Few moments in the history of warfare of the United States have provoked so much anger and controversy as that of the Enola Gay, the B-29 Superfortress bomber that released the initial atomic bomb on Hiroshima. More than a footnote to the ascension of the nuclear era, its tale serves as a metaphor of how one airplane can spark angry arguments concerning war, triumph, and the high human price that goes with each.
The B-29 itself was an air marvel. It could fly at 400 miles per hour and carry a ten-ton payload 2,500 miles; it was much improved from what preceded it. The bomber included pressurized cabins, remotely operated defensive turrets, and high-torque engines.
Its creation cost more than any other weapon project of the era, even more than the Manhattan Project, and while its original engineering issues were rationalized dryly by General Curtis LeMay as being a basket full of bugs, the plane played a pivotal role in the Pacific War.
The Enola Gay was a B-29 named after the commander’s mother, Paul Tibbets, and was one of the B-29s specifically altered under the “Silverplate” program to carry out atomic missions. Its bomb bays were strengthened, engines upgraded, and defensive weapons lightened for the purpose of accommodating greater speed and range. On August 6, 1945, Tibbets and his crew departed Tinian Island and released the “Little Boy” uranium bomb on Hiroshima, then bombed Nagasaki days later. Those missions eventually resulted in Japan’s unconditional surrender and the end of the war.
Neglect over decades had weathered the Enola Gay by the late 1980s, with pilfered parts and wrecked components in long-term storage. Vets’ groups demanded its restoration, and the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum vowed to display it by the war’s 50th anniversary. The museum’s director, Martin Harwit, recognized a chance to do more than merely exhibit the plane; he envisioned an exhibit that would explore the whole historical background of the bomber, both the technical and human cost of the atomic bombings.
The curators’ 500-page proposal was to show a sophisticated story called “Crossroads: The End of World War II, the Atomic Bomb, and the Origins of the Cold War.” It hoped to communicate the sophistication of the Pacific War, the deliberation that led to the Hiroshima mission, the devastation that ensued, and the larger meaning of the postwar world. The display would include the observations of Americans and Japanese alike, blending technical specificity and human drama.
But soon the show was attracting controversy like a magnet. Veterans’ organizations, such as the American Legion and the Air Force Association, were loudly protesting, asserting that the exhibit failed to make full use of the fact that the bombings ended the war, saved hundreds of thousands of American lives, and represented the only rational option. The response stunned the museum administrators. Press coverage heightened tensions, with news stories frequently portraying the show as anti-American and playing selected quotes out of context, and politicians questioned the funding and demanded changes. Under increasing pressure, the Smithsonian continued to revise the show.
Images and objects documenting devastation in Japan were reduced, casualty projections fought, and negative interpretations removed. Finally, Smithsonian Secretary I. Michael Heyman shut down the original, fuller concept. The last project had the nose of the Enola Gay, some wartime headlines, and a short documentary about restoring it.
Heyman said the outcome was “more to the imagination” due to the constraints it had to operate under from outside pressure. Since it opened in June 1995, the exhibit has been as it was originally intended. It was criticized as being too sanitized by a few individuals, but the majority of veterans’ organizations felt that it had been a respectful presentation. Harwit, who was saddened that the complete story could not be told, protested and resigned.
The Enola Gay scandal made a lasting impact on the way museums approach sensitive aspects of war history. Museums were more cautious about revealing stories that could conflict with popular perception, and the aircraft itself was overwhelmed by the bigger issue of remembering history. The plane today stands exhibited in the Smithsonian’s Udvar-Hazy Center with very minimal context, much of its entire history unsaid.
At its heart, the Enola Gay controversy was never really about the plane. It was about whose right it is to control memory about the past—whether museums must celebrate success or grapple with distasteful truths, console or pummel their patrons with the brutal realities of war. That is a query that continues, one that initially led to disagreement.