Above the Fold Page 11

  Luke knew in the end it had been an obvious choice, for it was a bright sunny morning in Hiroshima. Children had been on the way to school, adults were travelling to work in crowded trams. The reconnaissance weather plane had flown over it a short time earlier, and radioed Enola Gay, the Superfortress carrying the bomb, that they had perfect visibility and could clearly see the Ota River and miles of homes, business premises, shops, schools and churches spread far and wide. Hiroshima, they reported, was a perfect target, a large flat city that had experienced no previous bombing. This was a considerable advantage, for it would make it easier to assess the amount of damage.

  He stood in what had been the main street, trying to imagine what it had been like in those 42 seconds after the bomb was released, thinking of the few who might have noticed an object falling from the sky, and perhaps wondered about its purpose. But his thoughts were more with those many thousands who’d been unaware, knowing nothing until the explosion that sounded like thunder. But of course there was not enough time to be perplexed by thunder from such a clear blue sky.

  Or did they have an instant of either fear or confusion before the bright blast that totally destroyed them?

  It took less than ten seconds, he’d learned, to vaporise the 70,000 who died instantly, leaving bewildered survivors who had glimpsed the searing white fireball and the ten-mile-high mushroom cloud. The temperature in those moments was claimed to be hotter than the sun, the fierce blast of radiant heat travelling as fast as the speed of sound at 700 miles an hour.

  How, Luke thought, did anyone at all survive?

  Yet, some did; seared, wounded, even some in flames and terribly burnt with stripped flesh had survived. Others simply ceased to exist; they literally vanished to leave no bodies, no skin or teeth or evidence of their lives.

  No bomb had ever been anything like this. The thousands that rained on London, Berlin and Dresden had produced terror, but in raids that continued over weeks and months, not in ten seconds. The raids had destroyed large portions of these cities, but could not achieve this total devastation.

  He gazed at the intended objective, the T-shaped Aioi Bridge, then walked to the Exhibition Hall building a few hundred yards away. A crosswind had made it the accidental target. The skeleton struts of the Dome remained, but the entire building and everyone inside it had been utterly destroyed.

  The bomb had been successfully programmed to detonate high in the air to achieve its major destructive effect. On the ground it would have caused less damage and fewer deaths. This was a decision taken by those in Los Alamos who had built it, and approved by the chief of staff and the President himself. It was proof positive the weapon was carefully designed to shatter morale, and cause maximum death and the utmost human distress. There was no mercy being expressed on that August day.

  Luke shivered. He was aware there had been proposals to explode the bomb on a deserted island, and bring experts to witness its destructive power before it was inflicted on living targets, but this had been abruptly rejected in Washington. Millions of dollars had been invested in creating this weapon. It was resolved that only a massive blow to startle and terrify all Japan would suffice. The living targets would be unfortunate sacrifices who would assist in bringing the war to its end.

  When there had been discussion about the time of day, and the realisation there would be children on their way to school, it had been decided the hour was more important than the fate of foreign school children. The meteorologists had estimated the morning was the best time, and essential for maximum outcome.

  Luke knew all these things and almost wished for ignorance. He knew the Americans usually dropped warning leaflets before sending fleets of Superfortresses to bomb other cities, but had chosen not to issue any warning here. He was unsure why. He knew the area of destruction was over five square miles, that out of two hundred doctors barely a dozen had survived, that no hospitals still stood and hardly any nurses had been left alive; that telegraph lines and the phone network had abruptly ceased to work, and there had been confused reports all over the country that something strange and terrible had happened here. But for twenty-four hours or more the silence remained, and when word leaked out that the city had vanished it was met with scorn and disbelief.

  But knowing all this, Luke was still unprepared for the shock of being there. Even though it had happened four months ago, it felt as if the eerie silence of that August day persisted. Hiroshima itself could no longer be said to exist. There remained only groups of starving and bewildered people in a scorched and hideous landscape. If they moved at all it was with aimless intent as though they had no destination. Like a graveyard with not a tombstone in sight: he vividly recalled those sombre words.

  And after the bomb, and the collection of corpses that had to be burnt like the disposal of farmyard animals after a plague, came days of radiation aided by rain and whirlwinds to cause another wave of deaths. Some managed to flee. Most remained, too injured or disorientated, waiting to die. Here and there a few huts had now been erected, and one or two brave souls were trying to trade scraps of food at barrows or improvised stalls, but this was rare. Others with ravaged faces sat like casualties in what had once been the streets.

  Luke had expected to be shocked, but what he saw that day also made him sad and angry, and filled him with anxiety for the future. If this was what one single 15 kiloton atom bomb could do, he wondered what the next more lethal nuclear bomb might accomplish. There was already talk of something stronger, and he thought with trepidation about those leaders in Russia and America, who were now declared enemies and whose nervous fingers could so easily press a button. The stronger and more lethal bombs would be able to destroy New York or Moscow in the same way this place had been turned to ashes.

  He walked back to the jeep, where Jim Marks was still sitting.

  “You all right, Jimmy?”

  “Yeah, feel a bit better now, Luke.” His normally bright blue eyes were red from wiping away tears. “Bloody made me cry, this place … then made me spew again. Chucked up me breakfast. Just terrible. Hard to believe something like this could really happen.”

  “But it did.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just a few months ago.”

  “Let’s get out of here, Luke.”

  “Feels awfully quiet and sad, doesn’t it?”

  “Feels weird,” Jimmy said. “Like the end of the fucking world.”

  FIFTEEN

  Claudia heard the distant ambulance siren as she reached the hospital car park and locked her Ford Prefect sedan. It was a proud new acquisition; second-hand, three years old with one previous owner, and she had decided to name it ‘Mossy’ after Stirling Moss, the British Grand Prix driver. Her mind was full of the events of the past weekend. She had asked Helen to join her on the car’s first outing, a test run to Palm Beach, where to their surprise they’d met up with Rupert Meredith- Lacey. He was spending the day alone on the beach, and glad to see them.

  “Any news of Luke?” he’d asked, and Claudia said she’d just received his latest letter, along with a copy of an article he’d written about Hiroshima. He’d sent it to Harry Morton at the Forces newspaper, but said there was no news yet whether it had been accepted for publication. Nor, so far, was there any hint of when he might make the move to Tokyo.

  “I know he must be starting to feel anxious. So am I, as I persuaded him that it was an opportunity too good to miss,” she said.

  “Have faith,” Rupert advised her. “Major Morton was dead keen when he spoke to me about him.”

  They’d spent time surfing together, and later had lunch at a café in Avalon. Rupert told them he was still at the Macquarie Network, but the ABC were tempting him with an offer. It would mean he’d be working on plays and documentaries there, instead of commercial radio serials that were now known as soap operas. They were popular night-time listening, but Rupert felt the sponsors had too much input, forever influencing story content.

  He was thrill
ed to hear Helen had won the prestigious Law Society Medal, and invited them to come to his flat in Neutral Bay where he produced a bottle of champagne to celebrate her success. That was when Helen surprised them both by asking Rupert if he’d care to escort her to the annual legal ball where the award would be presented, and he’d promptly replied it would be an honour to do so.

  “It’s black tie and all that nonsense,” she warned him.

  “Great,” was his cheerful answer. “I’ve got a tux lurking in the wardrobe that needs an outing.”

  It was in the car driving home that Helen confided she’d had no boyfriend since Barry, and had often been a target at university as a single woman. She was fed up with sly invitations to dirty weekends, and awkward moments that sometimes occurred after dinner dates.

  “Even an occasional wrestle, when some randy dill can’t understand the word no,” she’d confessed to Claudia. “I’ve turned down lots of invitations because of it. I might be able to socialise more, with Rupert to keep the wolves at bay. And besides, I rather like him.”

  They both agreed he was good looking, and whatever his sexuality might be, it was of no concern whatever.

  “But, Claudia,” she’d said, “can that be strictly between us?”

  “Absolutely,” Claudia agreed, and felt pleased because a shared secret cemented their growing friendship. Lately they had begun going to movies together, and sometimes prevailing on Steven to join them. Neither had seen or heard anything of Barry since the farewell party for Luke, and life, they decided, was slightly easier without him.

  Deep in thought, Claudia was almost unaware of the siren coming closer, until the ambulance pulled up alongside her. It was a familiar enough sight at the hospital, and she stepped clear as the paramedics opened the back doors. She noticed how carefully they brought out the stretcher, and assumed it must be a serious accident.

  That was when she glimpsed the face of the man lying so rigid on it, his eyes shut so she could not tell whether he was conscious or not, but the instant of recognition was such a shock that at first she felt sure she was mistaken. But then as he was wheeled into emergency she was able to see his face more clearly, and knew with deep concern it was not a mistake.

  There was a cable from Harry Morton, and Luke opened it with hopeful anticipation.

  PUBLISHING YOUR ARTICLE: ‘LOOKING FOR HIROSHIMA’. WE NEED TO TALK. BEN HAS AGREED TO LET YOU VISIT HERE TO DISCUSS FUTURE.

  Harry rarely communicated by anything except cables, but the wording suggested there was no concrete offer as yet. Nevertheless Luke felt buoyant at the thought of a brief escape, and took the opportunity to request extra days in order to see parts of the country on his way there. In doing so he found a Japan he did not know existed. Living in the spartan wooden house as they did, and working daily at the radio studio, it was difficult to imagine the beauty of the country beyond their work environment.

  He went by fishing boat along the Inland Sea, then to Kyoto, staying in a lakeside hotel acquired by the Commonwealth Forces. There he found majestic Shinto shrines and Buddhist memorials like the Temple of the Golden Pavilion, as well as architectural wonders like Hikone Castle and the Katsura Imperial Villa. There was the azalea garden at the Daichiji temple, and the Saihoji, an enchanting green world of moss created in the seventh century as a sacred shine for Zen meditation. He was stunned by splendour after imaginative splendour.

  It became apparent that while so much of Japan had been obliterated by fleets of B29s, no raids had attacked this city. As if a decision had been taken that some places of artistic and historical value should be spared, and alone in Japan Kyoto was protected from destruction. It was strangely reassuring to know this, as he wandered through places of traditional culture, where in sculptured gardens there were pavilions and teahouses, and antique bridges spanning tranquil ponds. Flashes of colour in the ponds were brilliant carps at play, while huge swans strutted, and pairs of cranes who mate for life walked in harmony.

  The foliaged glades were so peaceful that the contrast was all the more acute when he took the train to Tokyo. Here hardly any trees existed, and much of the capital was like a scrapheap of rubble and corrosion. It was quite different to Hiroshima. Here thousands of fragile homes had been razed by ferocious carpet bombing; historical sites had not been spared and traditional areas like the Ginza were in ruins. But a section of Tokyo contained buildings constructed to withstand earthquakes, and here the Americans were installed.

  General Douglas MacArthur, as the Supreme Commander, was like a new Mikado. When he left his imposing residence each day to be driven to his headquarters, crowds of silent Japanese stood to watch his progress. Luke studied the watching crowds, finding it impossible to tell what they were feeling; was it hatred, admiration, a mute acceptance of defeat, or curiosity about this large all-powerful gaijin. For this was the impression MacArthur conveyed, determined to show the sons of Nippon who was the ruler now.

  Under his reign American troops took over buildings that had survived, and, in their smart uniforms, were as prominent in the streets as they had been in Australia. Many had established close ties with Japanese girls, and open fraternisation seemed accepted. All over the capital, occupation troops and their girls could be seen in passionate embraces; in Kure and Commonwealth sectors, soldiers doing this would’ve been arrested.

  There were even cinemas, and Hollywood was bringing the American way of life across the Pacific with a steady supply of films. Tokyo was a strange dichotomy; so much destroyed, the surviving sector providing a happy haven for the occupation forces. As Tobias Langley said when they first saw the ruins of Kure, the Australians had drawn the short straw.

  In this ravaged city Luke met up again with Major Morton, who looked younger and different in civilian clothes and open-neck shirt. “My uniform’s in mothballs,” he explained, “except for parades. However, Big Noise has plenty of those. He loves pageantry.”

  Big Noise was short for The Big Noise from Little Rock, one of many sobriquets for Arkansas-born MacArthur. Another was Dugout Doug. With his trademark corncob pipe, he was fair game for cartoonists, and Morton said their newspaper received regular complaints about the way he was depicted.

  They were in the American Club near the US Embassy, where the Major had invited Luke for lunch. It was crowded with senior officers. “It’s a wonder they let me in this place,” he said, “but most think I’m pretty harmless, so they made me an honorary member. You know the old saying, better to have him inside the tent, than outside pissing in.”

  After lunch he had a chauffeur-driven car, not a massive limousine like most American officers, but a modest Datsun with Japanese driver. Luke was taken to a former brewery site beside the Sumida River, where the newspaper Pacific Monitor was now published.

  Stripped of its fermenting equipment the place was open-plan, with desks, typewriters, and a dozen journalists quietly at work. Beyond them was a linotype machine, and operators were engaged in typesetting or pressing out headlines from the molten metal in the Ludlow machines.

  Upturned casks were used as storing bins for metal slugs and wedges. The place was a blend of a country newspaper but with obvious professionalism. Luke only hoped the chance to work here would come soon, but over lunch had received the news that there was no vacancy yet.

  “I’m restricted on the staff I can employ, Luke. I know it’s disappointing, but I want you to be patient. The article on Hiroshima was first rate. What I’d like to do now is commission you for a couple of stories on life at the radio setup in Kure,” Harry suggested. “Say 2000 words each, and two hundred pounds per article,” he added, as he noticed Luke hesitate.

  “I was about to say I’d do them for nothing,” Luke admitted, “but if you insist. As long as it’s not your own cash.”

  “Good God, no,” he replied, “it’s from the government till.”

  “Well, in that case, thanks, Major.”

  “Skip the Major. I’m Harry. And a piece of personal advic
e: never say you’ll do it for nothing. Rich newspaper barons would gladly take advantage.”

  “I thought you were going to quote Sam Johnson to me. ‘No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.’”

  “You can quote it, so remember it,” Harry said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to our Treasure.”

  Their Treasure, code name for unit treasurer, was Doreen, a former WAAF with blonde hair and sparkling eyes, who handled all payments and contracts. She was in her twenties and very pretty, the object of open admiration from all the male journalists. She drafted a contract for the articles and presented Luke with a down payment of £100, then with a big smile expressed the hope that she’d see him back there quite soon.

  Returning to the hotel where he was spending his last day in Tokyo, he was surprised to receive a message at the reception desk: LUKE, REMEMBER ME FROM RADIO DAYS. I’M IN TOKYO. CALL ME ON 4382190. ALFIE METCALFE.

  Alfie Metcalfe! How could he forget the old school friend who’d helped him get the job at the Macquarie Network? It was a complete surprise to find he was in Tokyo. An even bigger surprise that he had access to a phone, which was a rarity. He rang it and a young woman’s voice answered. A Japanese voice speaking careful English.

  “Ikebururo Cinema. I may help you?”

  “Can I speak to Mr Metcalfe?” said Luke, even more puzzled now.

  “Alfie San,” the girl said, “he very busy.”

  “Tell him it’s Luke Elliott ringing …”

  “Name please, again?”

  “Luke Elliott,” he said slowly, knowing his name caused problems in pronunciation.

  “Ruke Erreort San,” she echoed, and a voice in the background shouted, “Tell him to hang on!” Luke hung on, wondering what the sound effects operator was doing at a cinema in Tokyo.