken left arm, fussing around and gently scolding whenever the Staff Sergeant moved even slightly.
Hanebury, a non-smoker, was coughing his way through his first Lucky Strike, still mentally examining his body for missing pieces and surprisingly coming up with negative results.
Both men were surrounded by rescuers who wanted nothing more than to shake their hand, touch their uniforms, or do anything to acquire a modicum of the luck that had preserved them.
The USMC jeep came to a halt, discharging Crail and Nelleson, who immediately set about burrowing through the crowd.
The two NCOs stood and gave formal salutes, which were returned by the two pilots. All observed by a mixture of Army, Navy, and Marine personnel who now had absolute confirmation that all airmen were completely gaga.
An Army Air Force Colonel arrived and ordered the four survivors into an ambulance, which immediately sped off to the sick bay, where the crew of ‘Miss Merlene’ were reunited.
USAAF senior officers had planned to present Tibbets with a DSC the moment he landed. That went out the window the second that Enola Gay fell out of line.
So there was no immediate presentation made to the crew of the first Atomic Bomb mission, but that issue was addressed when General MacArthur himself flew in to the repaired Futenma Air strip two days later.
On his orders, ‘Miss Merlene’ had not been bulldozed into the scrap heap, but Seabees and Air Force personnel had recovered her carefully, preserving most of her remaining structure and integrity.
Assessments were still being made as to what would be done with the historic machine.
Her crew stood in a rough line within the medical facility as Macarthur waxed lyrical about their success and how the end of the Japanese war had come closer with their efforts.
For JP Crail, Richard Loveless, George Nelleson, Ralph Burnett and Art Hanebury, there were well deserved DSCs. For everyone else, including the dead Mario Piccolo and the missing Al Cannington, there were Silver Stars.
Centerboard One had lost two aircraft, with twelve personnel killed or missing.
In Japan, the devastated Kokura had suffered over sixty thousand dead.
The first information had arrived with Molotov, through diplomatic channels.
Subsequently, information arrived on the desks of Marshall Beria and Colonel General Kuznetsov, as NKVD and GRU sources became aware of the historic events in Japan.
The GKO had been informed, and all but the ill Bulganin were present to hear Molotov recite the message he had received from the Soviet Embassy in Tokyo.
Beria held four messages. One in support of Molotov’s, and two from another continent, their content almost taunting him.
And one other.
He read out the communication from the NKVD rezident in Japan, which did little more than confirm everything that Molotov had said.
Stalin waited for the three other messages, already apprised of most of their content during a brief telephone conversation an hour previously.
Beria continued.
“These two messages, Comrades, are from agents placed within the Amerikanski atomic programme. They warn of a likely immediate use, but are unable to speculate on the target. They also speak of a higher capability than previous suspected.”
“Meaning what exactly, Comrade Marshal?”
“Meaning, Comrade Molotov, that they have more devices than we expected, and are ready to use them.”
Beria had decided to keep part of the message from Agents Alkonost and Gamayun secret for now, for fear of making himself look inept.
The communication from the Imperial High Command was for him and Stalin alone.
For once, Stalin was calm and collected in his response, offering direction to the assembly.
“Comrades, we must consider this attack and new information carefully, and not make hasty judgements.”
Stalin looked at the old clock and made a swift calculation.
“We will reconvene at seven. Use the time wisely, Comrades. Polkovnik General Kuznetsov, ensure that our Japanese allies are made aware of everything we now know.”
The GRU commander nodded his understanding.
“We will deal with our intelligence failures another time.”
The flatly delivered statement more than successfully carried the intended threat.
“Until seven then, Comrades.”
The meeting broke up.
“Comrade Beria, a moment please.”
The door closed before Stalin spoke again.
“Now, Lavrentiy, what else do you have to tell me?”