by John Kelly
Seated in the second back row of the plane, with an empty seat beside her, Amanda looked out the window and marvelled at the beautiful, thick, white clouds below. This was how heaven had always been portrayed; an endless sea of white cloud, with angels playing harps, and grateful souls saved from the everlasting fires of hell wandering around aimlessly, wondering what to do with themselves, without so much as a shopping mall anywhere in sight. Oh well! The plane had taken off on time and was now somewhere north of Townsville. This was not her first time in a plane, but it would certainly be the longest flight she had ever taken. She had eaten, taken a short nap, and become bogged down watching a movie that was difficult to follow for the noise of the engines outside reverberating throughout the cabin. With people moving past her going to and from the toilets, and the occasional discussion going on at the rear of the plane between flight staff, she decided to give up on the movie and continue with the journal from where she left off the previous night. Not knowing who the author was, captivated her imagination and aroused her curiosity more and more?
My journey to Hiroshima with Lt. Kelty was an experience I will never forget. It was impossible to gauge how one bomb could render a landscape so vast, so utterly wasted. And images of people so badly dis-figured and starving haunted me every night until seeing them on a regular basis daily, helped establish some kind of mental immunity to their condition. But as we found our footing, the days and weeks moved along briskly. I made a point of learning a new Japanese word every day, in preparation for when it would be necessary to deal with the locals directly. The Brigade was subject to a strict non-fraternization policy, but still contacts had to be made both with those who were employed by the force and those with whom we had to liaise with regularly. Many Japanese were employed to act as interpreters, translators, civilian office personnel. They were excellent workers and probably appreciated the opportunity to have regular food more than any monetary payment. It would, however, have been pretty na?ve of H.Q. to think that a non-fraternization policy was going to prevent relationships forming between some of our soldiers and Japanese girls. After a few weeks of general duties, lots of drill, some basic training courses, and one or two parades to welcome some top brass from the U.S. Military, and the occasional Australian politician, life as an occupation soldier settled into a routine where I was assigned to the Repatriation Centre at Ujina, located about ten miles or so from Kaitaichi, on the coast, just to the south of Hiroshima. We took over from the Americans. It was a stark place; just one main building. The area was partially affected by the Atom bomb, and in need of renovations, but it served its purpose. I acted as both clerk and driver. As February moved into March, then April, the weather became warmer, and we moved into summer dress.
Our summer uniform consisted of Khaki Drill trousers and shirt, brown boots, gaiters, webbing belt and straps. We thought we looked pretty sharp with our slouch hat and puggaree, brass buckles and hat badges with brass Australian insignia. As the work became more routine however, it also became somewhat boring. Our facilities did not improve much; in some cases we were not that much better off than the locals. Latrines were makeshift, food was ordinary, and there was no entertainment, except for the occasional film. The men were lonely, missing their families back home, their wives and girlfriends. This obviously led to seeking out female company and in most cases that meant prostitution. I had the occasional letter from my Elaine back home, but that only made the time drag even more. Brothels became more prevalent; one sprang up directly across the road from Dr. Kano's clinic. Venereal disease became rampant, although it wasn't clear who gave it to whom. Dr. Kano, having an assured supply of penicillin from our base took care of the girls, and our M.O. treated enlisted personnel. But it wasn't long before the V.D. movies were being shown in a vain attempt to stem the flow. It didn't work.
Working with the Navy at Ujina, we were processing returned Japanese soldiers, whose homecoming from various parts of the Pacific was anything but victorious. Viewed by the poor wretches who came off those transport vessels, I suppose we looked like an elite force. They, on the other hand looked tired, dispirited, underfed and confused. Having to identify themselves to Japanese government staff in the presence of foreigners on their own soil must have been de-moralizing. Being processed for re-entry under the watchful eye of a former enemy would have for them, represented great loss of face. But each one was treated as an individual with respect, understanding and compassion; that is what we did, and they said they felt the better for it.
Every day, Japanese soldiers were being returned home from their postings in the Pacific. They came back from Singapore, the Philippines, New Guinea, the Dutch East Indies and other locations where the Australian Military supervised their surrender. At the end of the war, the Japanese had some six million personnel posted outside Japan. Now they had to be brought home. Every day a new ship arrived, met by our Navy personnel and an Australian infantry company. Every day the returning Japanese disembarked down the gangway in submissive silence. Those who came down first, held in their hands a white linen sash and a box containing the cremated remains of their fallen comrades, who would later be laid to rest at the Yasakuni Shrine in Tokyo. They were then relieved of all badges of rank and marched from the dock by unit past the two pillars of Ujina Gate, each pillar with a message to welcome them. The message on the left pillar read, 'Let's do things firmly, cordially; don't lose heart; keep up your spirits.' While on the right, the message read, 'Repatriates, thank you all for suffering such hardship; you have all suffered such hardship.'
As an additional gesture, they were also welcomed by girl volunteers into the centre where they were processed. Some were clearly relieved it was all over and smiled at the girls. Others took it more seriously; unsmiling, stern, not at all sure if they were being viewed as heroes or a defeated rabble. Their belongings were checked and scrutinized; prohibited items confiscated, each soldier underwent a medical examination, was inoculated, then made to strip and dusted down with DDT. At the end of the processing, they were fed a hot meal. Probably the best news for them was being told they were no longer soldiers; that they could now go home to their families and resume their civilian lives. They were then given a rail warrant, transported to the railway station and, quite impersonally, left to make their way home.
At the same time as the Japanese were coming home, we were sending Koreans, Manchurians and Chinese, either captured during the war or brought in as forced labour, back to their countries; as one contingent arrived, another left on the same vessel. As such, the centre became something of a cultural crossroad, with the Sea of Japan, the main gateway to freedom for all.
It was against this background that I first saw Masako. She was standing by the Ujina gate one afternoon. It was a restricted area, so how she got there I do not know. A company of Japanese soldiers had just arrived from Singapore, and were marching into the repatriation depot for processing. She was watching each of them closely as they passed by, obviously searching for someone: a brother, husband, friend. Perhaps she had received word that someone she knew had landed back in Japan, perhaps she was there purely on speculation, I didn't know. She was dressed in a simple skirt and blouse, with a veil covering her head, so much so, that it was difficult to see her clearly. I watched as she scanned the faces of each man passing by. As the last of the soldiers marched into the depot, it became clear that whoever she was looking for was not there, and so she left. I thought little of it until the next day at around the same time another ship was returning personnel, and I looked out the window to see her lingering at the pillar once more. This time, the veil on her head was hanging partially to one side, and I could make out from a distance the look of anguish on her face. Again this day, as with the day before, the person she was looking for, was not in this group either. This time she did not leave immediately, but stood at the gate, perhaps thinking that another group would come through shortly. I checked the admission sheets for the day, and knew that no more were expected until tomorro
w. The look of disappointment on her face was obvious, such that I decided to try and help her. I went outside and approached her calmly. She saw me coming toward her, and began to walk away. I called out, 'Konnichi wa, o-genki desu ka,'
She stopped and turned toward me, bowed and replied,
'Konnichi wa,' I said, 'Can I help you?' She smiled demurely and replied, 'Wakari masen.' I didn't understand her, or she I, so I offered by way of gesture, to take her inside where an interpreter could help her.
Just then, her veil fell away and I noticed grizzly burn scars on her neck and on the left side of her face. The corner of her mouth on the damaged side rendered her unable to properly open her mouth to speak. Her forehead too, was scarred but not as prominently as was her neck. Her hair-line was uneven, but much of what she had was combed to the left side to hide the neck. I judged her to be about fourteen years of age. She had very large eyes, accentuated by her frail, thin body. It was impossible to pretend that I was not disturbed by what I saw and my reaction caused her to quickly restore her veil. She also became self-conscious of her appearance and I was upset with myself for demonstrating such a lack of sensitivity, realizing all too late, that she was a Hibakusha, an A-bomb victim. She accepted my offer to come inside and through an interpreter, Shigeko Suzuki, a young Japanese woman working in the repatriation centre, I learned her name, and the reason she was there. She had been hoping that her brother would be returning home. Her parents and younger sister had perished when the Atom bomb was dropped. She had only her brother Tokuo, and he was unaware his parents and sister were dead. Masako had heard nothing of his status for several months, but as no notice of his death had been delivered to her, she continued to believe that he was still alive and that he would return home soon. She had been coming daily to the Ujina Gate in the hope that she could welcome him home and take him to her Uncle Mineo in the country. As she explained her presence, she became visibly weak and appeared on the verge of fainting. Shigeko quickly arranged a comfortable chair for her, and, taking me aside, said that she thought she was suffering malnutrition and asked if we could give her something to eat. While I had heard many times that the Japanese were a very docile people, and not ones wanting to cause any unnecessary bother, it still struck me how someone in her position would not be more demanding and difficult to deal with. She seemed constantly worried even in her pitiable state, that she was causing too much bother. I, on the other hand, felt annoyed that more was not being done to help her, and those like her. I made her some tea and offered her some biscuits; she looked at them strangely, but ate them both. The tea seemed to restore her composure. I suggested we take her to the cafeteria and see what we could find for her to eat. Shigeko's Japanese supervisor agreed although he clearly was not impressed with her and would have preferred she left the centre. Some Japanese showed limited sympathy for the hibakusha, something I found troubling. We were unable to help her find her brother, but we were able to offer her some Japanese food, made up from various kinds of meat and vegetables simmered in broth. She ate as if it were her last meal and when she felt more composed, I offered to drive her home. I called Lt. Kelty on the phone at Kaitaichi, and he gave me the all clear.
Travelling back with her, through the devastation that was Hiroshima, she sat in silence oblivious to the sight of the rubble, the twisted steel, the charred, blackened ruins and the makeshift huts; something I assumed she was all too familiar with. I asked her for directions to where she lived. 'Tooi desu ka?' ( Is it far?) I asked. She looked across and shook her head, then pointed. I followed her directions travelling slowly, mindful of the increasing flow of traffic, with each major intersection lacking any traffic lights and manned by military police officers directing vehicles in an orderly fashion. She led me along the river passed the burnt out remains of the Industrial Promotions Hall, then over the Aioi Bridge. There, we turned right, driving along an uneven road still ruptured from the intense heat generated by the bomb. I had to remind myself that we were less than one mile from the hypocentre, where just six months ago, all life vaporized in less than a second, at a temperature of more than 3000 degrees centigrade. After another two miles, Masako raised her hand indicating that we had arrived, but to what, I could not make out. I stopped the jeep and she climbed out, and turned back toward me, bowing graciously, saying, 'D?me arigat? gozai mashita'. ( Thank you very much.) Without saying anything further, she turned and walked away toward a cluster of makeshift shelters, where other people stood, looking at me, curiously. I watched, as she disappeared behind them, and I momentarily studied their faces. It was difficult to comprehend their circumstances; utter ruin all around them, no electricity or running water, they existed from day to day, patient, and long-suffering, yet uncomplaining, drawing, I suspected, on all the spiritual resolve their Buddhist faith could assemble. In some, I could see the unmistakeable look of hatred for what had been done to them, and those who did it. Never before did I feel as helpless as then, and I wanted desperately to help them. As I reversed the jeep and turned for Kaitaichi, I was determined that no matter what minor rules I might break, I would do what I could. Food was the first thing that came to mind, and we had shiploads of it. Moreover, we had Japanese cooks at Ujina who knew what these people would like. I decided it was time to do a bit of horse-trading, otherwise known as, not-for-profit, black-marketeeing.
This was as far as Amanda read before falling asleep. She awoke some time later, when the plane jolted suddenly, hitting an air pocket. Conscious of movement around her, she looked up to find a little boy standing alongside her seat.
'Hello,' she said instinctively. The little boy responded. 'Hello,' he said, staring at her, benignly.
'What's your name?' Amanda asked.
'James,' he replied, and added quickly, 'are you going to Japan too?'
'Yes I am,' Amanda replied.
'My father is going to work there and I'm going to school,' he said, twisting his hands back and forth.
'And what grade will you be in?'
'Grade 3,' James replied. 'I'm nearly nine.'
'You look much older than nine, James,'
Just then a lady came down from the front and James looked up pleased to see his mother.
'So this is where you got to.' The lady looked toward Amanda.
'I hope he hasn't been bothering you?' she asked
'No, not at all. He's given me an excuse to take a break and go for a little stroll. Nice to meet you James,' Amanda said, as she undid her seat belt and got up to take a walk.
'I wonder where we are?' she asked the lady.
'I think we are north of the Philippines and a little to the south of Hong Kong,' she answered.
Amanda began walking down the aisle, toward the front of the plane. She passed row after row of passengers asleep, reading or totally involved in the movie of their choice; people of all ages, from the very young to the elderly, all with their own reasons for travelling on this particular flight, to this destination, on this day. Crossing through the galley over to the other side of the aircraft, she began walking back to the rear. This time she could see the faces of passengers. Some looked up at her, others were too pre-occupied. She wondered what mysteries lay hidden in the lives of all these people. How wonderful, she thought, if time permitted, to have the opportunity to talk to each of them, discover their reason for travel, and combine all their stories into one volume to be put away for a time when her next novel was ready to be written. When she returned to her own seat she was stunned to realize she had a mystery of her own to consider. There on the seat lay the journal where she had left it. But fixed on the open page with a paper clip, was a handwritten note. She picked up the journal and read the note?
'This is an important document. Don't leave it lying around for anyone to see!'
She swung round at once to see if anyone was watching. Who could have put it there? Who even knew that she was on this flight? What reason would anyone have to write her a note? Amanda slumped back into her seat, unse
ttled and feeling vulnerable. The thought that there was someone on this flight watching her, raised the bristles on the back of her neck. Was she being followed? Had Quentin Avers provided a minder to look after her? No, surely he would have told her. So, who could have put the note there? Her heart beat a little faster, and she reached for her water bottle to settle her fears. She drank, looked down at the note, then back up again, searching for some indication, something that might give her a clue as to who put this here. Everything seemed normal in front of her. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to offer a clue. It then occurred to her that possibly no one on the plane had put it there. Perhaps, she thought, Quentin put it there when he gave it to her, before she left, as a reminder, and she just never saw it. Yes, that must be it! The thought helped to calm her. She could not be certain, but it was plausible; more plausible in fact, than the notion that someone on the plane wrote and placed it there. Still unsettled, but feeling better for what seemed to her a rational explanation, she decided to continue reading. In a few hours, she would be in Japan, and there was still much to get through before she would be able to fully appreciate the nature of her mission. She removed the note, placed it in her bag and settled down to continue reading?.
The black market was rife around the perimeter of Hiroshima where commerce, retail and residential boundaries fused together establishing some degree of normality. At Hiroshima Station, traders would supply almost anything for the right price; clothes, furniture, food, shoes, military uniforms, medicines, most of which came in from other parts of the country, by sharp minded, ruthless dealers always ready to take advantage of someone else's misfortune. Some of the goods were supplied by discharged soldiers keen to make a little money on the side. Other goods came from our own soldiers. It was, for some, a most alluring opportunity to cash in on a highly profitable venture. We were paid in yen and with an exchange rate of something close to fifty yen to the Australian pound, there was money to be made selling goods we bought at the canteen and realizing one to two hundred percent back on our money. There was even enough room to hire a middle-man, a Japanese local to do the trading for us; keeping us at arms length from the provost. At the same time it was common knowledge that many people, too poor to afford black market prices for food, were existing on dumplings made from horseweed grass, moulded together with flour grounded from acorns. It was our job to stamp out this sort of profiteering. Military police began regular raids on known areas, cracking down on, and confiscating contraband. We were both profiting and policing.
Initially, I thought if I discussed my wish with Lt. Kelty, to provide some food to some of the needy, he would simply say that it was not possible to look after everybody and tell me not to become emotionally involved with the locals. He was right of course, but that didn't help the way I felt about my experience with Masako. Even though I realized I might never come across her again, I still felt I could do something for the people I saw where I left her. I decided to try something relatively simple. Instead of heading back to Kaitaichi, I returned to Ujina, to the centre supply warehouse where incoming food was stored. When I arrived there, only Ronnie Maclean was on duty. We did not see much of each other during the day and I gave him a wave as I approached him, keen not to alert him to anything unusual.
'G'day,' I said. 'The sergeant at the officer's mess asked if I could pick up a sack of flour. The paperwork will come down in the morning.'
He thought nothing of my request, and pointed to the rear of the warehouse.
'Help yourself,' he said, indifferently. So I did, and fifteen minutes later I returned to the point where I had left Masako. Once again, the local population stood, motionless, staring at me. I hoisted the sack of flour over my shoulders and walked up to them. I was shocked at their scars and their emaciated bodies and began to choke as a bolt of coldness ran through my body.
'Is Masako here?' I asked, regaining my composure. They just looked at me.
'Masako,' I repeated. There was some confused chatter among them, and then one of them called out her name in a way I barely recognized. Moments later, she was there in front of me. She smiled. 'Konnichi wa,' she said. I nodded and placed the sack of flour on the ground.
'Watashi wa tasukete,' (I am help), I said, clumsily. She looked down at the flour and a half-naked man with keloids covering his back checked the contents and mumbled something to her. She smiled. 'D?mo arigat?,' (Thanks), she said, and bowed. Then, those around her bowed and, instinctively, I bowed back at all of them, which caused them to bow once more. I realized this ritual could have gone on until midnight, so I smiled, gave them a mock Aussie salute and returned to the jeep. As I reversed, several voices called out, 'D?mo arigat?, D?mo arigat?.' As I drove away, I felt the best I'd felt all day. I thought this day more than any other, I had done something worthwhile and realized it would not be the last time I would visit them.
While returning alone to Kaitaichi, I wondered how I could continue to help Masako's community. It occurred to me that if Ronnie Maclean worked at the Ujina warehouse, he would know who was in control at the main warehouse at Kure. If I could establish some form of 'insider' help, it would make the process that much easier. I didn't know it then, but help was not far away, and a lot easier than I thought. On the way back, a mile or so from the Nippon Steel Works barracks, I was approaching Dr. Kano's medical centre. As I came nearer, a soldier was just leaving, heading back toward the barracks. I recognized his face; he was a member of our battalion, and I pulled up alongside him.
'Want a lift?' I asked. He nodded and climbed in.
'You work in the mess at Nippon, don't you?' I asked.
'Yeah,' he answered.
'Been to see the doc?'
'Yeah.'
'What for?'
'Got the fucking clap,'
'Shit, sorry about that. Why didn't you go to the M.O.?'
'I wanted to find out before they did,' he answered.
'You have to report it to the M.O. y'know.'
'Yeah, I know.'
Almost from the first day we arrived at Kure, prostitution became rampant. You might say it was an unintended consequence of the Army's strict non-fraternization policy, something most of us thought was foolish and not properly thought through. Whatever the Australian Government or our boss, Lt. Gen. John Northcott were thinking, the idea that we would not find some means of personal communication with the local population on a social level was just plain dumb. The policy didn't stop the brothels from spreading, one of which sprang up directly opposite Dr.Kano's medical centre. I think the top brass actually approved them.
'What's your name?' I asked.
'Patterson, Len Patterson. What's yours?' I told him my name.
'What did Kano tell you?' I asked.
'He said it wasn't that bad; a bit of Syphilis. I told him I'd have to go to the M.O. for treatment. He said he had penicillin but I'd have to pay for it. I told him the M.O. would give it to me for free.'
'Did you give him your name?'
'Not my real name; told him my name was Ned Kelly.'
'Why?'
'I had to tell him who the girl was. I told her my name was Ned Kelly. I didn't want her to come looking for me.'
'Well don't waste time. It has to be treated. You should go to the M.O. straight away.'
'Yeah, I will. Thanks.'
'You're in the kitchen aren't you?'
'Yeah.'
'Perhaps you could help me,' I suggested.
'How?' he asked.
I told him about Masako, and what I wanted to do.
'You don't need to go to Kure,' he said. 'I can give you what you want, have it shipped down to Ujina. Shit! I could even have it dropped off along the way if you want me to.'
'I wanted to get them some meat and fresh vegetables, some rice if that's possible, sugar and flour. Some frozen fish if there's any?'
'I couldn't do all of that in one hit. But, I could put some small bits together and take it down tomorrow. How many peop
le do you want to feed?'
'I don't know. I'll find out more when I make the first drop.'
Where could I meet you?'
'How about on the eastern side of the Aioi Bridge?' I suggested.
'That's sounds okay. You realize if you get caught, you're on your own?'
I nodded. The prospect of 'getting caught' did not phase me, or if it did, not sufficiently enough to make me change my mind.
I wasn't quite prepared for such rapid progress, but it seemed that Len Patterson might already have been involved in something more than a bit of unprotected sex on the side. Perhaps others were too, I didn't know; I didn't care. Later that evening, we motored up to Kaitaichi, where food supplies from Kure had arrived the same day. We loaded up a large consignment and returned to the barracks at Nippon Steel. He took me to the back of the kitchen, showed me what he would load in a wooden crate for me as if it were consigned to Ujina. He marked the crate, and we made arrangements to meet the truck the next morning at the Aioi Bridge, where I could transfer whatever he had been able to smuggle and ferry it down to where Masako lived. Then he asked me to wait a minute or two until he could introduce me to the driver of the truck, a lance corporal. When the lance corporal arrived and we met, the instruction was simple. If any other driver came along the next day, I was not to approach them. I agreed.
The next day, I waited by the Aioi Bridge at the arranged time; several Army trucks passed by heading in both directions. Eventually the truck I was waiting for arrived and pulled up on the side of the road behind my jeep. The lance corporal jumped out and I joined him at the rear. He jumped up, under the rear flap, and I waited below. Seconds went by before he had manoeuvred the crate containing the food to the back and we were able to carry it together and place it in the back of my vehicle. Within no more than a minute, it was all done. In all of that time, not one word passed between us. It was clear to me that he had done this before, and it was business as usual. He then jumped back into his truck, and continued on to Ujina as if nothing happened. I then climbed into my jeep and took off across the bridge, turned right on the other side and continued to the point where I had taken the flour the night before.
What I didn't know then, was that when the exchange took place, another army vehicle was about half a mile behind and the driver, Sergeant Derek Avers, had taken note of something irregular going on. He was on his way to Ujina, but decided to detour and follow me.
Amanda was suddenly distracted by the arrival of early evening refreshments being served prior to arrival in Japan. The story had taken an unexpected twist and she felt she would wait until she was in her hotel room before continuing. She carefully closed the journal and placed it in her cabin bag, and settled in to enjoy some cake and fruit before her plane landed. She looked out the window and realized it was dark. The time was seven o' clock.
13.