The Final Storm (65 page)

H
e pulled himself free of the tree, dug himself out of a half meter of dirt and ash. He wiped the jagged roughness from his eyes, thought of his wife, the clinic, tried to see anything through eyes he knew were burnt. His hands slipped over the crushed limbs of the tree, and he saw shapes, one eye barely functioning. He put a hand up, touched his face, one side ripped raw, the skin around the eye torn and bloodied. He cried out, no pain, just … shock, knew he had to find someone, his wife, blinked hard, wiped at the blood, could make out more shapes. There was no sound but the wind, a steady roar from a massive cloud of black fog, he saw flickers of distant fires, one burst, the thunder driving toward him, an explosion far down near the castle. He stood, leaned against the shattered tree, his vision partially clearing, put a hand over the bloody side of his face, stinging pain. He stared toward the city, the landmarks, and through the smoke there was nothing else, the buildings flattened to rubble, or gone completely. He thought of the soldiers in the road, no sign of them, of anyone else, and the smoke swallowed him again, the hard stink of something he had never smelled before, his brain tossing out an image, burning fish. He was in full panic now, tried to walk, felt a sharp pain in his leg, tested it, stepped high, the leg unbroken. He struggled through the rubble, pieces of wood and stone, a crushed bicycle, pieces of fence, scratching at him, holding him. He cried out, choked on the dirt, searched again for his home, his crippled vision catching nothing but a flattened heap of splinters, bricks of his chimney, scattered away, strewn about like toys. His legs pushed out of the rubble, and he tried to reach the wreckage of his home, saw now that what remained of the clinic was a single stone wall, the beds and offices swept completely away. And the patients. He called out again, no response, and he climbed his way slowly to the house, shattered furniture, put a hand down on a lump of metal, saw it was his stove, on its side, and close to it, the icebox, crushed and twisted. He felt
cold now, shivering in his chest, cold down his legs, knew it was shock, and his panic grew, his hands ripping at the rubble, his skin torn by his own desperation. He cried out, “Kiko!” He fought for more voice, pulled through the remains of his house, ignored the blood from his face, searching for his wife, called out again, “Kiko!”

He saw the twisted metal frame, the headboard of their bed, buried by a crumbled wall, moved that way, his foot ripped by something sharp. He ignored that, moved to the rubble, pulled it away, called out again, “Kiko! Answer me!”

He saw the cloth, soft silk, flowers, and he froze, his hand extended, knew it was her gown. He bent, knelt, more sharp edges, pulled at a piece of timber, but it would not move, and he dug with bloodied hands, saw her foot, part of her leg. He yelped, shoved himself into the rubble, felt her skin, the wetness, his blood flowing onto her, saw wetness around her, dirt and bone, the sweet sickening smell. He stopped, his strength gone, the sight of her bones freezing him, his guts rolling over in a hard spasm, and he vomited, then again, the grief consuming him, paralyzing. He sat, stared at the wreckage, his own home, the clinic, and everything beyond. There was pain in his legs, the cold increasing, and he looked down, fresh blood on his leg, a deep cut, his feet bare and bloodied, his nakedness. He sobbed aloud for a long moment, but new thoughts came, a great fist wrapping around his brain, his own will pulling him to the moment. There will be others … many others. You must help them. He looked toward the crushed walls of the clinic, saw a body there as well, a patient, her gown ripped away, the mother, her body torn in a grotesque shape. He turned away, searched frantically for any sign of what had been his office, something identifiable, thought of his medical bag. But there was only debris, his instruments buried, a broken microscope lying in a pool of something brown, bottles strewn into a pile of crushed glass. He fought to stay upright, looked again toward the heart of the city, saw more smoke, more fires close by and far away, no sign of anyone moving, no sign that Hiroshima had ever been a city at all.

The heat of the fires swirled around him, the cold in his legs passing, the shivering gone. His brain kept him there, and he wrapped his arms around his naked chest, squeezed, thought, stay awake … stay alert. The only sound was the firestorm, below, toward the center of the city, the flames coming together, one larger storm, smoke and darkness beyond. He thought of Hata, his old friend, in command of the garrison that would
protect them, the man who knew so much of empire and power and the strength of will that would allow the Japanese to prevail. Hamishita glanced skyward, recalled the plane, the single reflection. It did not take an army to do this, he thought. It had to be … a weapon. And no matter what Hata or his generals believe, we cannot stand with our ancestors and pretend that our spirit is undamaged. The Americans will not be stopped by samurai. If they will do this to me … to Japan … we have lost everything.

H
ata pulled himself to his feet, heard screaming down the dark corridor, stumbled, coughed in the dust, the air thick and smoky.

“What has happened?”

He fought to find the doorway, felt the heat rolling down through the dark caverns, more smoke, saw one man staggering close to him, an officer, no name, the man just one more wounded soldier. Hata moved past him, hugged one side of the earthen wall, felt the incline, pushed his feet up the hill, no sound but a strange roar, the smoke even worse, the taste of lead in his mouth, his body tingling, a swarm of invisible bees. He stopped, heard more screaming, somewhere in front of him, the stink and the heat driving him backward. Wait, he thought. There is safety here, down below. They must have made a direct hit on the castle. He thought of his men, the daily routine, drilling in the courtyard, men in formation for the morning rituals in the parade ground, his officers, the men who had come in from the outposts, gathering the night before for the strategy meeting. They are above, he thought, the guest quarters. I should go to them. Damn this smoke! You are in command, after all!

He pulled his coat off, wrapped it around his face, climbed again, furious at the ongoing screams, thought, some coward. I will deal with him. He could barely see, kept his eyes shaded with one bent hand, his bones aching, his legs stiff. Too old, he thought. They will tell me I am too old. But I am still the finest soldier in this city. I will show them that!

The smell of the fire engulfed him, a hard breeze, swirling directly down into the cave. He continued to climb, cursed aloud, thought, I will need to relocate my headquarters. The enemy has been fortunate this day. But they will pay for this rude interruption!

He saw light, the outside, surprising, the cave suddenly ending, far too soon. He expected to pass by the cages that held the Americans, but the
earthen walls simply fell away, nothing at all above him. He pushed up the incline, exhausted, burning in his lungs. He was in the open now, smoke blowing past, saw flames, looked to the hospital, a short distance away, nothing there, smoky air. He turned, searching, the castle so familiar, gone completely, obliterated into a mass of smoking rubble. For a long moment he stared at the destruction, close by, and far beyond, so much of the city either bathed in a dense fog of black … or gone altogether. He put the coat back on, tried to straighten his stiff back. He was furious now, searched for his officers, for anyone, to show them that he was still there, still in command, that if this was how the enemy would wage their war, the fight had only just begun.

N
ORTH
A
TLANTIC
O
CEAN
, O
N
B
OARD THE
USS
A
UGUSTA
A
UGUST
6, 1945

T
he Potsdam Conference was four days behind them, and Truman was desperate to return home to a place where intrigue and the annoying rituals of duplicity didn’t infest every minute of the day.

He had sought out news every day of any Japanese response to the Potsdam Declaration, the joint communication issued on July 26 to the Japanese government, which spelled out precisely what the Allied powers expected from them in order that the war be brought to a close. Those who had signed the declaration included Truman, Churchill, and China’s Chiang Kai-shek. Despite months of entreaties from both Truman and Churchill, the Soviets had been unwilling to actually declare war on Japan. Thus Stalin would have no say in just what the declaration called for. Truman’s ongoing irritation with Stalin had been the greatest pill he had to swallow at Potsdam, and Churchill’s continuing friendship and counsel had been extremely welcome. Churchill had learned that drinking Stalin under the table seemed to be the most effective way to win his friendship, and no one had been more suited to that effort than Churchill. Unfortunately for Truman, he could never keep up in anyone’s hard-core drinking contest. Truman had quickly learned that Stalin had no interest in conceding
any meaningful diplomatic ground, and Truman had no reason to believe that putting the president of the United States into a drunken stupor would have made much difference. As the meetings had begun to wind down, Churchill’s role had suddenly come to an abrupt halt. In a shock that was still reverberating around the world, the British people had apparently had their fill of their wartime government. It was coincidence that the British elections should fall while the Allies’most powerful leaders were at Potsdam. For reasons no one in Truman’s coterie could fathom, the British electorate had tossed Churchill’s party out the door. Thus, the prime minister who had led the British people through some of the darkest days of their existence had suddenly been turned out to pasture, replaced by the likable but undramatic Clement Attlee. No one was more surprised than Attlee himself.

T
ruman sat with the ship’s senior officers, the lunch the usual fare for senior naval personnel, something Truman had come to enjoy.

“I do not understand the British. How on earth they could pull the rug out from under the man who … well, in my opinion anyway, has to be the greatest statesman alive on this planet … well, I do not understand. But that’s why we have elections, and there are many in Washington who are certainly anticipating that once my inherited term has expired, the rug in my case shall be thin indeed.”

The others smiled, polite as always, not even the ship’s captain intruding onto Truman’s conversation except by invitation. He had become a little annoyed by that, did not want to be treated as royalty, not by men he had hoped would accept him as more down-to-earth than his predecessor. The eating continued, no one responding, and Truman tasted the soup again, thought, I suppose they have no choice. I’m the damn boss, and military men respect that more than anyone.

The door to the captain’s mess was pulled open by a young security officer, and Truman saw his map room officer, Captain Frank Graham, slip quickly into the room.

“Sir, all apologies for interrupting your lunch. I thought you should see this as quickly as possible.”

“Let’s have it, Frank.”

Graham handed the paper to Truman, who read it silently, then sat
back, felt a burst of energy, looked at the faces, the officers trying not to appear too curious.

“Gentlemen, you will hear greater details of this soon enough. Allow me to be the first to inform you. Probably appropriate that way.
‘Following info regarding Manhattan received. Hiroshima bombed visually’…
well, a lot of technical details after that.
‘No fighter opposition and no flak. Results clear cut successful in all respects. Visible effects greater than in any test. Condition normal in airplane following delivery.’ 
” He paused, saw puzzled looks, polite nods. “Gentlemen, you are being let in on the greatest secret this nation has ever hoped to keep. The shorthand version of this is that we have bombed the Japanese city of Hiroshima with a weapon unlike any the world has ever seen. No need for secrets now. I expect this will bring the Japanese to the peace table as quickly as they can button their trousers. Simply put, gentlemen, this is the greatest thing in history. Captain, with all respect, it’s time for you to get us home.”

T
he Potsdam Declaration had been specific and direct, had called for the Japanese to surrender or else face the most dire of consequences. The clauses included assurances that the Allies had every intention of destroying Japan’s ability to make war. In addition there were specifics regarding boundaries of what would remain of Japanese territory, and those foreign lands Japan would no longer occupy. The Japanese would be expected to submit their military leaders for trial as war criminals, to answer for the astonishing variety and volume of barbarism that even now were coming to light. The declaration had been very specific that the Allies had no intention of enslaving or even punishing the Japanese people. There were also clauses allowing for Japanese industry to be supported in efforts to restore a healthy peacetime economy, and that a more democratic Japan, with freedoms of religion and speech, would be welcomed into the greater world community. Once the new Japanese government had taken hold, the declaration had promised that the military occupation of Japan by the Allies would end. But it was the final clause that Truman knew would have been pushed hard by Roosevelt, and thus Truman felt strongly he should press it as well:

The word of the destruction of Hiroshima was spreading with lightning speed through every world capital, carried on airwaves that sent Truman’s announcement to every world leader. The success of the
Enola Gay
’s mission was now a dramatic and forceful punctuation mark to the resolution agreed upon at Potsdam, a resolution that Truman and Churchill hoped would convince the Japanese that there was no reason whatsoever for continuing the war. If the Japanese leaders were truly aware of their military situation, they had to know that sending their people into combat was fruitless at best. Now, with the explosion of the atomic bomb, Truman expected that the ultimatum issued at Potsdam would crush Japanese resolve, and that finally, even their most militant generals could be made to see that the war was truly over. Prior to Hiroshima, none of the Allied powers had received any direct communications from the Japanese, nothing to show that the Imperial High Command actually believed the threat the Allies were making. On the contrary, the Japanese response had consisted of the indirect broadcast of an address by the Japanese prime minister, Kantaro Suzuki, which used the word
mokusatsu
. Those in the West who studied Japanese culture knew the term to mean silent contempt, as though the Japanese hierarchy considered the Potsdam Declaration and the final ultimatum to be beneath the dignity of any response at all. Truman was aware that the declaration had not made specific mention of what should become of the emperor, a technicality that might cause some problems for a culture that the Americans truly couldn’t relate to. But the concept of
utter destruction
had no hidden meaning in any culture. Now, with that promise fulfilled at Hiroshima, Truman felt confident that the Japanese understood quite clearly that the Americans possessed a new and horrifying weapon, and would use it with ruthless intent. But Truman was amazed that, even with the obliteration of most of Hiroshima, the Japanese government still did not respond at all.