by John Kelly
That night, Amanda arrived home from the office, tired and mentally taxed to her limit. She placed her briefcase on the dining room table and headed straight for the kitchen pantry where she kept her limited supply of alcohol. She was not a regular drinker, but the enormity of the assignment she had committed herself to, with all its ramifications, was only beginning to dawn on her, and while her enthusiasm for it never wavered, it was exhausting just thinking about it. Perhaps a few stiff drinks would help relax her, she thought. She poured herself a whiskey and dry, and sat down on the comfortable sofa. Ten minutes later she was fast asleep.
Two hours passed; it was the purring sounds of her cat Missy curling itself around her legs that woke her. She came to, slowly, dragging herself from the sofa. She made for the kitchen to the delight of Missy who sensed her dinner was only minutes away. Amanda fed the cat but lacked any appetite herself. She made coffee and was about to turn on the television when she noticed her briefcase and remembered the journal. She settled back on the sofa, confident she would not fall asleep and retrieved the brown envelope from her briefcase. Taking a few sips of coffee, she opened to the first page and began to read??.
THE FOLLOWING STORY DETAILS EVENTS AS THEY OCCURRED WHILE I WAS A MEMBER OF 67TH BATTALION, 34TH BRIGADE, OF THE BRITISH COMMONWEALTH OCCUPATION FORCE, 1946.
LET THOSE WHO READ IT, TAKE HEED.
JAPAN 1946
Platoon sergeant Derek Avers stood portside shivering in the bitter cold as the SS Stamford Victory sliced its way between the islands of Shikoku and Kyushu and entered the Inland Sea of Japan through the shipping channel and past several smaller islands off the coast of Honshu. Wrapped tightly in his Khaki greatcoat and non-issue gloves and scarf, he stared in awe at the snow-capped mountains on the surrounding islands and recalled images of the warm tropical winds and soft golden sands he had enjoyed just one week earlier at Morotai. The end of the war had given him some well earned respite. Until a few weeks ago he had time to enjoy the luxury of a warm tropical beach with nothing to do. Now, as Kure Harbour became visible, the cold hard reality of the week-long voyage was evident. Spending part of his day lying in the sun without the fear of mortars and shellfire raining down, were over now. The war was over too, but there was still a job to be done and the biting cold breeze, the icy waters and a sombre feeling deep down, reminded him that as long as he wore a uniform, there was always a job to be done. He strained his eyes toward the distant shore hoping to see movement of some kind; a car on the coast road, perhaps someone walking on the beach doing something normal and innocent. That's what he hoped for after five years of war. He wanted to see life as it was back home in Kyneton where people went about their business, unhurried, casual, enjoying themselves; something normal. For the past five years all he had known was the fighting, the jungle missions, the search for the enemy, the sleep deprivation, the fear of exploding mortars and the rifle shots fired indiscriminately into the darkness. Now he longed for less anxious moments and days, where he could still serve his country without the constant threat of surprise attack. The idea of someone innocently running along a beach, with perhaps a dog in pursuit would help restore fond memories of earlier days. But it was not to be. The coast was too far away for signs of any visible activity, forcing Derek Avers to clear his head, attune his mind to the role of a soldier of an occupation army and mentally prepare for the rigors of a northern winter. Sadly however, there was a dark side to Derek Avers, a side I was soon to discover and one that would haunt me for the rest of my days.
Alongside Derek, stood Private Ronnie Maclean, and I, two young and newly trained but untried soldiers, members of 67th Battalion, 34th Infantry Brigade, who felt we were on the adventure of a lifetime. I looked out onto the calm of the Inland Sea with almost childlike curiosity, and wondered why it was called such. It looked and felt more like a bay, well protected from the Pacific Ocean to the west, and the Sea of Japan beyond the islands on the eastern side. I pulled the collar of my greatcoat tight around my neck to shield myself from the freezing cold wind and wondered what lay ahead. Ronnie Maclean did the same. At just eighteen, we had enlisted; he on his birthday, but the war was over before we finished basic training. This posting was the only opportunity offered to us, our only opportunity to serve in the Royal Australian Infantry, and even though we were not technically going off to war, a matter about which our parents were silently grateful, this was for us an adventure thus far unparalleled in our short lives. We had attached ourselves to Derek Avers, whose stories of fighting the Japanese in the jungles of New Guinea had captured our imagination. Derek and Ronnie came from the same town in Victoria and one discovered he vaguely knew the other, despite an eight-year age difference. Each night after dinner following training lectures in the ordinary mess, the men gathered in the cramped sleeping quarters of the ship. The battle hardened diggers would roll their own cigarettes and tell their stories, each one a personal account of where they were, what happened, who got killed, who survived.
Ronnie and I absorbed their experiences with awesome wonder and looked to these men of the newly formed 67th with boyish admiration. When Derek Avers spoke that first night at sea and then casually referred to his girlfriend 'back home in Kyneton,' Ronnie realized he was the man who worked at Presswell's Stock and Station agents in Main Street. He couldn't wait to introduce himself as Horrie Maclean's son, who bought his supplies at Presswells. Derek knew Horrie but not Ronnie. It mattered little. From that point on, Ronnie had adopted him as a de-facto older brother for the rest of the voyage up from Morotai and having Derek as his platoon sergeant only reinforced the attachment.
'We're here sarge,' Ronnie said, as he looked out across the sea toward the coast. 'At last!'
'That we are, son,' Avers replied. 'That we are.'
Derek Avers' reference to his girlfriend back home caused me to think about the girl I had left behind; my Elaine. We had been together for several months before my posting and we vowed marriage to each other on my return. With all the excitement of the journey, I confess I had not thought much of her until then, but now, out here, her sweet scent, her happy smile, her laugh, all the reasons I loved her began to return and I hoped that she would be proud of what I was doing.
As our transport vessel Stamford Victory glided swiftly into Kure Harbour, the three of us watched with apprehension as we passed the desolate hulks of one ship, and then another, then a submarine, all remnants of the once formidable Japanese Navy that lay exposed, destroyed and deserted. The great battleship Haruna with its deck barely above the water triggered a helpful reminder of the terror rained down upon this essential wartime port by American B-29's the previous year. Other ships including the aircraft carrier Akagi were strewn about the harbour and gave testament to the savagery of war and the uncompromising waste of its aftermath. Along the shoreline twisted steel and rubble strewn for hundreds of yards, lay dumped and abandoned as if all hope was lost. On the hillsides behind the port, deep bomb craters could be seen across an expanse devoid of vegetation.
'Jesus, will you look at that,' Ronnie said, stunned at the extent of the damage.
But not everything was destroyed. There in the harbour too, the majestic aircraft carrier, Hosho undamaged, now in service to repatriate defeated Japanese soldiers from their far flung postings in the Western Pacific, the Dutch East Indies and New Guinea. Some thirty miles around the coast lay the port of Ujina, servicing what remained of the city of Hiroshima after the devastating impact of the first Atomic Bomb dropped six months earlier. The world was still in shock at the enormous damage one bomb could cause, but mostly oblivious to the plight of the Hibakusha, the bomb-effected residents who survived the A-bomb, only to then experience its insidious after-effects. The world was divided on the morality of President Truman's decision to use the bomb. The world was told that the bomb hastened an end to the war, avoiding the need for an allied invasion, thus saving half a million American lives. When General MacArthur arrived in Japan, information concerning the effects of
the bomb was censored; little of the suffering, the radiation sickness and the horrific scars, which thousands of Japanese civilians developed in the aftermath, were allowed to reach the outside world.
'Time to get ready lads,' Derek said to the two of us. 'We'll be going ashore soon. It's time to get your gear together and wait for the order to assemble on deck.'
'Yes Sarge,' we both replied, excited and eager to stand on Japanese soil. This was the first time either of us had been out of Australia and with almost child-like response, we went below deck to prepare for disembarkation.
Neither Derek Avers, nor Ronnie Maclean or I, knew anything of the after-effects of an atom bomb, and no more about Hiroshima than what we had read in newspapers. We were here as part of the British Commonwealth Occupation Force. We had volunteered to be part of the occupation force, sent to dismantle the Japanese war machine, or what was left of it. We knew nothing of the suffering experienced by the civilian population. On the contrary, we had listened to first-hand accounts by prisoners-of-war of the atrocities committed by the Japanese in Burma. Our minds were pre-occupied with what we believed to be an uncompromising and ruthless enemy and the apprehension we felt as we waited for the Stamford Victory to dock, was how we would view the Japanese people in the light of those accounts. How would we react to the people whose soldiers had been so brutal to POW's, whose military might we had now come to dismantle? What emotions would we experience dealing with the civilian population of this once fierce enemy? Kure was the largest combined dockyard, ship building yard and naval arsenal in Japan. It was once the headquarters of the Japanese Navy and was now headquarters of the British Commonwealth Occupation Force. How ironic, Derek Avers told us one night, that he, who felt the sting of the Japanese fighting machine in the jungles of New Guinea just twelve months earlier, staving off what was thought to be part of the enemy's push toward Australia, was now part of a force that had come to the very heart of their inner sanctum; not as guard or warden but as a benevolent and compassionate protector. We were not an invasion force. Japan had surrendered. This was part of a protective force, under Australian command reporting directly to the Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers, General Douglas MacArthur. The 67th Battalion, 34th Brigade was assigned to an area within the Hiroshima prefecture, an area on the island of Honshu which included both the largest Japanese naval base and the location of the world's first unleashing of atomic power on human beings.
For Sergeant Derek Avers, dropping the bomb provoked an odd reaction, one that generated mixed feelings and some degree of uncertainty as to the morality of such an act. But, he cautioned us not to allow our emotions to interfere with our duty. As an experienced soldier, he would allow it little freedom. He was here to do a job, and that's exactly what he would do. From the moment he volunteered to join the newly formed 67th Battalion at Wewak, he wanted to go to Japan, to see his former enemy in their own environment. He wanted to see the enemy at home, in the hope that such an experience would help answer the irritating questions that continued to disturb him; questions that went to the heart of a nation's desire to expand its territories at the expense of other nations, and take advantage of their weaknesses, their vulnerability. Why did a people support its leaders' policies to invade a foreign country, and to do so with such brutality? These were deep and penetrating questions, out of bounds to the frontline soldier, intent on staying alive, with thoughts of doing his duty, obeying orders and little else. But from the time of the Japanese surrender and the cessation of hostilities, Derek Avers began to relax and reflect on what had transpired in his life over the past five years. And because he possessed an enquiring mind, one that searched for reasons to explain events, his mind flowed quite naturally to the source of this incredible conflict, wondering what it would be like as a soldier on the side of the aggressor. Surely, they were just like him, were they not? Ordinary men and women seeking a peaceful life, enjoying its simple pleasures? How did they feel when an authoritarian government ordered them to take up arms and become aggressors? Did they respond out of nationalistic pride, cultural respect, unwavering in their belief that the call of the motherland must be put above all else? Did they ever question the wisdom of their leaders' decisions? Perhaps it was cultural, Derek had told us, during many briefing sessions. Perhaps the stories he had heard were true; that Japanese loyalty to the emperor did come first. Perhaps, but now that he was here, he would pursue this nagging, vexing, mind-probing subject and hopefully satisfy his appetite for answers. It had been a long time coming, from Presswell's in Kyneton to the shores of Honshu. The M.V. Manoora brought him from Boram to Morotai. That's where I first met him; where the Battalion boarded the Stamford Victory to bring us here to Kure where the real work was about to begin. Derek Avers looked forward to the task at hand, intent on doing his job as effectively as he could, but also intent, he told us, on discovering for himself, a deeper significance to all that had passed thus far, not the least of which included what happened at Hiroshima six months earlier. These things he confided to both me and Ronnie Maclean. That is why I found it so hard to reconcile his altruistic intentions with what later became a rapacious appetite for personal gain, and apparent lack of concern for the hopeless plight of the civilian population that we were soon to meet.
By contrast, Private Ronnie Maclean and I thought little of the deeper questions. We were too young to venture past the obvious. Japan had surrendered and we were part of the Occupation Force that would disarm them and restore their lives to pre-war peace. We sailed fresh faced and eager from Australia to Morotai weeks earlier to take up our posting and be part of the 1122 troop contingent on the American transport vessel. We had avoided the horror of the war by virtue of age, but our enthusiasm for what lay ahead surpassed the average war-weary veteran; what lay ahead would define our lives, we thought. By the time the battalion assembled on the deck for general parade dressed in full battle order ready to disembark, our excitement was at fever pitch. A small gathering of Japanese workers lined the wooden docks; their curious eyes fixed on the new arrivals dressed in Khaki and wearing the slouch hat. They watched proceedings in silence, their faces devoid of expression as the battalion members filed down the gangway onto the dock. Any thought we had of thronging crowds waving excitedly, welcoming us as liberators, was quickly put aside. Their mood matched the dilapidated, decaying, crumbling port that was once the pride of the Japanese Navy. Ronnie and I stuck close together and were two of the first of the ordinary soldiers to step onto the wharf. I felt a tingling sensation, with the adrenalin running, the excitement of the moment overtaking all else. I was not expecting a hero's welcome. I didn't expect the Japanese workers to wave, or shout or clap their hands. I didn't know what they would do as our platoon assembled on the wharf. But what did happen surprised me. There was nothing. No response whatever, except for the blank, expressionless stares from the fifty or so workers who took a break from their duties to watch this latest arrival of foreign occupiers assemble and prepare to take up residence. As Australian naval officers in charge at the port issued directions, Ronnie and I put our personal thoughts aside for the moment and studied the faces of the Japanese workers. They were mostly middle-aged to old men, shabbily dressed, wearing no more than dirty trousers, well-worn shirt open at the top revealing an equally dirty singlet, and each a jacket to protect them from the cold, but each with a look of moribund resignation, or was it hopelessness? We couldn't tell.
'Look at 'em,' Ronnie said. 'They look like zombies. What's the matter with them?'
'Look around you,' I replied. 'The whole port is a disaster area. There's not a decent building in site.'
A soldier in front of us was more astute. He had seen that look before in New Guinea.
'They're hungry,' he answered. 'They might even be starving. They're not getting enough of the right food. The Japs are suffering. These ones are probably the lucky ones. They get fed by us.'
'Jesus!' Ronnie exclaimed. 'I never thought of that. These blokes
don't look anything like the enemy we were told about.'
The soldier who spoke of their condition was Private Len Patterson, and like most soldiers, had not yet heard the full extent of what conditions were like. But he had heard that the Americans had literally bombed dozens of Japanese cities back into the dark ages, and that homelessness and starvation were widespread.
'How far is Kaitaichi?' Ronnie asked
'How the fuck would I know?' Patterson replied. 'How far is the nearest brothel? That's all I want to know.' Private Len Patterson's predilection for brothels was something I would be more familiar with, in the weeks ahead.
Once our platoon was assembled on the wharf, Sergeant Avers reported to his platoon commander, Lieutenant Kelty, who ordered him to lead us away. It began with a one mile march through and around the wharf area of Kure to the railway station. As we marched, we could see the devastation around us. Kure had been bombed ferociously and little of anything still remained intact. Buildings reduced to rubble, vast areas littered with twisted steel; huge concrete blocks lying one on top of the other. From there a ride in rail trucks where, along the way, Japanese civilians lined the route, women in traditional kimonos, with children strapped to their backs, men in tattered clothing, some still in army uniform. It was all they had; poverty and starvation evident in their appearance, their eyes; a pitiful sight, and all around them the shattered remnants of a once mighty military and naval fortress and residential area.
'The poor bastards,' Ronnie said, as he watched each man and woman pass him by. 'Why can't they get any food to eat?' he asked.
Kaitaichi wasn't far; less than half an hour from the wharf at Kure along the coastal road. We tumbled off the rail trucks and surveyed the surroundings. This was where the 67th Battalion would live while it carried out its duties; although a first impression was anything but positive. It resembled a deserted storage plant, long since vacated. A vast flat expanse, just above sea level in front of an assortment of run down, dilapidated timber warehouses erected over a concrete base floor.
'Don't look so glum lads,' Sergeant Avers said, as he noticed the look of disbelief on the faces of his platoon members climbing out of the trucks in front of the sheds. 'We'll have this place fixed up in no time.'
'Where's the barracks?' Ronnie Maclean asked, his mouth wide open, his eyes searching for something beyond the rows of warehouses, expecting to see a row of huts at least, a kitchen, anything that resembled what he had come to accept as minimum army standard.
'This is it soldier,' Avers replied. 'Try to view it as if you suddenly found yourself victim of a shipwreck, washed up on a deserted island in the Pacific somewhere. Treat it as an adventure.'
As he spoke, our platoon commander, Lieutenant Kelty approached and Sergeant Avers immediately called the platoon to attention.
'Stand easy men,' the Lieutenant called out, and gave us the depressing news. 'I realize the conditions of the quarters we will be occupying are a bit rough, but it will not be for long. Bedding, heating and mess provisions will be provided as additional supply ships arrive. Hot showers are almost set up. Supplies from support vessels are on the way. In the meantime we will simply have to put up with it. You will be living off ration packs for a short time, so I urge you to make do. We will get some sort of heating in here as quickly as possible. I suggest you do what you can to make the most of it. That's all, sergeant. Take over, would you?'
As we filed into the west end of the empty warehouse, morale took a further dip. No doors, no windows, no heating and a great gaping hole in the roof.
'How the fuck does anyone expect to make the most of it here?' Private Patterson asked. 'Make the most of what? There's nothing here, not to mention a bloody great hole in the roof.'
'We'll get a tarpaulin over that in a day or two,' Avers said, looking up through the roof at a clear blue sky. 'Could be worse, you know,' he added.
'How so?' I asked.
Avers looked at me curiously. 'It could be snowing son. Did you ever think of that?'
'No,' I answered glumly.
'What did the Japs use this place for sarge?' Ronnie Maclean asked.
'Storing stuff, by the looks of it. I think it was an ordnance depot of some kind.'
'I thought we were taking over the American barracks, Sarge. They wouldn't have put up with this,' I protested.
'Don't know anything about that, son,' he replied.
'A bloody Jap warehouse! And now we're the ones getting stored in it, are we?' Ronnie snapped.
'Don't worry lads, the C.O. will work out something, if I know him? Just pick out a plot for yourself and call it home for the time being.'
For all the initial excitement a posting to Japan seemed to offer, the condition of the sheds at Kaitaichi brought home one of the grim realities of army life. Suddenly and quite brutally, images of a comfortable bed in a warm heated barracks, with the wafting aroma of breakfast seeping through the doors and windows from the nearby kitchen were blown away. Images of recruit training at Puckapunyal flashed before me, the luxury of a roof over my head, regular hot-cooked meals, and hot showers. Things I had started to take for granted, vanished. I dropped my gear and went outside. Where was the kitchen, the latrines, showers? And what was I doing wearing summer uniform, khaki drill trousers and shirt, brown boots and gaiters, in a freezing cold place like this? My reaction was not an isolated one. One by one, soldiers began murmuring to each other about the conditions, as if the victors were being treated worse than the vanquished. Sergeant Avers was a battle-hardened man, and alert enough to quickly pick up on the effect the surroundings were having on his men. He realized his initial remarks were not going to be enough for them to accept without complaint. He left us briefly and made overtures to Lieutenant Kelty quietly, thus dragging the young lieutenant back into the discussion. Kelty once again reassured the men, assuring us the situation was only temporary. He promised us, he would take the matter up with the C.O. who, he guaranteed, would 'sort this shambles out quickly'.
'What can the C.O. do, sir?' Avers asked, as the two left the shed.
'I haven't got a bloody clue, sergeant, but keep that to yourself,' Kelty replied. 'But knowing him, he'll think of something. Just keep a lid on things for a day or two,' he said, as he headed toward Company H.Q.
That first night as each man tried to settle down on a concrete floor, scrounging what newspaper and cardboard we could find to act as a makeshift mattress, morale was low. The evening meal the previous night on board the Stamford Victory was a distant memory. Our first evening meal at Kaitaichi was iron rations, made up of bully beef, biscuits and coffee or tea heated from our own one-man stove and fuelled by tiny solidified kerosene blocks. There were several card games in play as soldiers tried to pass the time knowing that sleep would not come easily.
As I lay there on a concrete floor that first night, looking up at the stars through the gaping hole in the roof, I wondered if Sergeant Avers' reference to the snow might develop into an unintended prophecy come true? My thoughts drifted back to where we were a week earlier. While on Morotai, lack of activity beyond plucking papayas off the trees led to rumblings of discontent at the delay in departure. The battle-weary soldiers should have been sent home to rest, see their families, undergo specialist training, while proper facilities were constructed at Kure. Waiting for General MacArthur's all-clear to sail, prompted the troops to organize a protest march, led by the non-commissioned officers in company formation. Some say it was the first time a brigade ever led a protest march, but in the end, it got things moving, or at least that's what they thought. The response from brigade command was to offer those who wished to return to Australia the opportunity to do so. Some did but most stayed. Now in Japan, the brigade had arrived, or at least some of it, and the restless soldiers were back on overseas duty and for many, it was a good feeling. But so sub-standard were our living conditions that something had to be done. This was not something to be tolerated by any self-respecting occupation army.
One morning very early, Colonel Jackson paid a visit while we were on the parade ground. Sergeant Avers was asked to requisition a jeep and pick up both him and the battalion intelligence officer at H.Q. in fifteen minutes. As I had been assigned to the driving pool, Avers, looked around and signalled to me. Fifteen minutes later we were outside H.Q. ready to transport the C.O. and the I.O. who knew a dash of Japanese, to wherever they wanted to go.
They came out of his office and jumped in the jeep.
'Let's go for a ride soldier,' the Colonel said to me, and the four of us were off. We travelled down the road a short distance toward Hiroshima when we came upon the Nippon Steel Works, and the Colonel ordered me to pull up outside. Enlisting the support of the attendant at the gate, he and the I.O. walked around the perimeter and then signalled for us to follow as they ventured around the side. At the rear of the main building there were living quarters set aside for the steel workers. The attendant showed us inside. The state of these barracks made my mouth water. They had bunks, they were very comfortable, and heated. Outside, there was a communal shower and toilet block; this was heaven compared with the sheds we had been assigned further up the road. The Colonel took a good look around and then with the I.O. acting as interpreter, asked the attendant to take him to whoever was in charge. The attendant pointed toward a door of the main building and the Colonel went inside. Minutes later, he came out again followed by what seemed to be the senior management of the steel works.
'I am requisitioning these barracks for our battalion sergeant,' he said to Avers. 'Your platoon can be the first. I want you moved in by tonight. Let's get back so I can brief all officers and get things underway. I want to get on with it, before anyone tries to change my mind.'
'Yes sir,' Avers replied, obviously delighted at the prospect.
'Will it be the whole brigade sir?'
'Christ no,' Jackson replied, 'just our battalion. There's only room for us.'
'Begging the Colonel's pardon sir, but can you do this?' Avers asked.
'I promised the management we would feed the workers one hot meal a day, everyday. They thought it was a good deal. They will increase their output with a fitter, healthier work-force and get the protection of the Australian army as a bonus. We get decent quarters, a kitchen, improved morale and a reasonable parade ground; a good deal all round, wouldn't you say?'
'No argument from me sir,' Avers replied.
'Ask Lt. Kelty to report to me immediately we get back. You round up your platoon, get a truck and move in,' he said. 'I'll brief Lt. Kelty.'
It was as simple as that. One foul swoop on the unsuspecting plant and the place was ours. Not a shot fired. Brilliant, I thought. We all climbed back into the jeep. I couldn't wait.
'And let's get an Australian flag flying out the front,' the Colonel added, as we drove out the front gate, back toward the Kaitaichi sheds. The man's mind was on fire, blazing with plans.
'What about the workers, sir. Are we going to kick them out?' the I.O. asked.
'No. They stopped using the barracks before the war ended, for fear of being bombed. Only a handful came back to them after the war. The management will find alternative accommodation for them. I think they were more interested in the free meal.'
We arrived back at the Kaitaichi sheds and dropped the Colonel and the I.O. off at H.Q., and then returned to find Lt. Kelty. He was sitting on the floor of the shed, trying to write up routine orders. Sergeant Avers told me to go requisition a truck and return as soon as possible.
'I'll fill the boss in on what's happening,' he said. By the time I returned, fifteen members of our platoon were standing by the sheds, all geared up and waiting. With a short explanation from Sergeant Avers and a 'carry on', from Lt. Kelty it was an orderly scramble onto the truck with several more trucks coming up the rear and more soldiers ready to climb aboard. It felt like a race to get there before any other battalion got word. And there was no way we were going to let pass the opportunity that had come our way!
Amanda looked up at the clock. She had absorbed much of the story so far, but felt compelled to ring Quentin Avers about an obvious anomaly. She reached for her briefcase to find his mobile phone number and rang.
'I hope you don't mind me ringing this late, but I have read the first few pages and there's something odd.'
'What is it?' he asked.
'The person who wrote this was one of four people who went to look for better accommodation in Kaitaichi. He was the driver. Didn't your father remember who he was?'
'I thought you would ask that. The answer is, no. I spent some time talking to him about that, but he just didn't remember. His memory hadn't been the best for some time, but even so, he said that there were many occasions when he requisitioned vehicles and had different drivers at different times.'
'Oh! All right, thanks,' Amanda said. 'I just thought I'd run that past you.'
'No problem. Please call me anytime if you get stuck on something. And by the way, there's something I forgot to mention. Masako will want to know that you are the person I have sent. She will ask you for some proof of identity.'
'That's a bit spooky, isn't it?' Amanda chuckled.
'Yes, but I want her to be sure who she's speaking with.'
'And what do I say?'
'You are to say that Dr. Kano has no more penicillin.'
There was a pause.
'Is it all right if I write that down? I might forget it.'
If you must, but keep it secure.'
'I will,' Amanda replied as she scribbled the message down.
'Okay I have that. Is that all?'
'No, not exactly. Before you go there's someone I want you to meet.'
'Who?'
'His name is Ronnie Maclean. You may have seen him mentioned in the early part of the journal.'
'Yes, I did. He seemed to be a close friend to your father.'
'Yes, he was. They served together in Hiroshima. He has also received a copy of the journal.'
'And he's still alive. Is he well?' Amanda prompted.
'Only just. He's in a nursing home at the moment. He's not expected to live much longer, but it would be beneficial for you to speak with him before you go.'
'Yes, I would like to meet him, if you can arrange it.'
'I will,' Quentin replied. 'I'll call you at the office in a day or so if I can arrange it.'
After saying goodbye to Quentin Avers, Amanda needed to eat something or midnight would be upon her before she'd then find she did not want to eat at all. She went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and found a fr
ozen dinner that must have been there for months. The activity woke a sleeping Missy who thought that maybe there was something there for her too. The chicken parmagiana took five minutes to cook in the microwave, another ten minutes to eat and Missy reluctantly settled for some dry biscuits before drifting back to the sheepskin rug on the floor in front of the gas heater. Content with the chicken parmagiana and now with a cup of hot chocolate in hand, Amanda returned to the sofa to continue reading. The meal however, changed all that. She began to feel sleepy and decided it was time to get ready for bed. There was still much to arrange and a normal work schedule to attend to before she would depart for Japan. But her imagination had been set alight by what she had read thus far. She looked beyond the account in the journal and realized how little she knew of this occupation force, and how little she knew about Hiroshima.
7.