
The full horror of the bombing of Hiroshima: Historian IAIN MACGREGOR reveals all 80 years on - as graphic shows how mission that wiped out 80,000 people in an instant unfolded
The first atomic weapon to be used in warfare dropped silently for 43 seconds, with a parachute billowing behind slowing its descent enough to allow Tibbets and his crew to escape the ensuing explosion.
At approximately 1,890feet above the Japanese city of Hiroshima it detonated, unleashing a blinding flash and a force of unprecedented magnitude.
The bomb missed its target by 800 feet, striking above the Shima Surgical Hospital instead of the Aioi Bridge.
The blast obliterated everything within the surrounding square mile. Enola Gay's crew, now six miles away, were rocked by the shockwave.
Observers aboard Necessary Evil – one of three other B29s in the mission – began recording the aftermath, capturing the white mushroom cloud rising above 45,000 feet.
The immediate reaction aboard the aircrafts was a mix of awe and unease. The usual post-mission levity was absent.
Instead, a subdued silence settled over the crews as they turned back south-eastwards toward base.
Over Hiroshima, chaos had erupted. The temperature at Ground Zero was estimated to be several thousand degrees, approximately the surface temperature of the sun.
The explosion, equal parts fireball and shockwave, levelled buildings, incinerated bodies, and blocked out the sun.
Five square miles of the city centre would be consumed by firestorms. Forty thousand were killed in the blink of an eye.
At least thirty thousand more would succumb to their injuries over the next forty-eight hours.
The mission that was unlike any the world had known had been set in motion from Tinian Island in the Pacific Ocean in the early hours of August 6, 1945.
Colonel Tibbets, leading a group of elite aviators from the 509th Composite Group, had been personally visited by General Curtis LeMay, commander of the XX Bomber Command, who handed him sealed orders: 'Special Bombing Mission No. 13'.
Hiroshima, a port city in southern Japan, had been chosen because it was deemed a vital urban industrial area and therefore a legitimate military target.
Secondary and tertiary targets were designated as Kokura and Nagasaki.
No friendly aircraft would be allowed within a 50-mile radius of these locations during the strike, ensuring both secrecy and safety.
A safety cordon of U.S. Navy ships and submarines would be positioned towards the Home Islands if the crew should need to ditch in the sea.
Preparations on the base were meticulous and cloaked in strict security. LeMay informed Tibbets that 32 copies of the orders were disseminated across bases in Guam, Iwo Jima, and Tinian.
Little Boy, an enriched uranium-based device, was carefully guarded, with its components kept disarmed to mitigate risk.
Even General LeMay himself was thoroughly searched before the military policeman would allow him to accompany Tibbets to view the 'gadget' in the technical area.
Captain William 'Deak' Parsons, who had been assigned from the Manhattan Project as Tibbets' weaponeer, had convinced the 'Tinian Chiefs' - the military and scientific leaders on the base – to arm the bomb only after take-off to avoid the risk of accidental detonation on the base's enormous runway.
With the Enola Gay prepared and painted with Tibbets's mother's name on the nose, the 12foot-long bomb was lifted into the aircraft's belly.
It bore messages from base crews, including one that read, 'To Emperor Hirohito, from the Boys of the Indianapolis.'
The crew, despite understanding the gravity of their mission from their final briefing that night, struggled with the enormity of what lay ahead.
They were told to get some rest before the operation, but few could sleep. Tibbets himself played cards to pass the time.
He had earlier informed his men that they would be dropping a bomb unlike any other, one capable of unleashing the destructive force of 15,000 tons of TNT.
Two key changes were introduced: the aircraft's call sign would be altered from 'Victor' to 'Dimples', and the Enola Gay would fly at a lower altitude at the start of the mission to allow Captain Parsons to arm the bomb safely.
The early morning hours saw a flurry of movement as the aircrews departed. Reporters and Manhattan Project officials gathered to document the historic moment.
The Enola Gay, unusually heavy with both bomb and extra fuel, took off just before 3 a.m. alongside Necessary Evil and the two other B-29s, The Great Artiste and Big Stink.
An hour earlier, three B-29s had taken off to report on weather conditions above the three principal targets.
Their information would determine where Tibbet's would drop his lethal payload.
En route, as the Enola Gay passed over Iwo Jima, Parsons and his assistant, Lieutenant Jeppson, crawled into the bomb bay and successfully armed the bomb.
The aircraft then climbed to its operational altitude of 30,000feet. Soon, Tibbets was informed that Hiroshima was bathed in clear blue skies. It would be the principal target.
As the crew approached the city, bombardier Major Tom Ferebee – making use of the hours of preparation that had gone into this moment – took control.
He scanned for the Aioi Bridge—a familiar T-shaped landmark selected as the aiming point.
When it was in view, Ferebee initiated the final bomb run. Below, the population of the city were making their way to work, opening shops, and children arriving at school.
Civilians had no warning of what was coming. Families had only recently returned to their homes after a false air raid warning.
Eight-year-old Howard Kakita, visiting from the U.S., was playing with his brother when the bomb exploded.
Their grandmother, injured by shattered glass, managed to walk, bloodied but alive.
The boys escaped serious injury, but their once-grand home was engulfed in flames.
As they fled westward, they encountered endless scenes of horror: burned bodies lining the riverbanks, survivors with skin hanging from their limbs, and others pleading for water. Many who drank soon died, their internal injuries beyond saving.
Similarly, 13-year-old Setuko Thurlow had been working at a military office as part of Japan's student mobilisation program when she saw a brilliant flash.
Moments later, she found herself buried under rubble.
Freed by a stranger's voice, she emerged into a nightmare. Her friends were either crushed or burned alive.
She joined others fleeing toward the hills, surrounded by charred, groaning survivors.
They brought water to the dying and watched helplessly as the city burned through the night, with black radioactive soot raining from the sky.
Other survivors told stories of miraculous escapes, impossible injuries, and unthinkable sights.
Sumiko Ogata, a child at the time, carried her injured brother through fire and ruin, dodging collapsing bridges and stepping over bodies. Mitsuko Koshimizu, who had been attending school that morning, found herself digging out classmates and teachers from the rubble.
The imagery was haunting: people burned black, the lines between the living and dead blurred by pain and fire.
Everywhere, cries for help echoed into the void, with no medical services left to answer them.
The blast had obliterated 90 per cent of Hiroshima's structures. Fourteen of the city's sixteen hospitals were gone.
Nearly all medical personnel were dead. The fire brigade and emergency services were decimated. Communication lines were cut.
Train tracks were twisted and melted. Entire districts had vanished. What was once a thriving city was now a flattened, burning wasteland.
Despite the widespread devastation, Tokyo remained largely unaware. The initial state-run news bulletins downplayed the destruction.
Even local Japanese officials could not grasp the scale. With Hiroshima's infrastructure destroyed, it was nearly impossible to coordinate relief.
In desperation, survivors fled into the surrounding mountains, seeking refuge.
In total, it's estimated that 80,000 people died instantly, with tens of thousands more succumbing in the days and weeks that followed.
Back on Tinian, the mood was a surreal mix of triumph and exhaustion. The Enola Gay touched down at 2:58 p.m. (local time), and the crews were met by cheering officers and generals.
General Carl Spaatz, commander of U.S. Pacific Air Forces in the Pacific, pinned the Distinguished Service Cross on Tibbets's chest.
When asked by General LeMay if there were more bombs, Tibbets confirmed there was another one—'Fat Man'—a plutonium bomb, ready for use.
The mission's success was confirmed via telegrams to President Truman, who was aboard the USS Augusta as it steamed across the North Atlantic from his conference with Joseph Stalin and Winston Churchill at Potsdam.
Bursting with excitement, perhaps relief, he stood on his chair in the ship's mess hall and declared to the watching crew that it was the greatest event in history.
The ship rang with cheers and whistles as the news spread across the ship.
Yet, for the men who had flown the mission, the sense of victory was tempered by an eerie quiet.
The usual high-spirited joking and celebration were noticeably absent.
Aboard Necessary Evil, the plane's navigator, Lieutenant Russell Gackenbach, noted the strange silence in his plane: 'Instead of relief, there was awe and an overwhelming awareness that they had participated in something the world had never seen before—something that would change warfare and humanity forever.'
From above, the mushroom cloud continued to rise, churning into the sky like a living force.
Tibbets later recalled that even Dante would have been terrified by what he saw.
For those on the ground, the aftermath was Dante's Inferno made real.
Hiroshima, a port city once full of life that had launched the Imperial Japanese fleet that attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 to start the war in the Pacific, had become a graveyard of ash and silence.
Iain MacGregor is a Fellow of the Royal Historical Society, and the author of The Hiroshima Men: The Quest to Build the Atomic Bomb, and the Fateful Decision to Use It (Constable).
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BBC News
an hour ago
- BBC News
Wetin hapun for Hiroshima 80 years ago? Survivors speak of disfigurement, shame and pain
At 08:15 on August 6, 1945, Lee Jung-soon bin dey on her way to elementary school, wen nuclear bomb bin fall like stone through di skies ova Hiroshima. Ms Lee wey be 88-year-old now wave her hands as if she dey try erase di memory. "My father bin dey on im way to work, but suddenly e run back to wia we dey and tell us to evacuate immediately," she recall. "Dead body full di road – but I bin dey so shocked all I remember na say I dey cry. I just dey cry and cry." Di body of victims "melt na only dia eyes bin", Ms Lee tok, as blast wey equal to 15,000 tons of TNT cover di city of 420,000 pipo. Wetin remain after na dead bodies wey scata beyond identification. "Di atomic bomb… na terrifying weapon." E don reach 80 years since di United States bin detonate 'Little Boy', humanity first-ever atomic bomb, ova di centre of Hiroshima, wey instantly kill some 70,000 pipo. Tens of thousands die in di coming months from radiation sickness, burns and dehydration. Di devastation wey di bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki – cause na im bring about di decision to end both World War Two and Japanese imperial rule across large areas of Asia. One fact wey pipo no too sabi na say about 20% of di immediate victims na Koreans. Korea bin dey part of Japanese colony for 35 years wen di bomb drop. Estimated 140,000 Koreans bin dey live for Hiroshima at di time - many pipo bin move go dia sake of forced labour mobilisation, or to survive under colonial exploitation. Those wey survive di atom bomb, plus dia descendants, still dey live for di long shadow of dat day – dem dey deal wit disfigurement, pain, and years of fight for justice wey dem still neva solve. "Nobody take responsibility," Shim Jin-tae, one 83-year-old survivor tok. "Not di kontri wey drop di bomb. Not di kontri wey fail to protect us. America no eva apologise. Japan pretend like say dem no know. Korea no beta. Dem just pass di blame - and we dey left alone." Mr Shim now dey live for Hapcheon, South Korea: one small county wey as e become home to dozens of survivors like im and Ms Lee, dem nickname am "Korea Hiroshima". For Ms Lee, di shock of dat day neva fade – e dey inside her body as sickness. Now she dey live wit skin cancer, Parkinson disease, and angina, one condition wey poor blood flow to di heart dey cause, e dey typically manifest as chest pain. But wetin dey painful pass na say di pain no stop wit her. Her son Ho-chang, wey dey support her, dey diagnosed wit kidney failure and e dey undergo dialysis as e dey wait for transplant. "I believe say na sake of di radiation exposure, but who fit prove am?" Ho-chang Lee tok. "E dey hard to verify scientifically – you go need genetic testing, wey dey exhausting and expensive." Di Ministry of Health and Welfare (MOHW) tell BBC say dem don gada genetic data between 2020 and 2024 and go continue further studies until 2029. Dem go "consider expanding di definition of victims" to second- and- third-generation survivors only "if di results dey statistically significant", dem tok. Di Korean angle Out of di 140,000 Koreans wey bin dey live for Hiroshima at di time of di bombing, many of dem bin come from Hapcheon. Surrounded by mountains wit little farmland, na difficult place to live. Japanese occupiers bin seize dia crops, drought destroy di land, and thousands of pipo comot di rural kontri go Japan during di war. Dem force some to join di military; dem deceive odas wit promise say "dem fit chop three square meals a day and send dia children to school." But for Japan, Koreans na second-class citizens – dem dey often give dem di hardest, dirtiest and most dangerous jobs. Oga Shim tok say im father bin work for one factory as forced labourer, while im mother dey hammer nails into wooden ammunition crates. After di bomb, dis distribution of labour bin turn into dangerous and often deadly work for Koreans for Hiroshima. Outcasts for house "Korean workers get to clean up body of dead pipo," Oga Shim, wey be di director of di Hapcheon branch of di Korean Atomic Bomb Victims Association, tell BBC Korean. "At first, dem dey use stretchers, but di bodies too many. Dem later come dey use dustpans to gada corpses and dey burn dem for schoolyards. "Na mostly Koreans do dis work. Na us do most of di post-war clean-up and munitions work." According to one study wey Gyeonggi Welfare Foundation carry out, dem force some survivors to clear di remains and recover bodies. While Japanese evacuees run go wia dia relatives dey, Koreans wey no get local ties remain for di city, exposed to di radioactive fallout – and wit limited access to medical care. A combination of dis conditions - poor treatment, hazardous work and structural discrimination - all contribute to di extremely high death toll among Koreans. According to di Korean Atomic Bomb Victims Association, Korean fatality rate na 57.1%, compared to di overall rate of about 33.7%. About 70,000 Koreans bin dey exposed to di bomb. By di end of dat year, about 40,000 pipo die.


The Guardian
an hour ago
- The Guardian
Hiroshima's fading legacy: the race to secure survivors' memories amid a new era of nuclear brinkmanship
The fires were still burning, and the dead lay where they had fallen, when a 10-year-old Yoshiko Niiyama entered Hiroshima, two days after it was destroyed by an American atomic bomb. 'I remember that the air was filled with smoke and there were bodies everywhere … and it was so hot,' Niiyama says in an interview at her home in the Hiroshima suburbs. 'The faces of the survivors were so badly disfigured that I didn't want to look at them. But I had to.' Niiyama and her eldest sister had rushed to the city to search for their father, Mitsugi, who worked in a bank located just 1km from the hypocentre. They had been evacuated to a neighbourhood just outside the city, but knew something dreadful had happened in Hiroshima when they saw trucks passing their temporary home carrying badly burned victims. As Hiroshima prepares to mark 80 years since the city was destroyed in the world's first nuclear attack, the 90-year-old is one of a small number of hibakusha – survivors of the atomic bombings – still able to recall the horrors they witnessed after their home was reduced to rubble in an instant. At 8:15am on 6 August, the Enola Gay, a US B-29 bomber, dropped a nuclear bomb on the city. 'Little Boy' detonated about 600 metres from the ground, with a force equivalent to 15,000 tonnes of TNT. Between 60,000 and 80,000 people were killed instantly, with the death toll rising to 140,000 by the end of the year as victims succumbed to burns and illnesses caused by acute exposure to radiation. Three days later, the Americans dropped a plutonium bomb on Nagasaki, killing 74,000. And on 15 August, a demoralised Japan surrendered, bringing an end to the second world war. Niiyama, one of four sisters, never found her father or his remains, which were likely incinerated along with those of his colleagues. 'My father was tall, so for a long time whenever I saw a tall man from behind, I would run up to him thinking it might be him,' she says. 'But it never was.' With the number of people who survived the bombing and witnessed its immediate aftermath dwindling by the year, it is being left to younger people to continue to communicate the horrors inflicted on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. For decades Niiyama, who is a registered hibakusha, said nothing of the trauma she had suffered as a schoolgirl, not even to members of her own family. 'I didn't want to remember what had happened,' she says. 'And many hibakusha stayed quiet as they knew they might face discrimination, like not being able to marry or find a job. There were rumours that children born to hibakusha would be deformed.' It was only when her granddaughter, Kyoko Niiyama, then a high school student, asked her about her wartime experiences that Niiyama broke her silence. 'When my children are older, they'll naturally ask about what happened to their grandmother,' says the younger Niiyama, 35, a reporter for a local newspaper and the mother of two young children. 'It would be such a shame if I wasn't able to tell them … that's why I decided to ask my grandmother about the bomb.' She is one of a growing number of people in Hiroshima and Nagasaki studying to become 'family successors' – a local government initiative that certifies the descendants of first-generation hibakusha to record and pass on the experiences of the only people on earth to have lived through nuclear warfare. 'Now that the anniversary is approaching, I can talk to her again,' Kyoko says. 'This is a really precious time for our family.' Last year, survivors of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki attacks won recognition for their campaign to rid the world of nuclear weapons when Nihon Hidankyo – a nationwide network of hibakusha – was awarded the Nobel peace prize. But survivors face a race against time to ensure that their message lives on in a world that is edging closer to a new age of nuclear brinkmanship. The world's nine nuclear states are spending billions of dollars on modernising, and in some cases expanding, their arsenals. The Russian president, Vladimir Putin, has refused to rule out the use of tactical nuclear weapons in his war against Ukraine, and last week a veiled nuclear threat by the country's former leader, Dmitry Medvedev, prompted Donald Trump – who had earlier compared US strikes on Iran's nuclear facilities to the Hiroshima and Nagasaki attacks – to claim that he had moved two nuclear submarines closer to the region. North Korea's development of nuclear weapons continues unchecked. 'The hibakusha have spent their lifetimes courageously telling their stories again and again, essentially reliving their childhood traumas – to make sure the world learns the reality of what nuclear weapons actually do to people and why they must be abolished, so that no one else goes through what they have suffered,' says Melissa Parke, executive director of the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons. 'These brave hibakusha deserve to have their decades of campaigning vindicated and to witness the elimination of nuclear weapons in their lifetimes. This would provide some nuclear justice.' The number of registered survivors of both attacks fell to just below 100,000 this year, according to the health ministry, compared with more than 372,000 in 1981. Their average age is 86. Just one of the 78 people confirmed to have been within 500 metres of the hypocentre of the blast in Hiroshima is still alive – an 89-year-old man. On the eve of the anniversary, the ministry said it would no longer conduct a survey every 10 years to assess the living conditions and health of hibakusha, saying it wanted to 'lessen the burden' on ageing survivors. Niiyama, who struggles to walk, will watch Wednesday's ceremony at home and pause to remember her father, whose memory is represented by a teacup he used that was retrieved from the devastation. 'I don't like the month of August,' she says. 'I have nightmares around the anniversary. I don't want to think about that day, but I can't forget it. But I'm glad I still remember that I'm a hibakusha.'


The Independent
5 hours ago
- The Independent
PHOTO ESSAY: Religious schools fill the education gap for Afghan boys
In Kabul's alleys and courtyards, boys in white caps and tunics recite verses from the Quran in a growing network of madrassas, the religious schools increasingly filling the gaps in Afghanistan's fractured education system. While public schools still operate, their reach has been weakened by limited resources, teacher shortages and decades of conflict. In response, many families now turn to madrassas, which offer structured learning rooted in Islamic teachings. Enrollment is booming. One school north of Kabul has grown from 35 students to more than 160 in five years. Most madrassas focus on Quranic memorization, jurisprudence and Arabic, but some now include basic secular subjects like math and English. Still, many fall short of national and international education standards, raising concerns about the long-term impact on students' broader development. Girls face even greater challenges. With secondary education banned under Taliban policy, some girls now attend madrassas as one of the few remaining options for continued learning though opportunities are limited even there. Critics say the madrassas are often centers of religious indoctrination and their increased popularity will have long-lasting consequences for Afghanistan's future. But for many children, these schools are the only form of education they can access. ___ Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP's collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.