by Jeff Shaara
“Sir, I’ve been told that you wanted to know when the ship arrived. It’s docking now, sir.”
Downey said, “What ship? Something I can ask about?”
Tibbets stood, stuffed the pipe in his shirt pocket.
“You can now. It’s hard to hide a cruiser.” He looked at the MP again. “You sure, Sergeant? The ship I asked about?”
“Yes, sir. It’s the Indianapolis.”
After absorbing the brutal effects of a Japanese dive-bomber in the waters off Okinawa, the aging cruiser had been sent to Mare Island, northeast of San Francisco, for refitting and repairs. But her service was not yet complete. On July 16, the ship was ordered back to sea, this time with two special passengers and a shipment of cargo that was not even detailed to the ship’s captain. Tibbets knew the two men, and also knew the cargo. The first atomic weapon designated to be used over Japan was still an assemblage of parts, and putting all of those components in one place was considered far too hazardous, and far too great a security risk. The largest component was a cannonlike device that would be the bomb’s core, a mechanism that would fire a piece of enriched uranium into a similar piece at the far end of the bomb, creating a sufficient amount of the material to trigger the chain reaction that would result in the atomic explosion. That cannon and one part of the nuclear material had been placed aboard the Indianapolis, guarded twenty-four hours a day by the two men, whose sole mission was to deliver the pieces of the bomb to Tinian. The men, Robert Furman and James Nolan, had accompanied the cargo without ever revealing their identities or their mission. Disguised as army officers, neither was in fact army at all. Furman was an engineer from Princeton, and Nolan a physician who specialized in radiation treatment. Their journey had begun in Los Alamos, New Mexico, under the authority of Dr. Robert Oppenheimer, the chief physicist for the Manhattan Project. Flanked by a convoy of heavy security, they made the first leg of their journey to Albuquerque, where the two men and their cargo were placed aboard a C-47 cargo plane. Escorted by two additional C-47s, they were flown to San Francisco. With an armed escort now in tow, the two men had accompanied their cargo to the wharf where the crew of the Indianapolis waited, none having any idea what their next assignment might be. Once on board the cruiser, Furman and Nolan had no other duty but to take turns standing watch over the lead bucket that held the enriched uranium. If the ship had gone down, there was no danger that the uranium would go anywhere else. The lead was welded to the steel deck of their cabin. Outside, the cannon device was housed in a crate that was lashed securely to the deck of the ship, guarded by continuous shifts of heavily armed Marines.
As the Indianapolis sailed for Tinian, the remaining components of the bomb were shipped by air on a four-engine C-54 transport plane, the big brother to the smaller C-47. With the uneventful arrival of the Indianapolis to the wharves at Tinian, all the pieces of the bomb had been gathered into a single location, put into secure facilities alongside the men whose job it would be to fly it to a target in Japan, a target they still did not know.
28. HAMISHITA
BASEMENT DUNGEON,
HIROSHIMA CASTLE, HIROSHIMA, JAPAN
AUGUST 1, 1945
The men huddled together, one man attending the wounds of another, a torn shirt for a bandage.
“There, Doctor. I suppose you should take a look at that one. The others do not appear to have serious injury, though they are too stubborn to admit to anything. If they insist on keeping their pain to themselves, I will not object. They should suffer for their crimes.” The captain turned away with a curt wave of his hand. “Do what you must, Doctor.”
Hamishita moved through the open gate of the cell, the American prisoners watching him with emotionless eyes. The injured man was lying flat on the earthen floor, and one of the others spoke out to the doctor, words Hamishita could not understand. He responded by holding high the medical bag, the other hand held outward, a gesture of calm. Behind him the guards pointed their machine guns into the cell, a show of power Hamishita ignored. The prisoners will not attack me, he thought. I’m too old, and no threat to them. They know their man requires care, and surely they can see I am not one of the soldiers.
The Americans made room, five men easing away from their fellow flyer, cautious, watching Hamishita’s every move. He looked at the faces, dirty, exhausted, scanned their limbs, saw no obvious damage beyond the rips and shreds to their clothes.
“I am a doctor. I am here to help.”
None of the Americans showed any acknowledgment, no sign of understanding him. He moved forward, close to the injured man, opened the bag, then looked closer, saw blood thick on his shirt, a rag tied across one shoulder. He slid his hand beneath it, felt the gash in the man’s flesh, his hand now in the wound, foamy and wet, the man not crying out. The Americans around him kept mostly quiet, one shouting something, a guard at the cell door shouting back. It was a ridiculous show, no communication at all, just the growls of injured animals, hatred and viciousness. But the Japanese guards had every advantage, and the Americans seemed to know they were powerless, had to trust this older man who claimed to be a doctor. At least, he thought, they will allow me to do my work.
He eased the bandage off the shoulder, and Hamishita frowned, the wound already festering. The smell rose up, spreading through the cavelike cell, mingling with the damp earth and filthy men. He took an instrument from his bag, scraped at the wound, the man still oblivious, no real consciousness. But the others reacted, some turning away from the gruesome sight, others watching his every move. No, I am not here to torture. If he can be cured, I will do my best. He probed the wound, saw fragments of bone, the slow pulse of an artery, opened now, the blood draining away through the man’s rag of a shirt. One of the others said something, the man’s tone more of desperation, a plea.
“It is not good. He has lost much blood. Too much.”
Hamishita knelt upright, wiped the blood from his hand, put one finger on the man’s eyelid, opened, saw the pupils wide and black, a small window through the man’s blue eyes into a brain that was almost gone. The injured man was completely calm, no reaction at all, the odor from his wound overpowering in the cramped space. For more than thirty years he had treated every type of injury, and now most of those were wounds, many of them more severe than this one. He had never been bothered by the blood, by the opening of a man’s flesh. But the smells had always affected him, the unavoidable stench of a man’s inevitable death by the decay of blood and flesh, by the swift work of bacteria and vermin moving too quickly to be stopped. He removed a small vial of alcohol from his bag, sprinkled it on his hands, wiped again, cleaned as much of the man’s debris from his skin as he could. He looked at the others, each one with the fear and the anger for what had happened to them. Hamishita would not think of that, had no hatred for these men, no matter their missions, no matter what destruction they might be responsible for. He had seen the pain of loss too many times, knew the look in the eyes, stricken with the blow of sadness, of the reality that a friend was dying. He tried to see who might be in charge, could tell nothing from their flight jackets, the uniforms looked the same, no insignia he recognized. One of the men seemed to feel the moment more deeply than the others, and the doctor caught his eye, slowly shook his head. Another man said something to him, a demand, hard words, and Hamishita ignored him, kept his eye on the man who was crying now, red eyes, fear, the man already missing his friend.
“I’m sorry. The infection is too pronounced. He has lost consciousness. I do not have the medicine that would save him. Even if he was in hospital … there is little I can do.”
He closed the medical bag, stood, backed away, saw the fierce stares watching him, all but one, the friend, the man moving close, a hand on the dying man’s arm. The American said something, soft words, and Hamishita heard a soft gurgle, one final breath, a faint rattle from the man’s throat, the injured American injured no more. The others seemed to understand, another one speaking out, not as much anger, something to Hamishit
a, a short nod, some kind of gratitude. The doctor made a short bow, said, “I’m sorry. Your comrade is gone. I was too late.”
He was out of the cell now, the guards closing the steel door with a hard clang, a stupid show the Americans certainly did not need. Hamishita moved out into fresher air, thought, they know their war is over. For those men, anyway, we are the victors. How many of us did they kill first? No, that is not your concern. Their friend died honorably, in the performance of his duty. If that is not important to them … well, it should be.
He had watched the raid from the bombers, a formation of B-24s doing what they always did, dropping strings of bombs that rained down like tiny insects. This raid had targeted some military barracks no more than a few hundred yards from his clinic. But two of the planes had not escaped, the first time he had actually witnessed accurate fire from the anti-aircraft batteries that kept hidden against the far hills. The planes had twisted and spun, wounded birds, and from each the parachutes had emerged like white puffs of cotton. He had watched them fall, their planes first, thunderous crashes into the woods to the north. The flyers came next, a dozen, slow and deliberate, and there had been gunfire from the ground, a rifle, but then the flyers were down, out of his view. He knew they had no chance to escape capture, the soldiers waiting for them before they even reached the ground. The six he had seen were among them, certainly, and it was not his place to ask what had happened to the rest. But the call to examine this group had been a surprise, a messenger from Captain Narita, and Hamishita had responded at once, a brisk hike from his clinic straight to the castle.
He was outside now, more guards, no one seeming to pay any attention to this one elderly civilian among a sea of uniforms. He saw Captain Narita, the man speaking to an aide, reading from a piece of paper. Hamishita moved that way, and Narita saw him, said, “So. Will they survive?”
“One did not. The others show no apparent injury. I am not certain why you needed me to verify that.”
“You will do precisely that, Doctor. Verify that. I wish to have a written report from you, stating that the American prisoners are in acceptable condition, that we have not tortured or abused them. If you have time, of course.”
Hamishita knew that the kindness in Narita’s request was completely counterfeit, that the paperwork would be produced whether it was written by Hamishita or by someone else who simply added the doctor’s signature.
“I will do so immediately, Captain. With your permission, I will return to my clinic. You shall have your paper by this afternoon.”
“Is there a hurry, Doctor? Perhaps you will come to the commander’s villa for tea.”
It was another order, and Hamishita thought of the work that awaited him at the clinic, only a few patients, wounded civilians from the last bombing raid, one woman who had just given birth.
“Nothing urgent awaits me, Captain. I am honored to be your guest.”
“Excellent. But you will not be my guest. Someone wishes to see you. You should be honored by such an invitation.”
Hamishita was baffled by the hint of mystery, made a short bow, followed as Narita moved up the inclined path that led out away from the lower levels of the castle. He was still curious about the rest of the American flyers, if they had survived at all, if they were being held separately from the others, some kind of security, a place of interrogation perhaps. It was an odd request from Narita that the doctor provide documentation that the six men he had seen had not been tortured, that they had been given proper medical treatment. He knew very little of military matters, thought, perhaps they are to be traded, an exchange for some of our own. They would need to be in good condition, I suppose. That makes sense. The captain stopped, pointed the way, and Hamishita saw the grand home, guards flanking a narrow driveway, gates adorned with metal carvings. He knew of the place, a headquarters of sorts, had seen parades of officers coming and going. But today there was little activity beyond the presence of the guards. Narita said, “Your host is waiting. You may enter, on my authority.”
The words were loud, intended for the guards, who made no movement at all. Hamishita turned to thank the captain, but the man was already moving away, back toward the castle, the activity there much more intense, a column of soldiers emerging from an upper doorway, more gathering in the wide grounds to one side. Busy man, he thought. I suppose … if someone was trying to drop bombs on my clinic, I would be busy too.
He moved up the walkway, past the guards, no one looking at him. The driveway was lined on either side by flowers, more greenery beyond. The house itself was very old, two stories, ornate carvings perched in various crevices in the stone architecture. There were more guards at the entry-way, a heavy bronze door that was suddenly opened for him.
“Thank you. Very kind.”
The guards did not respond, and Hamishita moved inside, caught the wondrous fragrance of food being prepared. For many months his own meals had consisted mostly of rice and dried fish, a necessity impressed on the civilians by the needs of the army. He had made his fights with the local military headquarters, protesting to anyone who would listen that the needs of his patients were a priority that even the local military commanders should understand, since he had been called upon to treat soldiers as well as civilians wounded in the bombing attacks. But so far there had been no promises of anything more than meager rations, and no other supplies at all, including the desperately needed medicines. He understood the needs of the army, but still he hoped that his status as a doctor would open someone’s eyes to the necessity of a helping hand. Whatever medicines and supplies he had used on his patients had been scrounged from places the army would not have appreciated. It had been risky, but the doctor knew that each barracks was stocked with a first aid kit. Even the small doses of morphine or disinfectants would be useful, and if those kits were discovered to be missing, he had convinced himself, a doctor would be low on the list of suspected thieves.
The smells in the grand house were overwhelming him, erasing the sickening odor of the castle, and he searched for someone, anyone, heard a voice.
“Doctor! I have a small pain in my toe. I insisted that you be the one to treat it. There is no one in the empire more qualified to clip my toenails.”
The voice was strangely familiar, and he saw the man at the top of the grand staircase, stared up into a wide, beaming smile.
“Shunroku!” He froze, saw the grandeur of the man’s uniform, realized this was no time for such informality. “Forgive me, please. Field Marshal Hata! It is my honor to be in your presence.”
“Yes, of course it is, Okiro. It is my honor too. I look in the mirror and announce myself every morning when I awaken. ‘Hata Shunroku, you have the honor once more of adorning yourself with the uniform of a field marshal. Be worthy, or they will strip it from you.’ How I manage to fill such enormous shoes is yet a mystery to me.”
“I heard you had come to Hiroshima, that you were in command now. I have wondered how you were doing, but your fame has answered those questions. I never thought you would have time to see me … or even remember me. It has been years.”
“Fifteen years. You treated a member of my staff when we were on maneuvers, just before the Manchukuo affair began. I recall being impressed that my old friend should have accomplished so much.”
“I am merely a physician, Field Marshal. You are so far above me … so accomplished. I could hardly matter to a man in your position.”
“Why is that? Old friendships are far more valuable than new ones, and these days new friends are best avoided. Even the emperor knows this. He is avoiding anyone who does not smell like a friend.”
A servant appeared now, a short, thin woman in a white silk kimono. She bowed deeply, her hands clasped tightly beneath her chin. Hata moved down the stairway, said, “Is the lunch prepared?”
She did not speak, her positive response coming in another bow. She turned quickly, moved away.
Hata watched her, said, “Perhaps we should even fea
r the girls. I should have you examine the food, test it for poison.” He winked at the doctor now. “I am teasing of course. My staff is loyal to a fault. The fault is that they have chosen to be loyal to me.”
Hamishita stiffened as Hata descended closer to him, and the field marshal stopped, seemed disappointed by the doctor’s formality.
“Not you as well. I am treated like a deity by my soldiers. I do not expect such from one who has spent his youth swimming with me in the cold spring of that farmer, Gorito. We barely escaped that man without becoming a meal for his dogs. And me without my clothing! What would my colonels say of that?”
Hamishita tried to loosen his formality, but Hata’s uniform was too imposing.
“Yes. I recall that. We were no more than ten, I suppose. The farmer complained to your parents. Your father did not spare the whip, as I recall.”
Hata’s smile darkened now, the words coming out slowly, quietly, “None of us will be spared the whip. Those of us in the High Command who have been so impatient for this war to end will soon enjoy the gratification of their wish fulfilled.” Hata pointed toward a room to one side. “Come, my friend. Lunch awaits.”
Hamishita followed, could not help admiring the field marshal’s boots, a high sheen on black leather. The source of the smells was apparent now, a table lined with small bowls of steaming food, framed on each end by enormous vases of flowers.
“Sit there, Okiro. I shall assume my position at the head of the table. No one will be joining us but our ancestors. But even the spirits expect me to take my accustomed place. It will keep them from remembering a naked frightened child fleeing a barking dog. I should certainly have to answer for that once more when I reach the great shrine. What about you? What do you have to answer for? A respected physician, managing his own clinic. Did you ever imagine you would find yourself in such a position?”
Hamishita moved to the cushion where Hata pointed, sat, curled his legs beneath him.