greenvanholzer

Saturday, August 04, 2007

Shadow dancing beneath the Enola Gay

By Jim Banholzer

Back in 2004, I flew from the Hailey, Idaho airport to Dulles, Virginia, to visit my other hometown. On a plane above, I read in an Idaho broadsheet that the Smithsonian opened a mammoth new wing of its famous Air & Space museum –called the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center. It was just down the road from Dulles – a hectic highway which thirty years ago was a bumpy two-lane road, the Burnette brothers and I rode our ten speeds up, in hopes of spying the then new Supersonic Concorde.

Thirty minutes after reaching Dulles, Dad and I arrived at the museum parking lot, which had a $14 charge, although admission inside was free. To me this stood out as a baffling incentive –perhaps an intended joke –for curiosity seekers to now consider hoofing it under their own steam in an area where very few walk anymore. Another tribute to the cost of using machines?

This was post 9-11, and not far from the Pentagon, so security was beefed up. As we passed though the metal detector, a gauntlet of polite well-groomed mini-Rambo’s eyeballed us, but our liberties were not patted down, as we gained entry.

For those interested in air travel history, this museum is well worth visiting. The ceilings are ten stories high and the concourse space 2½ football fields long. It’s bulky enough to accommodate dozens of ancient aircraft, including the Space Shuttle Enterprise. A quick silver Mercury Capsule shines here, along with an IMAX theatre. I took a photo of Dad posing in front of a McDonnell Douglas aircraft –like the ones he worked on as a spirited St Louis mechanic in the 50’s. Even the Enola Gay appears slightly rested here. This craft reigned radioactive terror onto Hiroshima, Japan on August 6, 1945.

The Enola Gay Warplane took her name from the Commanders good Mother. After President Truman was told “We now have this.” Commander Paul ‘Warfield’ Tibbet’s alongside eleven other soldiers piloted the B-29 –un-battening the first nuclear genie hatch down upon Earth. As Tibbet’s crew distanced themselves from the actual horrors, Einstein helplessly buttressed his head into his hands.

Many people, including dad, a former Marine and (at the time of our visit) Vice-Commander of American Legion Post 177; proudly argue that this, alongside the Bockscar three days later, over Nagasaki that bombed woman and children into rubble as they walked down the street respectfully bowing to each other, saved the U.S. from an extended quagmire of war. After all, the happiest grin I had ever seen on dads face was in a photo from that week in 1945 when war was declared over. Though dad sported a broken leg with cast, he was all smiles alongside dancers celebrating in the street.

Dad was born the same month as Elvis. Another photo taken just before he joined the Marines shows him resembling the King in a swaggering rebellious mood. Crazed dancing soon led to a baby boom from which I bounced into this world.

Now it was 2004 and we stood together in the museum; alone, in front of much more than a symbol -the actual patriotic plane that had vaporized poor innocent souls, spilling blood in perpetuity. I told dad I had read a dab in the Idaho paper that the first day this exhibit opened some protestors splashed fake blood onto the aircraft.

This seemed to make dad sick. I could tell he was thinking, “How could people do such a thing?” I mustered up the courage to speak, “You know dad, some people -iconoclastic types mostly- consider those protestors to be heroes.” After all, there was nothing in this polished museum to show what the unnatural machines had wrought. Nothing about the ramifications or controversy over nuclear bombs and how some argue that the millions of dollars and years of research drilled into these first atomic bombs might have been a prime motivation for actually using them. No signs posted in the museum talked about how making a big impression on Russia was at least as important as ending the war at the time.

Dad and I went over to the snack bar. Drinks there were strictly monitored to stay within the roped perimeter. Little kids squealed with joy in the background, while riding on the adjacent flashy flight simulators. I took another nice deep breathe and said, “Remember Pop? When growing up, the map was circled with a radius marker to show us how many miles we lived from the Pentagon?”

My assumption as a little boy was that the closer that you lived to Casper’s Weinberger’s ground zero, the tighter you were to tuck and duck under your desk, like tiny Prisoners of War during those hellfire drills. It was enough to make me start eyeballing Idaho for a second home. Only to be callously told, once I moved here that the Idaho National Laboratory dances a sizzling second on those big-hit target charts when our cold war defrosts.

“Dad, we’ve talked plenty about Pearl Harbor and other dirty deeds of death those Japs set us up for, but what about the civilian blood that was spilled over there in Japan from this here plane of ours?”

An ancestral land stemming from our own family bloodline. My dad’s mother was half-Japanese, a fact hidden from the family for fifty years. Likely, in part because of the 1940’s internment camps -along with the general racism malaise sweeping through the country at that time.

As our coffee cooled to a safe-sipping temperature I asked, “Dad does no quarter of your blood boil over this issue?”

From the museum canteen, we walked past some Late 1700 French furniture carvings commemorating early era hot air balloon rides and back over to the Enola Gay warship. Upon closer inspection, I suddenly realized that the lighting of the museum was designed so that no shadow appeared cast from this historic ship of the sky.

“Dad, in Japan there is a True men’s museum that blows this ones transparency to smithereens. Dad Dang It! I’m not spewing out more of that fancy metaphorical banter that you’ve borne for a lifetime from me; that museum in Nagasaki mirrors a different history from this one, illuminating an important side of this record we’ve been ignoring. Artifacts from that sphere include peoples souls singed into stones. Vaporized trails that lead from Hiroshima back to the Bombay door of this very aircraft we stand before. In Japan displayed on pedestals are statues of the same saints we worship in church -with their marble heads miraculously sliced clean off, testament from the precision ammo we unmercifully aimed. In Hiroshima there is another Peace memorial museum with a Buddha displayed with his face fallen out from nuclear meltdown.

I then wondered if a parallel museum somewhere has motion detectors mysteriously go off at night, due to rusty holy water piping out of statuesque Madonna tear ducts.

“Dad, I used to work alongside Katie at the Airport in Hailey, Idaho. Her mother was a little girl on the outskirts of Nagasaki in 1945 –almost the same age as Mom- when the whole city was bombed from a plane just like this revered aircraft whose insignia you salute. She ran away from the city outskirts, seeing people on fire and screaming sacred prayers, along with another girl who she never saw again. She was lucky to live at seven. Last, I heard she is still alive in Idaho. She has been a strong survivor but still suffers from the traumatic effects. How could we ever expect her to get over something that horrible? Could all the kings’ industriously complex men hammer equal amounts of research into alternative Manhattan Projection healing machines that could come close to curing her ills?”

Arguing with dad drove me to say passionately crazy things. I had fallen in a culture that blinded my respect towards elders. Another disagreement of ours had spilled out over “fresh beer” at his American Legion. As we watched professional football combatants’ battle glorified legal wars on gridirons, I had taken the side that the fresh beer market tacticians used exaggerated claims, and the American people were easily falling for it. A beer with true quality has to be aged –unless you prefer a beer closer to water and without real essence. As these small words spilled from our mouths and into the lounge where men love certainty, a substance-less commander spouted out fresh lies about the war from a second TV flickering over the Legion’s bar –surgically selected buzzwords that most of the Fairfax veterans seemingly did not want to question. Most discussions about being properly served ‘fair facts’ at this point in the war were promptly muted. After all, they had just graciously accepted a ceremonial dinner from a remote aircraft carrier with a nice Mission Accomplished banner served.

“Dad, do you think that if every American Legion, instead of these foxy newscasts, laid out plasma monitors, on their bars every August Anniversary, to windows of the Nagasaki museum website, that we might use more caution and remember how all wars are filled with atrocities on both sides? Then perhaps not rush into quagmires like the one our country is now so deeply imbedded? Please read clearly the messages of peace on the Nagasaki website, and you’ll see they are straight from the heart and not full of deceit.” http://www1.city.nagasaki.nagasaki.jp/abm/abm_e/jigyou/jigyoumain.html

In the hundreds of times I had been to that American Legion, I never once heard a discussion about how patriotic soldiers might have been duped into going to war. Maybe I did not stay long enough into the wee hours to hear questions answered about whom it is that truly profits from war, and how we should never be suckered into going to war again- without damn good reason. But, how could I purport to know anything about what war is –having never been in one? Maybe it is too hard to talk about. Perhaps sipping nerve-calming tonics to keep conversation at superficial levels is the splendid answer to these churning monsters of the id, perpetually growling beneath our facades. An uncle of mine only breathed words about his WW2 experiences once.

I then remembered that during Korea, dad had not actually gone overseas. Thankfully, he was able to remain stateside in Quantico as an assistant to a General. This special treatment incensed some of dad’s compatriots, who were forced to battle in bloody nightmares. One of dad’s major duties was to polish a limousine ship-shape. No wonder dad always wanted our cars to appear at museum level quality! Dad’s perspiration dissolving into the shadow below the general’s limo had saved his ¼ Japanese skin from Korea and given me a shot at life. Now the Enola Gay displayed in its regal & shadow disguised manner, fit as a perfect epiphany to my series of puzzled questions about dad’s outlook. Though I loved dad with all my heart, to his degree, sometimes a small scratch on a highly revered machine could be magnified more than some people’s wounds. Did he even realize this manner in which he was triggered? Equally important, did I realize the image of dad I was allowing myself to portray? Maybe it was just convenient for me to blame Dad for something much larger than all of us.

That night my mind’s eye needled out more wild escapades, atypical to even a wayward son. Surely, I thought with a proper smile, a bouncy white toast galoot like me could slip a composite claw hammer past the well-mannered museum mini-Rambo’s and make a real impact statement. That night in bed in Virginia I imagined leaping out like a gecko onto hard mother ship Enola Gay herself, swearing and flailing –trying to scrape out its elusive mechanical heart like an insane blind man. While imagining this I thought powerfully, of the sight lacking people who forget about fundamental freedoms our country is supposed to be fighting and standing for -i.e. by openly discussing just this sort of thing. I love this country as much as anybody does. That is why I felt strong stands should be taken when we see signs of it going down dangerous tubes.

The United States, for much of our history has tried to stand for great things. I believe we can continue to do so. Just look at the tens of thousands of our troops heading overseas with positive intentions. However sticking our heads in sand, ignoring the undepleted uranium encircling it, and excluding open discussions about shadowy matters results in slow learning, dooming us to repeat most of the same terrible mistakes.

This is what I tried to sleep on through the fitful night. By crack of dawn, our mercury vapor street lamp puffed out, while my cider and vinegar leveled to a less crazy vibration. I knew that no matter how high my wolverine rage rocketed up, this John Henry gone bad could never match the astronomically insane level of these bat-stink crazy machines and those who perch above their designs, pulling puppet strings while basking in sunny Nebraskan bunkers. No Oskar Tin Drum radium medallion will be pinned onto this tinhorn blowin’ against the grain. My kind could drown on an Omaha Beach swimming against tides this strong.

“Better save it for later”. An echoic voice like Dad’s advised, “Don’t be a slow learner yourself. That is no way to spread peaceful messages. Set up for a minute some Violence begets Violence news alerts, then try to contribute something positive, instead of being a rock head.”

Dad dropped me off at the airport. It was 4:30 in the morning and I wanted to get back to Idaho the same day. As we again drove by the museum annex, Dad asked, “Son have you ever been to the Air & Space museum? You really should check it out sometime; I hear that it’s an interesting place.” I glanced at mom in the backseat and captured a world of understanding in about as much time it takes for a nuclear chain reaction. Here I had been demanding that Dad comprehend things way beyond what is reasonable. In a hypercritical manner I had made dad an easy target, just like we did to our Japanese cousins sixty-two years ago. I need to be kinder in our swift elapsing time.

Not an easy thing.

~ ~ ~

Three years later, back in Idaho, while sharing shadowy cancer sticks in another alley where men warily discuss certainty; I spoke with a crime-reporter, about this vessel of commentary in progress. He mentioned that to incubate a plan of disobedience could now be considered a crime in this state –even if ultimately it is intended to benefit the overall good of humanity. So lucky thing I was exercising my fundamental right to wildly daydream only in Virginia. What will it come to next? Will the next Patriot act plan for clampdowns on astral projections –Om, I mean free will though concentrative reading? Books and Internets, felonious controlled substances? Good gravy, maybe it’s already imbedded in that abundant small print.

You know that little voice -call it what you may- has a point. The paranoid people of yesteryear were ahead of themselves. Next summer for vacation I think, I’ll hitch a quiet ride on a nice peaceful train. There I’ll straighten up and fly right and not think a bad thought about anything. That should work for about thirty minutes, until I reach for my solid man purse, whip out an old Idaho news wrap, and then read something stupid about that old Cat Stevens.