The Final Storm Part 27

Hamis.h.i.ta moved through the open gate of the cell, the American prisoners watching him with emotionless eyes. The injured man was lying flat on the earthen floor, and one of the others spoke out to the doctor, words Hamis.h.i.ta could not understand. He responded by holding high the medical bag, the other hand held outward, a gesture of calm. Behind him the guards pointed their machine guns into the cell, a show of power Hamis.h.i.ta ignored. The prisoners will not attack me, he thought. I'm too old, and no threat to them. They know their man requires care, and surely they can see I am not one of the soldiers.

The Americans made room, five men easing away from their fellow flyer, cautious, watching Hamis.h.i.ta's every move. He looked at the faces, dirty, exhausted, scanned their limbs, saw no obvious damage beyond the rips and shreds to their clothes.

"I am a doctor. I am here to help."

None of the Americans showed any acknowledgment, no sign of understanding him. He moved forward, close to the injured man, opened the bag, then looked closer, saw blood thick on his shirt, a rag tied across one shoulder. He slid his hand beneath it, felt the gash in the man's flesh, his hand now in the wound, foamy and wet, the man not crying out. The Americans around him kept mostly quiet, one shouting something, a guard at the cell door shouting back. It was a ridiculous show, no communication at all, just the growls of injured animals, hatred and viciousness. But the j.a.panese guards had every advantage, and the Americans seemed to know they were powerless, had to trust this older man who claimed to be a doctor. At least, he thought, they will allow me to do my work.

He eased the bandage off the shoulder, and Hamis.h.i.ta frowned, the wound already festering. The smell rose up, spreading through the cavelike cell, mingling with the damp earth and filthy men. He took an instrument from his bag, sc.r.a.ped at the wound, the man still oblivious, no real consciousness. But the others reacted, some turning away from the gruesome sight, others watching his every move. No, I am not here to torture. If he can be cured, I will do my best. He probed the wound, saw fragments of bone, the slow pulse of an artery, opened now, the blood draining away through the man's rag of a shirt. One of the others said something, the man's tone more of desperation, a plea.

"It is not good. He has lost much blood. Too much."

Hamis.h.i.ta knelt upright, wiped the blood from his hand, put one finger on the man's eyelid, opened, saw the pupils wide and black, a small window through the man's blue eyes into a brain that was almost gone. The injured man was completely calm, no reaction at all, the odor from his wound overpowering in the cramped s.p.a.ce. For more than thirty years he had treated every type of injury, and now most of those were wounds, many of them more severe than this one. He had never been bothered by the blood, by the opening of a man's flesh. But the smells had always affected him, the unavoidable stench of a man's inevitable death by the decay of blood and flesh, by the swift work of bacteria and vermin moving too quickly to be stopped. He removed a small vial of alcohol from his bag, sprinkled it on his hands, wiped again, cleaned as much of the man's debris from his skin as he could. He looked at the others, each one with the fear and the anger for what had happened to them. Hamis.h.i.ta would not think of that, had no hatred for these men, no matter their missions, no matter what destruction they might be responsible for. He had seen the pain of loss too many times, knew the look in the eyes, stricken with the blow of sadness, of the reality that a friend was dying. He tried to see who might be in charge, could tell nothing from their flight jackets, the uniforms looked the same, no insignia he recognized. One of the men seemed to feel the moment more deeply than the others, and the doctor caught his eye, slowly shook his head. Another man said something to him, a demand, hard words, and Hamis.h.i.ta ignored him, kept his eye on the man who was crying now, red eyes, fear, the man already missing his friend.

"I'm sorry. The infection is too p.r.o.nounced. He has lost consciousness. I do not have the medicine that would save him. Even if he was in hospital ... there is little I can do."

He closed the medical bag, stood, backed away, saw the fierce stares watching him, all but one, the friend, the man moving close, a hand on the dying man's arm. The American said something, soft words, and Hamis.h.i.ta heard a soft gurgle, one final breath, a faint rattle from the man's throat, the injured American injured no more. The others seemed to understand, another one speaking out, not as much anger, something to Hamis.h.i.ta, a short nod, some kind of grat.i.tude. The doctor made a short bow, said, "I'm sorry. Your comrade is gone. I was too late."

He was out of the cell now, the guards closing the steel door with a hard clang, a stupid show the Americans certainly did not need. Hamis.h.i.ta moved out into fresher air, thought, they know their war is over. For those men, anyway, we are the victors. How many of us did they kill first? No, that is not your concern. Their friend died honorably, in the performance of his duty. If that is not important to them ... well, it should be.

He had watched the raid from the bombers, a formation of B-24s doing what they always did, dropping strings of bombs that rained down like tiny insects. This raid had targeted some military barracks no more than a few hundred yards from his clinic. But two of the planes had not escaped, the first time he had actually witnessed accurate fire from the anti-aircraft batteries that kept hidden against the far hills. The planes had twisted and spun, wounded birds, and from each the parachutes had emerged like white puffs of cotton. He had watched them fall, their planes first, thunderous crashes into the woods to the north. The flyers came next, a dozen, slow and deliberate, and there had been gunfire from the ground, a rifle, but then the flyers were down, out of his view. He knew they had no chance to escape capture, the soldiers waiting for them before they even reached the ground. The six he had seen were among them, certainly, and it was not his place to ask what had happened to the rest. But the call to examine this group had been a surprise, a messenger from Captain Narita, and Hamis.h.i.ta had responded at once, a brisk hike from his clinic straight to the castle.

He was outside now, more guards, no one seeming to pay any attention to this one elderly civilian among a sea of uniforms. He saw Captain Narita, the man speaking to an aide, reading from a piece of paper. Hamis.h.i.ta moved that way, and Narita saw him, said, "So. Will they survive?"

"One did not. The others show no apparent injury. I am not certain why you needed me to verify that."

"You will do precisely that, Doctor. Verify that. I wish to have a written report from you, stating that the American prisoners are in acceptable condition, that we have not tortured or abused them. If you have time, of course."

Hamis.h.i.ta knew that the kindness in Narita's request was completely counterfeit, that the paperwork would be produced whether it was written by Hamis.h.i.ta or by someone else who simply added the doctor's signature.

"I will do so immediately, Captain. With your permission, I will return to my clinic. You shall have your paper by this afternoon."

"Is there a hurry, Doctor? Perhaps you will come to the commander's villa for tea."

It was another order, and Hamis.h.i.ta thought of the work that awaited him at the clinic, only a few patients, wounded civilians from the last bombing raid, one woman who had just given birth.

"Nothing urgent awaits me, Captain. I am honored to be your guest."

"Excellent. But you will not be my guest. Someone wishes to see you. You should be honored by such an invitation."

Hamis.h.i.ta was baffled by the hint of mystery, made a short bow, followed as Narita moved up the inclined path that led out away from the lower levels of the castle. He was still curious about the rest of the American flyers, if they had survived at all, if they were being held separately from the others, some kind of security, a place of interrogation perhaps. It was an odd request from Narita that the doctor provide doc.u.mentation that the six men he had seen had not been tortured, that they had been given proper medical treatment. He knew very little of military matters, thought, perhaps they are to be traded, an exchange for some of our own. They would need to be in good condition, I suppose. That makes sense. The captain stopped, pointed the way, and Hamis.h.i.ta saw the grand home, guards flanking a narrow driveway, gates adorned with metal carvings. He knew of the place, a headquarters of sorts, had seen parades of officers coming and going. But today there was little activity beyond the presence of the guards. Narita said, "Your host is waiting. You may enter, on my authority."

The words were loud, intended for the guards, who made no movement at all. Hamis.h.i.ta turned to thank the captain, but the man was already moving away, back toward the castle, the activity there much more intense, a column of soldiers emerging from an upper doorway, more gathering in the wide grounds to one side. Busy man, he thought. I suppose ... if someone was trying to drop bombs on my clinic, I would be busy too.

He moved up the walkway, past the guards, no one looking at him. The driveway was lined on either side by flowers, more greenery beyond. The house itself was very old, two stories, ornate carvings perched in various crevices in the stone architecture. There were more guards at the entry-way, a heavy bronze door that was suddenly opened for him.

"Thank you. Very kind."

The guards did not respond, and Hamis.h.i.ta moved inside, caught the wondrous fragrance of food being prepared. For many months his own meals had consisted mostly of rice and dried fish, a necessity impressed on the civilians by the needs of the army. He had made his fights with the local military headquarters, protesting to anyone who would listen that the needs of his patients were a priority that even the local military commanders should understand, since he had been called upon to treat soldiers as well as civilians wounded in the bombing attacks. But so far there had been no promises of anything more than meager rations, and no other supplies at all, including the desperately needed medicines. He understood the needs of the army, but still he hoped that his status as a doctor would open someone's eyes to the necessity of a helping hand. Whatever medicines and supplies he had used on his patients had been scrounged from places the army would not have appreciated. It had been risky, but the doctor knew that each barracks was stocked with a first aid kit. Even the small doses of morphine or disinfectants would be useful, and if those kits were discovered to be missing, he had convinced himself, a doctor would be low on the list of suspected thieves.

The smells in the grand house were overwhelming him, erasing the sickening odor of the castle, and he searched for someone, anyone, heard a voice.

"Doctor! I have a small pain in my toe. I insisted that you be the one to treat it. There is no one in the empire more qualified to clip my toenails."

The voice was strangely familiar, and he saw the man at the top of the grand staircase, stared up into a wide, beaming smile.

"Shunroku!" He froze, saw the grandeur of the man's uniform, realized this was no time for such informality. "Forgive me, please. Field Marshal Hata! It is my honor to be in your presence."

"Yes, of course it is, Okiro. It is my honor too. I look in the mirror and announce myself every morning when I awaken. *Hata Shunroku, you have the honor once more of adorning yourself with the uniform of a field marshal. Be worthy, or they will strip it from you.' How I manage to fill such enormous shoes is yet a mystery to me."

"I heard you had come to Hiroshima, that you were in command now. I have wondered how you were doing, but your fame has answered those questions. I never thought you would have time to see me ... or even remember me. It has been years."

"Fifteen years. You treated a member of my staff when we were on maneuvers, just before the Manchukuo affair began. I recall being impressed that my old friend should have accomplished so much."

"I am merely a physician, Field Marshal. You are so far above me ... so accomplished. I could hardly matter to a man in your position."

"Why is that? Old friendships are far more valuable than new ones, and these days new friends are best avoided. Even the emperor knows this. He is avoiding anyone who does not smell like a friend."

A servant appeared now, a short, thin woman in a white silk kimono. She bowed deeply, her hands clasped tightly beneath her chin. Hata moved down the stairway, said, "Is the lunch prepared?"

She did not speak, her positive response coming in another bow. She turned quickly, moved away.

Hata watched her, said, "Perhaps we should even fear the girls. I should have you examine the food, test it for poison." He winked at the doctor now. "I am teasing of course. My staff is loyal to a fault. The fault is that they have chosen to be loyal to me."

Hamis.h.i.ta stiffened as Hata descended closer to him, and the field marshal stopped, seemed disappointed by the doctor's formality.

"Not you as well. I am treated like a deity by my soldiers. I do not expect such from one who has spent his youth swimming with me in the cold spring of that farmer, Gorito. We barely escaped that man without becoming a meal for his dogs. And me without my clothing! What would my colonels say of that?"

Hamis.h.i.ta tried to loosen his formality, but Hata's uniform was too imposing.

"Yes. I recall that. We were no more than ten, I suppose. The farmer complained to your parents. Your father did not spare the whip, as I recall."

Hata's smile darkened now, the words coming out slowly, quietly, "None of us will be spared the whip. Those of us in the High Command who have been so impatient for this war to end will soon enjoy the gratification of their wish fulfilled." Hata pointed toward a room to one side. "Come, my friend. Lunch awaits."

Hamis.h.i.ta followed, could not help admiring the field marshal's boots, a high sheen on black leather. The source of the smells was apparent now, a table lined with small bowls of steaming food, framed on each end by enormous vases of flowers.

"Sit there, Okiro. I shall a.s.sume my position at the head of the table. No one will be joining us but our ancestors. But even the spirits expect me to take my accustomed place. It will keep them from remembering a naked frightened child fleeing a barking dog. I should certainly have to answer for that once more when I reach the great shrine. What about you? What do you have to answer for? A respected physician, managing his own clinic. Did you ever imagine you would find yourself in such a position?"

Hamis.h.i.ta moved to the cushion where Hata pointed, sat, curled his legs beneath him.

"I have been fortunate. The emperor has blessed me. I have had a long and healthy life."

"Yes, the emperor. He wants only the best for his people. We are his children, yes? We should all grow old like you and me, in the splendor of this wonderful house."

Hamis.h.i.ta heard the sarcasm in Hata's voice, wasn't sure how to respond. The field marshal pointed a single chopstick at the bowls spread in front of them, said, "Eat. This is more nourishing than cold rice. I know what kind of rations you have, what you give your patients. It is a tragedy for you not to be more ably equipped. A man who cares for so many should be well fed."

Hamis.h.i.ta obeyed, sliding soft noodles into an empty bowl, the steam from a warm broth bathing his face. He absorbed Hata's words, thought, so, you know how little I have, down to the last detail? He wanted to ask about that, thought of so many young officers who had scoffed at his every request. But Hata was far too intimidating.

"Thank you for this invitation, Field Marshal. I am grateful that you allow yourself a moment's attention to my position in our empire. I am flattered."

Hata slurped at his own bowl, ignored Hamis.h.i.ta's grat.i.tude, seemed lost in thought. Hamis.h.i.ta looked closely at his friend now, saw the age. They were both in their mid-sixties, the hard life of a soldier showing in Hata's face, the roughness of his hands. Hata looked at him now, said, "Have you been taking the training?"

Hamis.h.i.ta felt suddenly self-conscious.

"I was told my position as a doctor ..."

"Stop. I am teasing you. Must you be so serious? You were the same as a boy, always the wounded one, the one who took offense, the one bitten by the insults. These days I should be the one who never smiles. My army carries the wounds that are far more serious than what an old farmer's dog could do. You and I carry wounds of happier times. I recall you falling from that old bent cherry tree. You broke an arm, your ... left. I think we were both crying, and your father insisted that if there were tears, there had to be blood. I have always remembered that. There was wisdom in his cruelty."

Hamis.h.i.ta had tried to erase those kinds of memories, was amazed that Hata would recall them.

"If I may ask, Field Marshal, why have you summoned me?"

"Now you insult me. I have known you since we were in playpens, and I can feel your doubt, as though my intentions are dishonorable. My power and my rank causes me to be despised by everyone in my command, and today I merely seek out the company of an old friend. And would you please stop referring to me as field marshal? I need not be reminded that I command the entire Second General Army. But out there, this vast army that obeys my orders, there are not more than a handful of men who even know my familiar name. The emperor knows nothing of ten-year-olds making mischief in a farmer's barn, or stealing cherries from an old lady's orchard. I treasure those times, innocence and joy. Broken bones and dog bites. Very soon I shall enjoy that again, in another place. Those memories shall become reality again, as shall the best part of family. There shall no longer be sacrifice and pain and blood. Is that not what you wish as well? Would you not relish climbing that cherry tree? This time I would try to catch you."

Hamis.h.i.ta stopped eating, was uncomfortable now, began to see a hint of madness in the field marshal's rant.

"I ... would very much like to enjoy my childhood again. Very much. But those days are gone. I have more ... adult duties to perform. We all do."

"For now. Do not think for one moment that I do not take my duties here very seriously. I am honored the emperor chooses me for such a task. I spent so much time in his palace, enduring the twittering of all those neutered birds who flutter around him, so very careful not to say anything that might cause his heart rate to rise one extra beat. For so long the emperor treated me the same way, flowery kindness, rewarding my grand career with promises of great, lofty positions. Prime minister! How about that? If I had accepted that, then I too could become one of the fragile little birds. But I am a soldier. Forty-five years in this army, Okiro. That's why I am here. There cannot be much more time and I must fulfill my duty the best way I know how. That is why they despise me, of course. I make them work. But the emperor does not control my every waking moment, and he cannot tell me that, for one pleasant pause in my day, I cannot spend my time with a very old friend, sharing a simple lunch."

Hamis.h.i.ta made a short bow of his head.

"Please accept my apologies. But you are too famous and too powerful in this world for me to treat you as the boy I knew in f.u.kushima. You are a great hero to j.a.pan. I know of your accomplishments, your career. I was so very proud of you, I cannot just toss that aside. When I learned you were coming here, I did not dare think you would even recall who I am."

"We all have our heroes, Doctor. I have followed your career as well. A long life in the army has its rewards, including sources of information. Look at you. You heal what I destroy. There is honor in that, far beyond what a soldier is trained to do." He paused, more serious now. "I was sent to Hiroshima to fortify the city, to add one more bastion to what will become the emperor's impregnable fortress. Such a duty does not result in friends, Okiro. At the castle, even now, they lurk in corners and curse my name, because I force them to be better soldiers. I order men to perform their duty, because if I do not, they will lie about and abuse slave girls. Yes, I am despised. But if there is greatness to my life, it will come in what I do now. Our time is very close, Okiro. We have been granted Divine Opportunity."

Hamis.h.i.ta saw a glimmer of fire in his friend's eye, the soldier staring off for a second, absorbing his own meaning. But the doctor did not respond, wasn't sure what his friend was referring to. After a silent moment, Hata said, "I have always believed in a war of attrition. The military has made many mistakes. But now that will change. The enemy is coming, and very soon he will walk right into our parlor, where the knives await. It is so completely appropriate that it should come to this. The emperor has blessed you, my friend. He has blessed all j.a.panese, all of us who stand on our own soil, who will share the blessing of opportunity to greet the enemy with a violent death. The Americans will bring their ships and they will land their soldiers on our beaches and strike us in our harbors, and they will rely on the successes they have had against inferior commanders on far-flung outposts, absurd battles fought by men who never had the resources to prevail. But look around you. Look at this city! You know of the training, you have seen it, certainly. Every j.a.panese citizen, every one! The Americans cannot endure such a foe. They have become accustomed to smothering us like rats in caves, they have butchered our banzai attacks, they crush our feeble defenses in jungles where no man should ever fight a war. There are those in the High Command who continue to believe that all those many islands, all those nations we have subdued are ours still, that any talk of an enemy invasion of j.a.pan is pure folly. But here is truth, my friend. Our empire does not rely on territory, on so many square kilometers of land we have taken from savages. The j.a.panese empire is right here, on this land, and in these people. In you and in me. The enemy believes that he is gaining victories because he chases outgunned and overmatched troops away from places where we never should have wasted our resources. I find no fault with the Americans. They have responded to our foolish errors by striking back at us. Those in Tokyo who believed we could match their armament were fools. Where we will prevail is in the heart, the soul, the spirit of what this empire means. They advance toward our homes having no idea what awaits them. They have no understanding what will happen to them here. None! And that is where I draw my energy. My father was a samurai, as was yours. They would understand what I do here. They are watching us, fists raised, knowing what will happen next!"

Hamis.h.i.ta felt the words engulfing him, the field marshal's energy flooding the room. Hata shoved a bowl of the noodles aside, seemed disgusted by the wordly presence of something so mundane.

"Perhaps you do not know all that is happening, my friend. I do not fault you for that. You are doing good work, you are healing the sick. You even treat prisoners of war. There are those who would toss those American aircraft crews to the dogs, to have them ripped apart by enraged civilians. I would rather have them fit and healthy. Witnesses, Okiro. They shall be witnesses to what we shall do to their brethren. No one will say of us that we are savages. I am sickened by the brutality of some of our generals. It is one thing to eliminate vermin like the Chinese, or to make good use of the strong backs of the Koreans. But when a man stands to fight you, and you conquer him, he should not be abused for that. A soldier should die like a soldier, whether he is captured or whether he leads his men in a great victorious charge. Either way he is still a soldier. And I want them to know, all of them, I want them to see what kind of soldiers we are. Not just me, not just this army ... but all of j.a.pan. We are a nation who has risen on the shoulders of the samurai, the code of the Bushido is a part of all of us." He paused, looked hard at Hamis.h.i.ta, smiled. "Physician. A man who heals the broken bodies. Your ancestors will be proud of you for your capable hands and your good heart. But there are many good hearts beating in this city and beyond. We are mobilizing the citizenry in every town, every city. Every man, woman, and child is being taught how to properly defend their country, and their emperor. A soldier is a better soldier when he is given the proper weapon. The same is true for everyone. A child, an old woman ... they already have the spirit, the devotion to their country. But give them a weapon, teach them how to defend their country, and you have created an unstoppable force. I am one man, I can only do so much, but they sent me to Hiroshima because I do it well. I am truly excited by the future, Okiro. The entire island of Kyushu will become a b.l.o.o.d.y battlefield. In the countryside, farmers are being shown that precious gasoline does not merely drive a tractor. It makes bombs. They are being taught to create deadly traps for the enemy in every rice paddy, in every field. Every house can become a tomb. Imagine this. A home, armed with explosives, people armed with weapons. They are invaded by an enemy force, and by their own hand, the home explodes, the people inside ignite weapons of horrifying power. The enemy ... he dies, swallowing his own blood. The civilian, the j.a.panese farmer, his wife, his child ... they leave this life and move on with perfect honor. It is poetry, my friend. It is justice, and it is the legacy of this empire. I have never felt such enthusiasm for an attack. And the people! Their enthusiasm is most gratifying of all! Yes, the Americans are coming, and with them comes Divine Opportunity!"

Hamis.h.i.ta stared at his friend with open-mouthed awe, saw the man's hands shaking, the redness in his face.

"What can I do, Shunroku? I will train, as you say."

"No. You will do what you have always done, my friend. There will be wounded, a great many wounded. Repair them, return them to the fight."

The request sounded mundane, Hamis.h.i.ta feeling left out of something far more important.

"But ... I want to do more. I want to help us win this war."

Hata sat back against a large cushion, smiled.

"Of course you do. Your loyalty to the emperor is well known, far more than you might be aware. But we will not win the war. That was never a possibility, not after the attack on the American fleet, not after we inspired so much patriotism from that race of mongrels. Despite all the bl.u.s.ter of those generals in Tokyo, all the claims of our superiority in numbers and in arms, all those radio broadcasts convincing the people how we devastated the enemy in every fight, there was never any other way this war could end. Winning was never an option."

"I don't understand. I thought ..."

"There is much that I cannot tell you. But four years ago, when the Americans were attacked, there were many among us who knew we had made a fatal error. The emperor ... he might have known that as well. But in war the loud voices prevail, and the emperor was swallowed by those voices. They are there still, calling for empire and expansion, denying even now that the enemy is anything more than a fly, easily swatted away. Those people ... those generals are fools."

"But if you do not believe we can win ... why do we fight?"

"Because we fight! Everything is the fight, my friend. Don't you see? It is not important that we defeat the Americans. What matters more is that they shall never defeat us! This war shall end and the foolish generals on both sides shall be swept away by their incompetence, their grand designs. Entire armies will cease to be. It is history, it is nature, it is the way. From the ashes new samurai will come, and j.a.pan will rise again and be as she has always been. Oh, the war will end, make no mistake. The guns will fall silent, and all sides shall bury their dead, and there will be mourning and outcries. But no matter any of that, j.a.pan will not lose. Our emperor is eternal, our empire is eternal. Armies come and go, men die, some with gracefulness, some with shame and cowardice. But j.a.pan will always remain. That is what the Americans do not understand. I know something of their culture. They care a great deal about winning. But they will soon learn that wars do not decide winners and losers. Wars are where the honorable go to die, where the samurai meets his just fate. It does not matter that Tokyo has been burned, that our cities suffer their bombs. There is only one victory that is important, and no matter how many men must die, that victory will be achieved. The people know this, they are responding as I had expected. In every place I have been, every place where the training is taking place, even now, as we sit here, the people are rising up for the honor of j.a.pan, for the blessing of the emperor, for the permanence of the empire. That, Doctor, is why we fight."

The lunch had not settled well in his stomach, and the long walk to his home had pa.s.sed with more than one quick jaunt into the brush. All along the road, there had been many people, all on foot, going about their business with a kind of sad urgency, not quite the raucous enthusiasm for the fight that Field Marshal Hata had seemed to believe bathed every corner of the island. But in the fields Hamis.h.i.ta had been surprised to see a.s.semblies, civilians gathered into formations, just as Hata had described. Not far from his clinic he had pa.s.sed by a schoolyard, stopped, curious, watching a group of women, a hundred or more, young and old, standing in rows, attentive to the instructions from a soldier. Most carried bamboo poles, sharpened into spears; others held farm implements. But they obeyed the drills with increasing precision, while to one side another soldier called out the chants, the cheers, infusing them with the same astounding spirit Hamis.h.i.ta had heard from the old commander. He had seen children as well, a long column marching down the road past him, grim-faced boys mostly, holding broomsticks and tree limbs up on their shoulders, mimicking the march of riflemen. As he drew closer to his clinic, he had seen familiar faces, a group of old men, listening to a raucous lecture from another soldier, an officer Hamis.h.i.ta had treated in his clinic. The sounds of the mobilization seemed to grow in every crossroads, through every field, the great mission a.s.signed to Field Marshal Hata taking place in every corner of the island, all across the city. Hamis.h.i.ta watched it all, slowed his journey home to absorb what Hata had driven into him, the pure and simple inevitability of what would happen when the Americans came.

He was close to the clinic, his attention suddenly drawn by low thunder. He turned, knew it was another bombing raid, the sounds rising up from south of the city. There are many factories there, he thought. The Americans have no lack of targets. The question rose in his mind now, as it had for many weeks. The Americans bring their bombers with perfect regularity, and yet I have never seen a response from the Imperial Air Force. The anti-aircraft fire is there, always, and sometimes, as today, the gunners are fortunate. He thought of a book he had read, translated from German, a gift from a friend who had traveled to Europe at the start of the war there. He had been fascinated by the exploits of the man they called the Red Baron, had read many stories of the other great aces who flew in the first Great War. We have men like that, surely. The government tells us of great victories in the air, of so many enemy planes shot out of the sky. Finally I saw it for myself, those bombers. And that was truly glorious, watching those huge machines break into pieces, fire and smoke. And parachutes. But we fire so much ammunition from the ground, and so much is wasted, so little success. Where are the Zeroes? It has been so long since they flew past here, great flocks roaring overhead, flying out to meet the enemy in some other place. Am I not supposed to think about this? Am I not supposed to wonder if the war has come to j.a.pan because we have no way to prevent that? There was so much cheering about our conquests, all the islands, the great lands, the Philippines, China, Australia, even America. It was all to be part of the emperor's great destiny. Why has that changed? The Americans have driven our empire back to us, and my friend tells me it is all part of his plan. Hata says we are inviting them into our parlor. But would it not be better if we could destroy them in some far-distant place? Must our cities suffer, the old and the sick, too many for me to care for? He tells me my job now is to return the wounded to the fight. How many wounded will that be? How long will the fight last?

He had thought often of Tokyo, the horrific ravages of the firebombing that had destroyed so much of the grand city. His wife had gone there often, was there now, seeking out relatives, caring for the injured, a task that by all accounts had grown obscenely difficult. Years ago they taught us to fight the fires with buckets, he thought, long lines of citizens hauling water by hand. It seemed like the right thing to do, preparing us, organizing us to deal with a burning building, or a block of homes. But a city? Tokyo was a firestorm, and the men with buckets were swept away like so many pieces of straw in a bonfire. The government did not tell us that. I only know because my wife was there to see it. Officially, that disaster never happened. How many people were lost ... unofficially? How much of what we are told is simply wrong? Hata is my friend, and he chose to share his thoughts with me. I should be honored by that. He is an important man, respected, even by the emperor. He surely knows what he is talking about. He surely knows what is best for us. He would not lie to me. Certainly he believes what he says. Can I?

He moved to the door of the clinic now, saw no one waiting for him, a relief. He hesitated, still felt the discomfort in his belly, his stomach in one great knot.

He opened the clinic door, caught the smell of disinfectants, comforting somehow. The front office was empty, and he glanced at the small clock on the desk, after seven, knew that his a.s.sistant had gone home. He thought of the young woman's family, her husband in the army, missing for months now, her child barely walking. What will she do when the Americans come? Will she stand and face them with a bamboo stick in her hand, while her child stands behind her gripping her skirt? Is that how their war will end? There is one certainty, he thought. If the Americans land here, we shall see for ourselves what this war will do to our people. Is that not as important as all this talk of empire? Surely the Americans will bring guns and tanks and great pieces of artillery, and their planes will lead the way. And if Field Marshal Hata is to be believed, we should stand proudly and face death with pride that we have fought for the emperor, that merely by the act, we have preserved the empire. I wish I found comfort from that.

He stood in the darkening room, heard talk from beyond the inner door, patients and his staff, the suffering and those who did what they could to ease it. Outside, a new chorus of rumbling began, more bombers, far away, another target, more deaths, one more day in a war he was simply supposed to accept.

29. TIBBETS.

HEADQUARTERS, 509TH COMPOSITE GROUP, TINIAN.

AUGUST 3, 1945.

The thundering impact rattled the Quonset hut, and Tibbets flinched, felt the jarring blast rolling through the offices, his coffee cup spilling, a photograph on the far wall tumbling to the concrete floor. He pulled himself up quickly from the chair, rushed outside, saw the others there already, the darkness giving way to a bright orange glow to the north, the last flames of a great fireball.

"What happened?"

Ferebee responded, the bombardier staring fixed at the sight.

"Never made it past the end of the runway. You could hear the engine fail, sputtering like h.e.l.l. They never had a chance."

He saw flashing red lights in the distance, fire trucks and ambulances, the emergency vehicles that waited close to the runways for every mission.

"d.a.m.n. The thing just lit up?"