I'm consumed with sadness and regret on this warm August morning. Flying over the barren landscape, I see nothing but death and destruction. Hiroshima, which had been a vibrant and bustling city, has been turned into something much different. I’m a 20-year-old bombardier in the United States military. My task is to take pictures of the bomb site and submit them to my commanding officer. Instead of the excitement I should feel about going home and seeing my family tomorrow, I only feel sadness, sadness for the thousands of lives that have vanished.

I am not alone on this expedition over the once prosperous city. I am joined by a pilot twenty or thirty years my senior. He has been at war most of his life and has seen lots of destruction, but nothing to this scale. His face is weathered from years of stress and malnourishment. 

“This is one of the worst days of my life,” he says. “I should be happy. I’m going to see my wife and kids this week, and my daughter has a baby on the way, but all I can think about is the enemy soldiers going home to their families and them not being there.” 

This man whom I have never met before, shares the exact feelings that I, and most likely thousands of other Americans feel: underlying guilt. 

“I hope this war is over because of the actions of yesterday, but was it really worth it?'' I say sadly. We both shake our heads no. 

This morning the air smells of dirt and ash from all the burning of buildings and debris. I keep taking pictures of the city, but it all looks very similar. The only things for miles are broken cars and remnants of buildings. 

“So, where do you live in the States,” the pilot asks. 

“California. What about you?” I reply.

“I live up north in a small town in Montana. It’s as quiet as library up there. It calms me after so many years of stress and violence. I just hope nothing crazy happens before I retire.” He says.  

I think about how lucky I am to only be deployed once, while this man has spent the majority of his life wondering if he will ever see his family again. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see a U.S. Boeing B-29 bomber behind our plane.

“I thought we were the only ones supposed to be out here?” I wondered out loud. 

“Must be a change of plans. I’m not really sure,” the pilot responds in a shaky voice. Just as the pilot finishes responding, a missile fires out of the bottom of the B-29. Before the pilot can turn to dodge the missile, we’re hit with a force I have never felt before. I’m knocked back into the wall of the plane and thrown onto the floor. 

I am out for only a couple of seconds, but it feels like an eternity. My head is bleeding and the sound of my heart beating is ringing in my ears. As I get up, I try to regain my balance and see the pilot passed out with a giant gash on his forearm. I hear the scream of the engines slowly dying from the blast of the missile that had slammed into the left side of the plane. Without hesitation, I leap into action and move the pilot’s unconscious body onto the floor. I have a basic knowledge of flying, but this is not the best way to fly for the first time, or more accurately, fall. The beginning of our abrupt decent is a very familiar sensation from my childhood. It almost feels like the scariest part of a roller-coaster ride, when your stomach drops, but I have the feeling that I wouldn't be nearly as happy once it is over. Just like when I passed out earlier, the free fall from 20,000 feet to sea level goes by in an instant -- an extremely terrifying instant. 

As the plane falls, the pressure from the altitude hits me like a rock hitting a glass window. My ears pop with every 1,000 feet I drop, and I hear the scream of the engine dying. The only possible way of survival is to use the backup engines to blunt the force of my fall. I quickly grab the handle to the backup generator and pull with the force of ten men. I hear the engine coming back to life, but just as soon as it starts it is gone. I pull on the handle again, and this time the engine does its job. The engine is able to slow the fall of the plane just enough to soften the landing. The sensation of the plane hitting the ground is so jarring. I feel my heart stop beating for a couple of seconds. 

After collecting myself from the most extremely terrifying moment of my life, my mind begins to race. “What the hell just happened?!” I scream. (Why had the U.S. shot down the only plane used to take pictures of the bombing?) 

“Hey,” groans the pilot. 

“Son of a---!” I yell. I have totally forgotten that I’m not alone on this roller-coaster ride from hell. My first reaction to seeing him is anger.

 “I kind of needed your help up there. I’m the photographer, you’re the pilot, not the other way around!” But I soon realize how grateful I am that both of us survived a 20,000-foot fall. But just as I begin to collect myself again, my heart drop like a stone in water. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar Boeing B-29.