DCStafford | 30 June, 2008 11:44
Do the names “Fat Man” and “Little Boy” ring a bell? They are the code names of the two atomic bombs that Harry Truman dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan to end WWII. They were loaded onto B-29’s on the small pacific island if Tinian, a few miles south of Saipan. My grandfather once told me that one of his most vivid memories from the war was sitting in the officer’s club on Kagman Point on the southeast corner of Saipan and watching the planes take off from Tinian. Occasionally, Granddaddy said, one of the planes wouldn’t build up enough speed on take-off and plummet into the water. Fortunately this never occurred to him - a B-29 navigator - or it’s highly likely that I wouldn’t be writing this right now. Tinian was actually the busiest airport in the world in the mid-1940’s. It has a large grid of runways on the north end, most of which were built by the US to allow the allied forces to stage aerial attacks on Japan. LeeAnn and I took an hour-long boat ride to the island last weekend to explore the sights and get a taste of modern history.
Tinian is a sleepy island. Only a couple thousand people live there. It’s mostly farmland, has two gas stations, a schoolhouse, and a gaudy hotel/casino called the Tinian Dynasty. Like almost every other resort in the Marianas, it caters to wealthy Asian tourists, and has more marbled floors and fake Greek statutes than should ever be allowed under one roof. After an overpriced meal of teriyaki steak and seaweed salad, we decided to hit the casino. LeeAnn got 20 bucks in coins and hit the slot machines, and I headed for the blackjack tables. I too only planned to play with $20, but decided to get much more than that in chips to make it appear as though I was a serious player. I hit the low-stakes tables, and was up $60 in the first five minutes. In all honesty, I don’t remember losing a hand. Due to a lack of funding, and a low blood-alcohol content, I wisely decided to walk away at this point. Our steak and seaweed dinner had paid for itself, so LeeAnn and I called it a night.
The next morning we rented a 125cc moped and went exploring. After a fifteen minute ride north on “Broadway,” the only road to speak of, I noticed a large spray to my right that resembled a geyser. There was no beach, only a 20-foot high limestone cliff that ran the full length of the eastern side of the island. We came upon a dirt path that led in the direction of the spray and took the scooter off-road. On the top of the cliff was a hole about the size of a basketball. At this particular spot the cliff had a slight overhang, probably due to waves eroding the bottom section of the cliff away. However, Mother Nature had, at some point, drilled a vertical hole in a particularly thick section of the overhang. When the waves would crash against the side of the cliff with enough force, a large amount of water would shoot up through the hole. I stood over it and got drenched within a few seconds as LeeAnn laughed and took pictures.
We drove a couple more minutes north and arrived at the old airfield. I can only describe it as one of the most eerie sights I have ever seen; there was a clash of images and emotions that hit hard. Here I was, in one of the most historic locations of the twentieth century, and there was nothing but concrete runways overgrown with weeds and wild brush, and dilapidated and hollowed communications buildings. Thousands of missions embarked from these airstrips, including the two most violent and deadly the world has ever seen, and there were no signposts guiding tourists, no landscaping or memorial plaques, no sign of life other than a gecko lizard scampering across the pavement and into the thick brush. It looked as if everyone packed up and left about 70 years ago without looking back. After a few moments’ reflection, I realized that this is exactly what happened.
We rode around on the scooter, purposely getting lost in the maze that was the staging ground for missions that brought WWII to a close. We would zip down runways at full throttle, then creep through the overgrown perpendicular paths that connected barracks and communications towers, all of which are now crumbling. As we passed one parking lot-sized area along the paths, LeeAnn caught glimpse of something off to one side and told me to turn around and check it out. In opposite corners of this space were the loading pits where “Little Boy” was loaded onto the Enola Gay at 2:45 am on August 6, 1945, and “Fat Man” was loaded onto Bockscar exactly 72 hours later.
Although I am surprised at the lack of funding and attention the government has bestowed upon these grounds, I’m glad I was able to see them in their current state. I can’t help but think that that a fancy museum would have cheapened the area and taken away from its dramatic, yet unintended effect. I know of nowhere else in the world where one can stand in the thick of such an important location, one that has been ignored to such a great extent, and simply wander unsupervised. I was able to imagine the rows of B-29’s neatly lined along the runway, and then open my eyes to the crumbled concrete and wild pacific brush. Indeed, this was a one-of-a-kind experience.
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