Crew of Enola Gay Tell Their Story

The Last Voices of the Atomic Dawn

Eighty years after the attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the world stands at a new nuclear precipice. With the final crew members gone, their testimonies are all that remain of the days that unleashed atomic fire and forever altered the course of human history. The lessons from that period have never been more critical.

A Twilight of Living History

This summer marks the eightieth anniversary of the atomic bombings that reverberated across the globe. All the men who flew the B-29 bombers over Hiroshima and Nagasaki have now passed away. Their firsthand accounts, captured in interviews decades ago, offer a chilling perspective on the events of August 1945. As the number of hibakusha—the Japanese survivors of the attacks—also dwindles, history is losing its direct witnesses. We are entering an era where these world-changing events exist only in records and memory, a fact made more disturbing by rising global tensions. The spectre of nuclear conflict, once a feature of the Cold War, has returned with explicit threats from world leaders and fears over new nations acquiring atomic capabilities. The stories of the men who executed the world's only nuclear attacks serve as a vital, stark reminder of the stakes.

The Secretive 509th

In the summer of 1945, the war in the Pacific raged on. On the island of Tinian, situated 1,500 miles to the south of Japan, the world’s largest bomber base operated relentlessly. Yet, one unit remained separate. The 509th Composite Group operated from a covert area, its activities shrouded from the rest of the base. Even its own crews, who had trained for close to twelve months, were unaware of their ultimate purpose. They repeatedly practised dropping inert bombs and flying difficult, steep turns in the Utah desert and subsequently on Tinian. Their commander, a battle-tested pilot named Paul Tibbets, enforced absolute secrecy. Any crewman who asked too many questions risked a swift transfer to a desolate Arctic post. The message was clear: you understood the necessity of silence. Security was so tight that even the installation's commander was nearly shot by a guard for approaching one of their planes.

A Fateful Briefing

On 4 August 1945, the secrecy began to lift. Charles “Don” Albury, a 24-year-old B-29 pilot, joined his fellow crewmen in a briefing hut. Tibbets informed his men they were about to annihilate a city in Japan with one device. This weapon, he explained, possessed the destructive power of 2,000 B-29 bombers combined. The targets were listed in order: Hiroshima, Kokura, or Nagasaki. Atmospheric conditions would be the final arbiter. Washington’s orders were explicit: the drop must be visual. A quiet naval captain, William “Deak” Parsons, then described the impending explosion as the most brilliant light since creation, warning the men to wear protective goggles. He did not mention the weapon's radioactive properties; the term "atomic bomb" was never used. Tibbets offered a final chance for anyone to back out. No one spoke. For Albury and others, this mission represented a chance to end the war and finally go home.

The Political Ultimatum

Just nine days prior, on 26 July 1945, Allied leaders had issued a stark warning to Japan. The Potsdam Declaration, signed by U.S. President Harry S. Truman, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, and Chinese President Chiang Kai-shek, demanded the unconditional surrender of all Japanese armed forces. It warned that the alternative was "prompt and utter destruction". The document did not specify the nature of this destruction, leaving the threat ominously vague. Japan’s leaders did not accept the terms, setting the stage for the military's next move. The globe was on the precipice of a new, terrifying form of warfare, one that had been secretly developed in the deserts of New Mexico and was now ready for deployment. The political decision was made; the operational details were now in the hands of the 509th.

The Scientists' Gambit

The weapon itself was a marvel of scientific ingenuity and immense risk. J. Robert Oppenheimer, the brilliant director of the Los Alamos Laboratory, was the lead scientist of the atomic bomb project. He had gathered the world’s sharpest minds to turn theoretical physics into a functional weapon. One of these men, an expert in electronics aged 23, was Morris Jeppson, who worked on the bomb's fusing system. Another was Harold Agnew, a physicist of 24 who had seen the first managed atomic fission process in Chicago. Both men understood the immense danger. Agnew later stated the device was extremely hazardous, particularly during takeoff, as B-29s were known to fail on liftoff when heavily overloaded. The consequences of such an accident with a live atomic device were unthinkable. This fear prompted a last-minute decision: the bomb would be armed mid-flight.

Preparing the 'Enola Gay'

As midnight approached on 5 August, the B-29 designated for the mission was illuminated by powerful lights. To the crew's surprise, the tarmac resembled a major film opening, with photographers and reporters everywhere. The plane now sported a name: Enola Gay, for pilot Paul Tibbets's mother. This public spectacle was intentional. A secret committee had emphasized the importance of a spectacular initial deployment to achieve the most significant mental impact on Japanese leadership. The navigator, Theodore "Dutch" Van Kirk, found the scene unsettling, like a final meal before execution. At 2:45 a.m., the Enola Gay, accompanied by two other B-29s—The Great Artiste carrying scientific instruments and Necessary Evil for photography—took off into the moonless sky. Tibbets, ever calm, simply ignited his tobacco pipe.

Arming 'Little Boy'

Fifty miles from Tinian, Deak Parsons and Morris Jeppson made their way into the Enola Gay's bomb bay. Their task was to begin the delicate process of activating the uranium weapon known as "Little Boy." Jeppson held a torch as Parsons worked with a tool. A particularly nerve-wracking step involved inserting sacks of cordite propellant into the weapon's rear opening. The checklist was completed in about fifteen minutes, but a last action was required to fully activate the weapon. Later in the flight, Jeppson re-entered the aircraft's weapons compartment alone. He replaced three green safety components with red arming ones. Giving the final one a firm twist, he became the last human to touch the weapon before its deployment. The co-pilot, Bob Lewis, scribbled in his journal that the device was now active.

The Perfect Target

As dawn broke, the three aircraft rendezvoused over the island of Iwo Jima. Van Kirk, the navigator, felt immense pressure not to make a mistake, and his navigation proved perfect. An hour from Japan, a coded radio message from a reconnaissance plane ahead confirmed clear skies above the main objective. Tibbets announced to the crew, "It's Hiroshima." The city, housing about 350,000 people, had been deliberately spared from conventional bombing. It was preserved as a pristine target to demonstrate the bomb’s full power. Its geography, surrounded on three sides by hills, would amplify the blast. As the Enola Gay approached, a distinctive T-shaped bridge—the Aioi Bridge—came into view, serving as the ideal target location. The city below was bright and clear, bathed in the morning sun.

Forty-Three Seconds

Bombardier Tom Ferebee locked his sights on the bridge. A warning signal activated by Ferebee sounded fifteen seconds prior to release. Aboard The Great Artiste, flying alongside, Harold Agnew prepared to release his blast-measuring instruments. Pilot Don Albury gazed down at the urban center. Then the tone stopped. The "Little Boy" device began its descent. Tibbets immediately threw the Enola Gay into a violent diving turn, engines at full power. Oppenheimer had warned the resulting pressure wave might destroy the plane. For 43 seconds, the crew counted, waiting. A genuine concern existed that the bomb could be a dud. Jeppson, counting too quickly, panicked for a moment. Then, an impossibly bright flash filled the sky. Even with welders' goggles, Van Kirk described it like a camera bulb igniting before his eyes.

Image Credit - KPBS

A City Erased

The tail gunner, George "Bob" Caron, screamed a warning as the pressure wave raced towards them. Two powerful jolts struck the aircraft. The men scrambled to the windows. The city that was bright with sun only moments ago was gone. In its place was a churning, boiling cauldron of black debris. A colossal cloud of smoke and dust began to rise, reaching 25,000 feet and still climbing. Albury, on The Great Artiste, watched in a state of shock, describing the cloud as having a full spectrum of hues—beautiful blues, greens, and salmon pinks. Agnew’s illicitly smuggled camera captured the only moving footage of the event, his hands shaking as he filmed. There was just nothing there. The city had vanished. Co-pilot Lewis wrote in his journal, wondering what they had accomplished.

A Hero's Welcome

The crews could still observe the characteristic cloud from a distance of 400 miles. As the Enola Gay returned to Tinian, hundreds of men were cheering. Van Kirk recalled seeing an unusually large number of high-ranking officers. Before Tibbets could even step fully from the plane, the Distinguished Service Cross was affixed to his uniform. For the men, there was a profound sense of relief. They believed the conflict had concluded. Jeppson, having drinks with companions later, told them he believed they had concluded the conflict. They thought he was joking. But the war did not end. Japan did not surrender. Three days later, the world’s second atomic mission would unfold—a mission plagued by errors from the start.

The Second Strike

The next target was Kokura, which contained a significant Japanese military depot. Nagasaki was the alternate. The mission was originally scheduled for 11 August, but an approaching typhoon forced them to move it forward to the ninth. The bomb for this mission, "Fat Man," was a more complex plutonium-implosion device. Navy Commander Frederick "Dick" Ashworth, a seasoned aviator and Manhattan Project veteran, would act as the weaponeer. He was responsible for the bomb and had the authority to make critical decisions during the flight. Don Albury, who had seen the Hiroshima explosion from The Great Artiste, found himself co-piloting Bockscar, the B-29 assigned to carry the bomb, for this second mission. The atmosphere was tense. Albury simply wished to complete the task and go home.

A Mission of Errors

Problems began immediately. A broken fuel pump meant 600 gallons of fuel were unusable. The pilot, Major Charles Sweeney, decided to proceed anyway. Shortly after takeoff, an assistant, Philip Barnes, activated the weapon in the bay. As the plane flew into severe thunderstorms, a warning light on Ashworth’s control panel suddenly came on—the light that indicates the weapon is preparing to release. For a tense moment, Ashworth feared the storm’s lightning could trigger the device. Barnes coolly traced the error to a single incorrectly positioned switch, averting disaster. The flight pressed on, but more trouble lay ahead. The meeting with the camera aircraft did not happen, and the crew wasted over 40 minutes circling and burning precious fuel before proceeding alone. These crucial minutes would change history.

The Luck of Kokura

When Bockscar finally reached Kokura, the city was obscured. Dense smoke from the prior evening's raid on the adjacent city of Yahata blanketed the target. Orders were to bomb visually, so the crew made three separate passes over the city, each one failing to find a break in the haze. Anti-aircraft fire erupted from below. With fuel running critically low and tempers flaring, Ashworth and Sweeney argued over their next move. They needed to release the weapon. Finally, they made the decision to divert to their secondary target. By a complete accident of weather and timing, Kokura was spared. The city's salvation from atomic fire became so famous in Japan that it coined a phrase: "Kokura's luck," used to describe narrowly avoiding a disaster without ever knowing the danger.

Nagasaki's Fate

When they arrived over Nagasaki, it too was obscured by clouds. With almost no fuel left, their options were dire: ditch the plane and its atomic payload in the ocean or disobey explicit instructions and attempt a radar-guided drop. As the final approach was started by Kermit Beahan, the bombardier, he unexpectedly saw a stadium he recognized through a small gap in the clouds. It was enough. He yelled, "Bomb away." No one knew exactly where the bomb had detonated. In a bizarre coincidence, "Fat Man" exploded almost directly over the Mitsubishi Arms Works, the facility that had produced torpedoes for the Pearl Harbor assault. The blast instantly killed nearly 40,000 people. Many more would later succumb to their injuries and the effects of radiation.

A Silent Return

For Don Albury, it was his second detonation of an atomic device within three days. He once again saw the vibrant, terrible hues of the mushroom-shaped formation. His overwhelming feeling was relief that they had dropped the bomb safely. Bockscar limped to an emergency landing in Okinawa, its fuel tanks nearly drained. No cheering crowds or generals with medals were waiting. Their arrival was a complete surprise. Their violation of instructions to bomb visually was never formally investigated. The weapon had served its purpose. On August 15, six days after the Nagasaki bombing, facing the reality of two annihilated cities and a Soviet invasion of Manchuria, Japan surrendered. The Second World War was over.

A Justification in Granite

In the decades that followed, a fierce debate erupted over the necessity of the bombings. For the majority of the crew, the justification was clear and unwavering. Theodore Van Kirk stated he would repeat his actions in the same situation, certain it had spared countless American and Japanese lives by preventing a ground invasion. Paul Tibbets remained famously unrepentant, even re-enacting the bombing in a B-29 at a Texas airshow in 1976. Frederick Ashworth, who died in 2005, always maintained pride in what he saw as a significant action in the war. Harold Agnew, who went on to become the director of the Los Alamos laboratory, insisted the bombs were a necessary response to Pearl Harbor. This "traditionalist" view argues the attacks were the "least abhorrent choice" to end the war swiftly.

Cracks in the Resolve

However, not all were so resolute. Robert Shumard, a flight engineer on the Enola Gay, conceded that one does not boast about killing so many people. The plane's tail gunner, Bob Caron, admitted to some feelings of culpability after viewing pictures of burned children from Hiroshima. Morris Jeppson, the electronics officer, later suggested a demonstration of the weapon could have been achieved without destroying an urban center. He personally expressed his "sorrow" for Hiroshima’s "great tragedy." These flickers of doubt reveal the profound moral complexity of their actions, a weight that some carried more heavily than others. The official narrative of righteous necessity sometimes cracked under the pressure of personal conscience.

Image Credit - BBC

An Eerie Pilgrimage

Perhaps the most unsettling story came from an unexpected trip. Just weeks after the surrender, Paul Tibbets decided to fly some of his crew to Japan for a bizarre sightseeing tour. With the Hiroshima airfield damaged, they landed in Nagasaki instead. That journey also included Don Albury and Van Kirk. They arrived before almost any other American troops. Van Kirk recalled that their identities were unknown and described the experience as deeply unsettling. They traveled into the annihilated city. Van Kirk was amazed by the sheer scale of destruction from a single weapon, saying it was terrifying. Albury took pictures, noting the locals did not look happy. The memory that haunted him most was seeing a human shadow permanently etched onto a wall, the body itself vaporised by the intense heat.

A Hospital in Ruins

The tour continued to a hospital. There, Albury saw those who had perished and those close to death. Some victims were lying on the earth outdoors. Medical staff tended to the injured on the building's bottom levels. He said it was the sole location where he witnessed casualties. The experience left a deep mark. During an interview almost sixty years later, the memory caused him to stop speaking. "It was devastation," he said finally. His mind seemed to have returned to that ruined hospital in Nagasaki. Following a lengthy pause, as the interview concluded, he added very quietly, "Never again." This pained, personal postscript stands in stark contrast to the public, unwavering justifications offered by many of his comrades. It suggests a deeper, more troubled legacy.

The Legacy of the Hibakusha

While the crews wrestled with their memories, the survivors below began a life-long struggle. The hibakusha endured horrific injuries, radiation sickness, and social stigma. Yet, from their suffering arose a powerful movement for peace. They became the world’s most potent advocates for nuclear abolition, sharing their harrowing stories to ensure no other city would suffer the fate of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Today, their legacy is preserved in the rebuilt cities. The Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park, with its iconic A-Bomb Dome—the skeletal ruin of the only building left standing near the hypocenter—serves as a global symbol of peace and the horrors of nuclear war. In Nagasaki, a similar Peace Park and Atomic Bomb Museum carry the same message. These sites are not just memorials to the dead; they are classrooms for the living.

A World on the Brink, Again

Eighty years later, the world has seemingly forgotten the lessons of 1945. The "doomsday clock" sits closer to midnight than ever before. New nuclear powers have emerged, old treaties are fracturing, and the rhetoric of atomic warfare has re-entered mainstream geopolitics. The twilight of the living witnesses—both the crews and the survivors—makes this a particularly dangerous moment. Their voices, which once provided a direct, human connection to the consequences of nuclear weapons, are fading. The abstract threat of mushroom clouds is replacing the visceral reality of vaporised bodies and cities turned to ash. The quiet, haunting words of Don Albury, spoken from a place of deep and personal trauma, echo across the decades: "Never again." The question for our generation is whether we are still listening.