Shadow dancing beneath the Enola Gay
By Jim Banholzer
Back in 2004, I flew from the Hailey, Idaho Dulles , Virginia
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 Hiroshima , Japan 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.
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 Idaho Idaho
“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 Nagasaki Hiroshima Bombay Japan 
testament from the precision ammo we unmercifully aimed. In Hiroshima
testament from the precision ammo we unmercifully aimed. In
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 Nagasaki Idaho
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 
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
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 
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 Quantico Korea ghl y 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
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
“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
Not an easy thing.
~ ~ ~
Three years later, back in Idaho Virginia 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
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Related image and article of interest:
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More related reading: http://www.mbe.doe.gov/me70/manhattan/images/LittleBoyLarge.gif
Commander Paul Tibbets passes on
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/01/AR2007110101047.html
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