It was about 2 AM at the blacked out military base in Chicago's O'Hare Field. Today it's one of the busiest airports in the world; in April 1951 it was where our 126th Light Bombardment squadron was stationed during the Korean War. I was on guard duty...
Just then I saw it -- sleek and silent -- the "Enola Gay." The B-29 that had dropped the fateful bomb six years earlier on Hiroshima. In the succeeding 70 months our world had changed forever. Now here I was guarding the instrument of death itself.
Today there remains only one survivor of that crew, Theodore Van Kirk. At age 89 he's like most WWII vets. Unhesitatingly sure it was the right thing to do to shorten a horrific war that had no end in sight. With my own family members stationed for a daunting homeland invasion of Japan that year, I was sure too. Still am, given that far more civilian deaths were caused by conventional weapons.
And yet, I can't forget the feeling of black awe that filled me as I found myself talking to that mass of gray metal. For its part, It offered nothing in return. It had already spoken everything it had to say.
I now live only a few minutes from O'Hare Field and what had been the "Enola Gay's" home that long ago night. I still find myself straining to hear if I missed anything....
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