The Final Storm Part 30

"Roger. Two seven two. Speed two zero zero."

"AP in ten minutes."

"Roger. Ten minutes."

"Winds south at ten."

Tibbets felt a stab of alarm. The prevailing winds over this part of j.a.pan came from the west, and he cursed silently, realized Parsons was standing just behind him, nothing left for the man to do. Tibbets said, "Dammit, Navigator, give me a course correction."

"Working on it, sir."

The voice was Ferebee's, the bombardier fully aware how to correct for any variation in wind speed. Tibbets waited, agonizing seconds, heard Van Kirk's voice now.

"Correct to two six four."

Tibbets eased the plane slightly to the left, stared at the slow turn of the compa.s.s, said, "Roger, two six four."

Ferebee's voice came now, the man agitated, high-pitched, Tibbets not concerned, knew that even the most professional bombardier would feel this strain.

"Okay, I've got the bridge."

Van Kirk said, "No question about it."

Tibbets strained to see, knew both men had a far clearer view from the Plexiglas nose cone of the plane. He saw it now, the distinct T-shaped bridge, heard Van Kirk again, "Ninety seconds."

Tibbets said, "Bombardier, it's all yours."

He lifted his hands slowly from the controls, felt the plane quiver slightly, Ferebee taking control. Behind him, Parsons leaned low, said, "Forty-seven seconds. Remember that. From the time the bomb leaves, you've got forty-seven seconds to get the h.e.l.l out of here."

"You get out of here! Get back to your d.a.m.n lights. I know what to do!"

There was no time for an apology, Parsons backing away, and Tibbets wouldn't think of that now, knew no one would be p.i.s.sed off by a short temper, not now. Tibbets sat back, gazed out across the vast sweep of the city, scanned skyward, no sign at all of enemy planes, no anti-aircraft fire. He had a burst of thought, keyed the intercom again, said, "Goggles. All of you. Put 'em on!"

Tibbets had his own resting up on his forehead, would wait until the final second. He knew Ferebee was working intensely with the bomb sight, the man wonderfully good at his job. Come on, Tom. One more job. That's all.

The tone came now, a high-pitched sound generated by one of the electrical connections to the bomb itself. Tibbets was startled, scolded himself nervously, knew to expect it. It was one small part of Parsons's instrument panel, triggered by a connection that had been strung to the bomb sight, controlled by Ferebee. When the bomb dropped, the wires would pull free, and the tone would quit. But Tibbets knew that when the tone began, there was one meaning. One minute to go.

Tibbets stared ahead, nothing else to do, felt a hand on his shoulder, Parsons, the hand letting go. All this time. All this work. Everything ... and then he heard the violent rush of air, the bomb bay doors opening, and in an instant, the radio tone was silent. The plane suddenly lurched upward, the voice of Ferebee in his ear.

"Bomb away."

Tibbets took the controls again, paused for a glance at his watch, nine-fifteen and seventeen seconds. He pulled hard on the yoke now, the plane in a sudden steep bank to the right, the compa.s.s spinning, Tibbets struggling to hold tight to the yoke. The plane bounced, the tail settling downward, just as it always had, the Enola Gay fighting the unnatural angle, Tibbets fighting with her to prevent a full roll, keeping the tail up just enough to avoid the stall. He slipped one hand from the yoke, a quick jab at his face, the welder's gla.s.ses down over his eyes, total blackness, the instruments gone completely. Son of a b.i.t.c.h! He raised the goggles again, just enough, had to see, watched the compa.s.s, thought, h.e.l.l I'll be going the other way. Forty-seven d.a.m.n seconds ... the image of the tail gunner flashed in his mind ... Caron, you jacka.s.s, you better not forget those goggles. How many seconds has it been?

"Tail gunner! See anything?"

"Not yet ... oh ..."

The c.o.c.kpit suddenly filled with a soft glow, and Tibbets felt his heart racing, felt a tingling sensation, had a sudden metallic taste in his mouth, thought, what the h.e.l.l? He fought the distraction, kept his eyes on the panel, straightened the flight of the plane, glanced to the side, the blue sky changing to pink and purple, engulfing the plane, bathing the c.o.c.kpit in eerie light. In the tail Sergeant Caron stared through the welder's gla.s.ses, tried to make out any detail, blinded by the light of ten suns, and he pushed the b.u.t.tons on the camera, again and again.

31. HAMIs.h.i.tA.

NORTHERN OUTSKIRTS OF HIROSHIMA.

AUGUST 6, 1945, 8:15 A.M. (LOCAL TIME).

Through the long night he had slept close to his wife, the tragedy of her trip to Tokyo hard on both of them. For more than a week she had sought out missing relatives, learning that two were confirmed dead, others not heard from at all. The refugees from the great city had been fleeing the destruction there for weeks, seeking refuge in the countryside, some with family, some homeless, traveling anywhere they could find food and shelter. Her return the evening before had brought a flood of tears, triggered mainly by the sight of her husband in his surgical gown, his hands thick with blood. The tears had been unusual, the product of so many days sifting through wreckage, the impromptu need for a nurse for some injured stranger. It had been nothing different from what she had seen before, and yet the magnitude of it had seemed to overwhelm her, the outpouring of her emotions triggered by little more than her husband with blood on his hands. He had tried to soothe her with words that belied his appearance, that he was the fortunate one, they both were, healers, in a place where so much was needed. On this one night he had to concede that the healing was not as helpful as it might have been. More often he spent his time in the clinic ministering to the injured, whether soldier or civilian, usually some wound from the collapse of a building, a direct hit from an American bomb. But there had been no bombing raids on the city for the past two days, and she had arrived just as Hamis.h.i.ta had completed an emergency cesarean on a pregnant woman. What should have been a small glimmer of light in a dark world had instead been a tragedy all its own. The baby was stillborn, the mother barely surviving. As a trained nurse, his wife had seen as much blood and as much tragedy as he had, but the death of the baby was one more knife in her emotions, one more weight for a woman who had struggled through too much of her own.

As quickly as possible, he had closed the clinic for the night, changing from the surgical garb, removing any sign of the sadness of his own day. They had eaten an evening meal in silence and candlelight. It had been common for some time, all of Hiroshima blacked out, logical precautions against an American raid. With the darkness swallowing the city and everything around them, she had pulled him to the bed, a woman who needed the secure arms of her husband. He had obliged her, had kept himself awake while he tried vainly to soothe her tears. His last thoughts were of the morning, that he would make some effort to find some flowers, something cheerful, to wake her to color and light and a smile. But his own exhaustion was overwhelming, and when he woke, it was to daylight. The shock of that had pulled him from his bed in a quick scramble, and he had moved outside to the comforting warmth still in his nightclothes. The day was bright blue, and he thought still of the flowers, knew she would not sleep late, would rise to find him gone. He moved quickly out the short walkway to the road, saw a spread of wildflowers beyond, sad, shriveled, thought, well, it will be something. There was no one on the road, the usual silence since the lack of gasoline had taken away the cars. He glanced down at his embarra.s.sing dress, thought, well, who will care anyway? He heard the sound now, familiar, the distant drone of a great plane, looked up, thought, they come already? Can they give us no relief, not even for a few days? He searched for it, caught a glimpse of reflection, the plane very high, and he shook his head, thought, just ... do it somewhere else, somewhere south of the city. Let me do my job today without the blood of wounded men. His eye was held to the plane, a dark speck falling from it, and he stared in curiosity, had not usually seen the bombs. He waited, watched, the speck falling, toward the center of the city, closer now to the castle. Strange, he thought. The sound of the plane abruptly changed, and even at that distance he could hear an odd pitch to the usual whine. He saw the reflection changing, the sun catching both wings, a great silver bird in a wide sweeping turn. He had never flown before, thought of the men on the plane, no different from the men he had treated that week. Perhaps you know of them, your own, left behind while you continue to do your awful work. But ... one plane? Are you here just to remind us what kind of power you have? He thought of Hata, the old field marshal. He is not intimidated by you. Perhaps you should be afraid of our power, of what we will do to you when you finally have the courage to put your troops on our soil. He felt a strange anger, looked toward his house, knew it was not about planes and pilots, and the prisoners he had treated in the dungeon of the great castle. Just ... leave us alone. Hata, the generals, and admirals, and all their speeches, their radio broadcasts. All of you. Allow us our love for our emperor, to love all it is to be j.a.panese. Why must you all make war? What have you done that makes our lives any better? End this foolishness. I will not be a part of Hata's b.l.o.o.d.y wall, and neither shall I surrender. I will repair the flesh, but I will not share your l.u.s.t for a fight.

He began to move back toward his house, felt foolish, cursing at airplanes, cursing at his old friend. He ignored the plane now, stepped out in the road, saw a group of men coming up from the town, soldiers, one more march, one more drill into the countryside. He hurried his steps, moved out of their way, and the sky seemed to burst above him, a blinding flash of orange and purple, a low roar, growing louder. The roar drove him down to the ground, deafening, a hard hand pressing him flat, the ground beneath him moving, rumbling, a gaping crack, a ditch, his body sliding, driven hard into a low place. The darkness covered the sky, he saw nothing at all now, the immense brightness changing to black, smoke and dirt, then no sky at all. He stayed flat, immovable, the darkness covering him, crushing in on him, obliterating the road, the flowers, and he felt a hard punch of wind, ripping the ground around him, debris whistling past, a piece of something hard striking his stomach. He tried to call out, turned to the house, terror in his mind, thoughts of his wife, raised his head in the violent storm, saw the house suddenly collapse to one side, flattened. More debris blew past him, and he tried to stand, impossible, was driven deeper into the ditch, the wind still shrieking over him, dirt and dust and pieces of everything covering him. He called out for his wife, but there was no sound but the roar of the storm. He closed his eyes, felt heat now, tried to curl himself up, too much wind, felt himself pulled up from the low place, sc.r.a.ping the ground, dragged by an invisible hand, his clothes ripped away, searing heat on his back. He rolled to one side, more debris falling, and he covered his face, but his hands were stripped away, his body beaten by the force of the wind. He slid farther along the ground, shoved into another hole, felt his legs crushed against a fallen tree, stopping his slide. He held to the tree, blinded, still crying out, nothing else to do, nowhere to go, his home and the sky and the city simply gone, filled by a swirling storm of fire and debris and the scattered bits of men.

He 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 ma.s.sive 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 gla.s.s. 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 pa.s.sing, 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 j.a.panese to prevail. Hamis.h.i.ta 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 j.a.pan ... we have lost everything.

Hata 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. d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.s 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 ma.s.s 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.

32. TRUMAN.

NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN, ON BOARD THE USS AUGUSTA.

AUGUST 6, 1945.

The 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 j.a.panese response to the Potsdam Declaration, the joint communication issued on July 26 to the j.a.panese 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 j.a.pan. 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.

Truman 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 antic.i.p.ating 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 d.a.m.n 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 j.a.panese city of Hiroshima with a weapon unlike any the world has ever seen. No need for secrets now. I expect this will bring the j.a.panese to the peace table as quickly as they can b.u.t.ton 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."

The Potsdam Declaration had been specific and direct, had called for the j.a.panese to surrender or else face the most dire of consequences. The clauses included a.s.surances that the Allies had every intention of destroying j.a.pan's ability to make war. In addition there were specifics regarding boundaries of what would remain of j.a.panese territory, and those foreign lands j.a.pan would no longer occupy. The j.a.panese 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 j.a.panese people. There were also clauses allowing for j.a.panese industry to be supported in efforts to restore a healthy peacetime economy, and that a more democratic j.a.pan, with freedoms of religion and speech, would be welcomed into the greater world community. Once the new j.a.panese government had taken hold, the declaration had promised that the military occupation of j.a.pan 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: We call upon the government of j.a.pan to proclaim now the unconditional surrender of all armed forces, and to provide proper and adequate a.s.surances of their good faith in such action. The alternative for j.a.pan is prompt and utter destruction.

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 j.a.panese that there was no reason whatsoever for continuing the war. If the j.a.panese 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 j.a.panese 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 j.a.panese, nothing to show that the Imperial High Command actually believed the threat the Allies were making. On the contrary, the j.a.panese response had consisted of the indirect broadcast of an address by the j.a.panese prime minister, Kantaro Suzuki, which used the word mokusatsu. Those in the West who studied j.a.panese culture knew the term to mean silent contempt, as though the j.a.panese 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 j.a.panese 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 j.a.panese government still did not respond at all.

On August 7 and 8, as though to emphasize that the Americans had more on their minds than a single weapon, a force of nearly five hundred B-29s made bombing raids both day and night on a considerable number of j.a.panese targets. With maddening silence still from the j.a.panese, Truman exercised his authority, and gave final agreement to the requests from Leslie Groves and Robert Oppenheimer, as well as the American military commanders who still faced the horrifying prospect of invading mainland j.a.pan. The physicists and technicians of the Manhattan Project had thus far created a total of three atomic bombs. Little Boy, the bomb Colonel Tibbets had dropped on Hiroshima, had been a uranium device, fired with the least complicated form of ignition, the cannon projectile system. But both of the other bombs, including the test bomb exploded at Alamogordo, were altogether different. Those used plutonium, rather than uranium, and were ignited by an implosion method, where ma.s.ses of plutonium would be fired simultaneously from multiple directions into a core of the material at the center of the bomb, causing the collision of a sufficient amount of nuclear material to create a nuclear explosion. Though more complicated than the Hiroshima weapon, the success at Alamogordo had convinced Groves and his teams that this plutonium bomb was just as reliable. The last remaining bomb was named Fat Man, its shape far more spherical than the bomb Tibbets had dropped. It was slightly larger and slightly more powerful than Little Boy, but its effects would be the same. On August 9, three days after the destruction of Hiroshima, and with no indication coming from the j.a.panese that they had any intention of accepting the Potsdam Declaration, Fat Man was loaded aboard the B-29 Bockscar. The plane was piloted by Major Charles Sweeney, who had piloted one of the support planes for Tibbets's Hiroshima mission. After struggling through deteriorating weather conditions over j.a.pan, the primary target of Kokura was abandoned, and Sweeney flew his plane to the secondary target, the city of Nagasaki. With weather conditions threatening to scrub the mission altogether, Sweeney used radar as well as a chance visual through thickening clouds, and at 11:01 A.M., the second atomic bomb was exploded over a j.a.panese city.

Throughout the early days of August, the j.a.panese had been making entreaties directly to the Soviets, requests of influence that Stalin might exercise to bring an end to the war that would help the j.a.panese save face, by ensuring that the Americans did not tamper with the existing structure of the j.a.panese government, and that the tone of the Potsdam Declaration be modified to allow for the emperor to remain the spiritual and political leader of his people. Though Truman had pushed hard for the Soviets to enter the war against j.a.pan, Stalin had resisted any such pressure. With the dropping of the second bomb, Stalin had a sudden change of heart. To the shock of the j.a.panese diplomats in Moscow, on August 9, the same day the city of Nagasaki was destroyed, the Soviets declared war on j.a.pan. In what seemed to be mere minutes, Soviet troops that were poised on the border with China swarmed into Manchuria and immediately began to engage the highly overmatched j.a.panese forces there, sweeping them away with the same dedicated viciousness the Allies had witnessed in Germany.

Truman received news of the second bomb with the same optimism he had felt after the success at Hiroshima. The next day, August 10, that optimism was justified, though not as directly or as succinctly as Truman had expected. A message emerged from the j.a.panese government, delivered through intermediaries, the Swiss and the Swedes: In obedience to the gracious commands of His Majesty the Emperor, who, ever anxious to enhance the cause of world peace, desires earnestly to bring about an early termination of hostilities with a view to saving mankind from the calamities to be imposed on them by further continuation of the war, the j.a.panese government several weeks ago asked the Soviet government, with which neutral relations then prevailed, to render good offices in restoring peace vis-a-vis the enemy powers. Unfortunately, these efforts in the interest of peace having failed, the j.a.panese government, in conformity with the august wish of His Majesty to restore the general peace and desiring to put an end to the untold sufferings engendered by the war, have decided on the following: The j.a.panese government is ready to accept the terms enumerated in the joint declaration that was issued at Potsdam, July 26, 1945, by the heads of government of the United States, Great Britain and China, and later subscribed to by the Soviet government, with the understanding that said declaration does not comprise any demand which prejudices the prerogatives of His Majesty as a sovereign ruler. The j.a.panese government hopes sincerely that this understanding is warranted and desires keenly that an explicit indication to that effect will be speedily forthcoming.

Truman realized that the j.a.panese were balancing their conditions solely on the survival of their emperor and his full authority over the j.a.panese people. After consultations with his own cabinet and military leaders, Truman accepted the j.a.panese terms, so long as the j.a.panese government abided specifically by the Potsdam Declaration. The one fly in the ointment came from the Soviets, who, since they were now officially one of the combatants, added a last-second clause in the agreement that the j.a.panese would have to formally surrender to a representative of both the American and Soviet governments, as though to symbolize that victory had been achieved by the blood and toil of both nations equally. The maneuver was blatantly transparent, since Soviet troops were already galloping through Manchuria with virtually no opposition, seizing territory that Truman knew would be as impossible to pry loose from Stalin's hands as the territories he now controlled in Eastern Europe. Truman's response was definite and negative, though of course the language that was transmitted to the Soviets was couched in diplomatic niceties. Privately Truman had his own description of Stalin's ploy. After only one day's partic.i.p.ation in the war against an enemy that for fifteen years had brutalized and ma.s.sacred their way through Asia and the Pacific, Stalin expected to become a full partner in the spoils. Truman's response, stripped of its diplomacy, was a firm rebuke, otherwise best stated as "nice try."

OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

AUGUST 14, 1945, 7 P.M.

Most of his cabinet was in place, the members of the press corps squeezing in as best they could. Truman waited patiently behind his desk, would allow the microphones to be placed correctly, checked and double-checked, wanted no one left out. To one side he saw Bess, nervous, looked at her with a smile, a small nod, tried to rea.s.sure her with a gentle gesture, thought, she's as nervous as I am, and I'm about to drill myself through this floor. Don't show it though. This is one of those, well ... perfect moments.

The room seemed to settle down, the guards at the door motioning to him that no one remained outside. He stood now, saw his wife jump, flinching, and he smiled again, tried to calm her from the short distance between them, but there was no time now for levity.

"I should like to read to you a message received this afternoon from the j.a.panese government in reply to the message forwarded to that government by the secretary of state on August eleventh. I deem this reply a full acceptance of the Potsdam Declaration which specifies the unconditional surrender of j.a.pan."

There was much more, but through the room he could already feel the surge of energy, the thought flickering through him once more. Yes, a perfect moment. The war is over.

33. ADAMS.

TRAIN STATION, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO.

AUGUST 14, 1945.

The train rolled slowly to a stop, the hard squeal of steel beneath him, the cars now jerking to a halt. Around him people began to rise, a burst of movement, suitcases pulled down from shelves above, a hum of activity surrounding him, keeping him pressed to the seat. He felt self-conscious about the uniform, had seen the looks, the attention of the other pa.s.sengers, the long journey from San Diego seeming to take an eternity. There had been some attempts at conversation, the men mostly, curious, probing him in that carefree way, as though being male gave them some sense of sharing, that his experience was a part of their own, no matter that they had spent the war as civilians.

There had been other troops on the train as well, one sailor, who stayed to himself, two army officers, who ignored this young Marine completely, who spoke with a little too much brashness, attracting attention by the jauntiness of their caps. No matter where they had served, Adams knew it had been nowhere close to a fight.

The women had stayed quiet, one in particular, older, deep sad eyes, and he had avoided her, felt the attention coming from her as though she needed something from him, something too uncomfortable for him to offer. After so many hours it had come to him, a flash of understanding, that she had suffered a deep and tragic loss. He would not ask, would avoid speaking to her at all, and she had not tried to break that shield. But more than once he had seen her face cupped by a handkerchief, her grief ripped bare to the pa.s.sengers around her. He finally understood she was reacting to his uniform. He felt some kind of responsibility, a flicker of guilt, had thought of talking to her. But his shield was solid and immovable, and no matter what inspired her tears, he could do nothing to take away her pain without bringing on his own horrific memories. Even in the crowded car he fought to keep their voices far away. He had no interest in eavesdropping on the trivial, someone's details of a trip to the doctor, a sister's wedding, all the while the older men seeking out some kind of story from him, something they could pa.s.s on to someone else, party conversation, chatter in a bar. Hey, I met this Marine ... a hero ... medals.