Paul Tibbets and That Nuclear Bomb

Paul Tibbets made news again yesterday with the announcement of his death. (NYT Obituary) Paul was the pilot who flew the Enola Gay (named after his mother) from which the nuclear weapon was dropped on Hiroshima. The news of his death prodded surprising reactions from some in the the newspaper blogs I have been reading. I have the view, perhaps historically driven, that the decision to drop these two weapons was sensible when weighing up the costs of Operation Olympia, the planned invasion of the Japanese mainland. With more than one million casualties anticipated, the code breakers indicating the Japanese military factions had convinced the country to fight on and that the defences of the areas into which Olympia was to be directed had been reinforced, combined with Iwo Jima and Okinawa giving a foretaste of what a hometown fight was going to look like (pretty nasty), the two bombs made a lot of sense. But sixty or so years on and our revisionist perspectives prompt comments and views I don't entirely understand - some thought Tibbets' (apparently) painful death was a sign that he got what he deserved from God (just as well God is not a vindictive fellow isn't it?!). Others felt he was an officer simply doing his job (I am sympathetic to that view) while others felt he could have said "no" to the mission - clearly failing to understand the times in which Tibbets lived, or the structure in which he worked. All mixed up in other commentary that gets emotive after all this time about the rights or wrongs of various aspects of that war, aspects which have no connection with Tibbets in any way. Sadly Tibbets lived some of that ambivalence, emotion and hostility in his latter years and he has asked that he be buried with no tombstone least that be a site for protest. Whatever the rights or wrongs of that war it is a part of our history with threads that tie into the fabric of our community today. Beating up on Tibbets now, or at any other time for that matter, isn't going to change any of that.

Make your Money and Run, Boy

Queen Alia International Airport, Jordan

It is a fresh and clear morning and the traffic pretty much non existent as we ran from the city to Queen Alia. Immigration and passports and other officials were sleepy and inattentive, the immigration guy slumped down in his chair below the counter catching some sleep. The place is lousy with American men, and their accents echo through the building. All polite in their own way but making the mistake of speaking louder when someone fails to comprehend their drawl. Adventurers into Iraq I guess. Three out of four wear military style boots and carry military style backpacks. They seem to fall into two groups. Young men in late twenties early thirties age. Travelling in pairs or trios. Jeans, T-shirt and baseball cap. All seem to still carry their military style haircuts. It’s hard to leave the military nursery after all, even (especially) after your discharge is formalised. Most are fit and burly, straining T-shirts to breaking point. One short case looks like he could bench press a cement truck. The local boys in the café humour them although the Jordanian police sergeant refused to reply to a drawled “howya doin’ boy?” I suspect he would take no consolation from hearing the same greeting thrown at a couple of the American's buddies who later came up the escalator from immigration. The second group appear to be in their fifties or so. The uniform is similar although the hair longer and the goatee more frequent. They travel on their own. Same military backpacks. And definitely not as fit looking. I fancy they are seeking the same adventure though. Headed for Iraq and taking the opportunity to do something outlandish, historical or cash rewarding. The latter is a major attraction. Two of them standing behind me at immigration had one of those typically loud American conversations, for the whole immigration hall to hear, about how it was only the cash that drew them to Iraq. Quipped one, to the other , “make your money and run boy, make your money and run.”

Presidential Security - ATough Gig

Back in 1982 I was caught up as a minor minion in the security surrounding the visit of Queen Elizabeth II to Canberra. Sorry, Canbra. It's a thankless task although on the day she and Phil were leaving town I had the good fortune to have her slow and and wave at me, Phil getting a nudge to look as well. I had the presence of mind to wave back - a salute was out of the question! But I think she was actually having a laugh at the one floppy ear of my retarded looking police dog and did not notice my poor protocol. That visit sprung to mind (yes, my mind connects in ways even I don't understand) as I walked out for my early morning wander and found the hotel locked down with soldiers everywhere and a Hummer at the front door rigged up with a pintel mounted machine gun. Trouble is the Hummer was hemmed in on each side by two buses that had pulled in to carry the entourage (as it turns out) of the President of the Maldives who is visiting this place as well (I hope he has the room on the other side of the screaming baby, something might get done). If it all turns to custard this guy had an arc of fire of about 5 degrees, could not cover the street or support any of the soldiers lined up all over the place. The best he would be able to do is dust pigeons off the hair salon directly in front of him. Blaming the bus drivers was going to sound pretty weak. I felt sorry for him for a moment then remembered it was he who chose Army instead of Air Force!
3 Sept 07

Lancaster Bomber G for George

Canberra, pronounced "Canbra" by locals and properly by everyone outside the country, is a large country town which we otherwise defer to as our capital city. It is home to an outstanding war memorial - the Australian War Memorial no less. It does an excellent job of being a memorial to our fallen and to visit is a moving experience. When I first went to live in Canbra in 1981 every spare day (I was a shiftworker in those days) was spent wandering the halls and absorbing the history. And burning off numerous rolls of 35mm film in bad light. In pride of place was G for George, an iconic aircraft which flew 88 missions from 1942 as part of 460 SQN RAAF. More than 200 crew flew in her and her survival made her famous - as did her return to Australia as part of a war bond drive. Now she is "airborne" in the War memorial in a new, spectacular, world class hall dedicated to some amazing aircraft and all set up in a very "live" environment. The hall alone is worth the visit. It is one excellent reason to visit Canberra. There are a few others but I need a few days to remember what they are. I'll get back to you on that.

Puckapunyal - another Hume Memory

Travelling down the Hume Highway invokes all sorts of memories, building a thirty year tableau of images. The previous two blogs refer. Once upon a time the highway took you though Seymour but now days the freeway blasts you past and you can't see the town at all. Nearby is the Army training area of Puckapunyal which you could never see from the road and for which I am always mildly thankful. I spent a few frozen weeks there during school holidays as school Army Cadet and the memories are not altogether positive for Puckapunyal. As I know it is not for a lot of the troops who trained here before going to Vietnam. But finding Gary asleep on the fireside log, covered in frost, and where we left him the night before, anaesthetised by a full bottle of smuggled Southern Comfort remains a highlight. So too my first sighting of a Kookaburra. Two in fact who laughed as we stood shivering in the foggy predawn light under tepid, dribbling bush showers. And the appalled faces of my Toorak school buddies - the prospect of eating bits of rabbit slow cooked in tinned butter off a rusty piece of steel plate was too much for them (I had taken three rabbit traps with me - the NCOs checked my gear the next year to ensure there was no repeat culinary horror).

Puckapunyal is the home to the Australian Armoured Corps and I am intrigued to see the M1Abrams there now. That high technology piece of equipment is about as far away from my cadet experience of Puckapunyal as you can get. And a rabbit caught by any of them would not be worth the eating. Unless you had sculled a bottle of Southern Comfort first.

Things That Alert You to the Passage of Time

Your son rings you and tells you he is getting married.

• The new jet fighter announced by the government when you joined the military are now in a wind-down program and replacement types have been approved.


• New employees have birth dates after the date you joined the workforce.


• The very latest Main Battle Tank (MBT) in secret development when you joined the military is now sitting in a museum, with enthusiasts keeping it alive.

Here it is here. The British Challenger MBT boasted all sorts of innovation but especially the revolutionary CHOBHAM armour (now used by the US Abrams MBT). That it sits in a museum is fair enough given a second generation Challenger is in use. But it does only seem like yesterday that it was being introduced into service.

Aldershot

In my early teens I devoured a series of books which followed the fortunes of a new infantry officer in the British Army as he joined his regiment and then found himself engaged in various scrapes in Europe. Boys Own stuff. I cannot remember who he was nor are the story lines at my fingertips. But I do recall the military town of Aldershot figuring in his training at some point and the place has remained linked in my mind to the British Army ever since. If however there was any romanticism attached to the place as a result of those books such sentiment was sadly tempered this weekend. The town does not wear its military history at all. Sitting in the main street drinking coffee the view, conversation and experience is a grey one. A country town slum would be kind. The plumage of colour I took from the books, if ever true, is non existent. The occasional building hints at some history but military barracks are utilitarian in function and most now reflect that in their design. The best I could find that gave any hint of military heritage was the comparatively young officers mess of the Queens Own Gurkha Transport Regiment. I am sure there is history more tucked away but the town hides it very well.

Nuclear Subs in New London

Last night was spent in a musty naval quarter that was bit of a surprise. For its filthy state that is. The mould and damp caught in the orange carpet still pushed through the disinfectant that had been used very lightly in the bathroom. Not having much luck with military accommodation over the last couple of nights. But the apartment block was empty and I did not have to contend with noisy rutting neighbours as I did at West Point. I drove on up towards Boston but the highlight of the day was the submarine museum which is here at New London.

Tied up alongside, in the Thames River, is the SSN Nautilus. The first nuclear powered submarine, now open to the public. After crawling around in our O-Boats the Nautilus, tiny compared to the newer submarines in the USN ORBAT, is still remarkably large and spacious. I could walk everywhere standing up and ascended and descended through three decks. Stainless steel everywhere, roomy bunks and the ubiquitous ice cream machine. The US military is fuelled by ice cream in the same way their police are fuelled by Twinkies.

Apart from the Nautilus I was struck by the sheer scale of the newer submarines. At the entrance to the museum is the rib of an Ohio class submarine. For a couple of hours this morning I was the only visitor here. Eventually, just before lunch some people arrived and wandered into the centre. They usefully scaled the size of the rib for me and I managed to grab a photo of them walking through the rib "o-ring". I reckon an Ohio would have to be eight or nine stories deep. Imagine the expansiveness of engineering mind that envisages then designs and builds a submarine that size. There is nothing small minded about this industry or weapons platform at all.

It took a while but I eventually tore myself away from New London this morning and brought away with me a mixed bag of memories. A rather bizarre streak dinner with a difference, finished by a family meal with people I don’t know, a quarter you might only impose on recruits (and in which I worried about my health) and an unexpected tour of a nuclear submarine – by myself. I think I am coming to expect such from this country – everything in your face but such a range of extremes.

October 1989