It was a cold, cloudy afternoon as Miyagi Ryo made his way to the official dais, speech in hand and a mix of sorrow and nervousness in his heart. In truth, he had not wanted to huge responsibility that came with the position, however until the newly-ratified constitution came into effect on the First of January, 1945 (Year 2605 by the Imperial Japanese calendar), the task of appointing a Prime Minister lay solely with The Emperor himself. A direct ‘request’ of that nature was not one to be refused, and the only sliver of hope Miyagi still clung to was that he need not stand again for the position when the first elections of that new constitution were held, later that same year.
There were many officials and dignitaries present. Much of the Diet was represented, along with select members of the Japanese Imperial Headquarters, Yamamoto and Oikawa among them. There were also a number of foreign dignitaries, present as a sign of respect and of recognition of how far relations had progressed between former enemies since the signing of the peace accords. For all that, there was no applause from the grandstand that had been erected, nor from the crowds of military and ordinary civilians gathered on either side: the circumstances were far too serious for that; the memories still far too raw for far too many.
Miyagi unfolded the speech and laid it out on the dais, drawing his thick-lensed reading glasses from within the jacket of his tailored suit and opening them in his hands in preparation to speak. A number of microphones stood ready to broadcast his words to the waiting audience, and he made a concerted effort to ignore the newsreel cameras on either side of the grandstand, whirring away as they recorded every movement.
Up among the guests in that stand, his eyes happened to fall upon the faces of Abe Kan and Miki Takeo, both men nodding faintly in recognition as their eyes met. Their help had been instrumental over the last year in laying much of the groundwork for the new constitution, and Miyagi knew that both men were destined to be men of great influence in the new Japan that would follow. Unless he was very much mistaken, Miyagi was confident he was currently looking at a pair of future Prime Ministers in those two capable friends.
Recognising that he could delay no longer, he positioned the glasses carefully over his eyes and cleared his throat softly as he commenced his speech.
“Here today, on this first anniversary of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima and Kure, I reverently extend my sincere condolences to the souls of this great number of the victims of this attack. I also extend my deepest sympathy to the so many more of you still suffering because of these nuclear bombs, either through mourning of loved ones lost, or more directly due to injury and sickness and the other after-effects of these terrible weapons. I pledge, on behalf of The Diet and The Emperor himself, that we will not forget you, nor shall we forget the suffering through which you have endured.
There is also great regret that it was by our own hands, upon orders from our wartime Japanese command, that one of these atomic bombs was first used in anger in a dishonourable surprise attack against the military and civilians of the United States of America and its dependencies. It was no more than a week later that Japan too experienced the terrible reality of nuclear war in the destruction of Hiroshima and Kure, in retaliation for this initial attack.
A year has passed since these events, and already we see spreading stockpiles of these terrible weapons across Europe, North America and Australasia. Since the signing of the peace accord with the United States and Commonwealth Governments, the Japanese Government and people have continued to maintain our pledge to work tirelessly toward the realisation of a world free from the threat of nuclear weapons: a world that – no matter how long it should take – will one day be able to think of this terrible, global danger as nothing more than an awful memory.
Since the end of hostilities in the Pacific and South-East Asia, Japan has made great progress in rebuilding friendships with the Allied Powers and in re-establishing important cultural and economic links that will ensure the ongoing exchange of trade, ideas and technology. At the same time, however, we must never become complacent or forget the dangers of national hubris or unprovoked aggression.
Even as we continue in our struggle to defeat the armies of the Soviet Union that remain within our territorial borders, we stand firm in the understanding that we seek only to repel an invader, and have no designs or intentions regarding further expansion or the acquisition of additional colonial territory. We seek only to defend our nation and its interests, and will continue to seek an equitable resolution to this conflict through peaceful means.
As I look around this wonderful city today, I am heartened by the progress that has already be made to rebuild, and I am confident that the Japanese people will rise as one to overcome any adversity as we strive toward our future and our destiny. We know in our hearts and in our souls, that as a nation, we can excel and can attain greatness without the need for war. This is what we believe, and it is for this that Japan now fights.
In conclusion, I offer up my most heartfelt prayers for the souls of all victims of nuclear war, both here in Japan and elsewhere around the globe, and again declare our unending support for and responsibility to the survivors and to all Japanese who struggle on for the betterment of our nation.
I end now with a jisei that was once recounted to me by a great man – words originally written by the poet, Nandai…”
Miyagi paused for a moment, fighting to hold back the tears as emotion almost overcame him, and his mind wandered to the note Kido had left him… the final goodbye of a man he’d considered a great mentor and father figure. The jisei, or death poem, had formed the last lines of that note, and those three short verses had remained in Miyagi’s thoughts and soul ever since. With voice wavering, he forced himself to continue, lifting his head and staring directly into the nearest of the newsreel cameras, as if its cold, lifeless lens might provide some alternative source of focus and help him through this last, small part of the speech.
“‘Since time began, the dead alone know peace… Life is but melting snow…’…”
Somewhere in the background, a military band started up, the tune bland and forgettable. The crowd rose as one, standing as a sign of respect to the fallen as four aircraft flew overhead in a similar ‘missing man’ formation to the flight that had graced the skies over Singapore, twelve months earlier.
This time however, the aircraft were predominantly Japanese. In the lead, an A6M2 Reisen of the IJN lead the first pair, with his wingman at the controls of an IJAAF Ki-45 Toryu, following behind his outer wing. The lead aircraft of the second pair – quite unusually – was a civilian aircraft: a DC-2 airliner licence-built by the Nakajima Aircraft Company. Intended as a show of respect for the hundreds of thousands of civilians killed during and as a result of the bombings, it wore the livery if the Imperial Japanese Airways.
The fourth aircraft in the formation was by far the most controversial, yet its presence had been insisted upon by the Prime Minister (possibly in the vain hope that his stubbornness might result in his eventual replacement). In honour of the Allied deaths resulting from the use of atomic weapons, an invitation to take part in the ceremony had been extended to and accepted by a US Navy pilot, the man a veteran of those first great air battles in defence of Pearl Harbor.
The two-tone blue of his F-4A Corsair stood out distinctly from the unpainted, metallic shine of the civilian DC-2, and also in comparison to the earthy greens and browns of the Toryu and Reisen fighters. A stir of muttering spread across the crowd at the sight of that American plane, flying in tight formation behind the airliner, however for the most part, the symbolic gesture was received in the spirit it was intended, particularly among the visiting guests.
At the appropriate, pre-determined moment, the lumbering DC-2 broke formation and began to climb steadily upward, away from the rest as they continued on. Its low-powered radials weren’t really up to the task, but there’d been no real alternative to the reality that civilian deaths had been by far the greatest majority, and as such, t
here remembrance was of primary importance in the overall symbolism of the flight.
There were many crying now, and many more dabbing at their eyes as they fought to prevent the same. Unable to even move from the spot at that moment, Prime Minister Miyagi Ryo bowed his head, offered up another silent prayer to his ancestors, and vowed once again not to use the pistol he kept hidden in the bottom draw of his bedside dresser, just as he had every day since he’d received Kido’s final note.
Laha Memorial
Ambon Island, Dutch East Indies
Same day…
He’d been amazed that the uniform had still fit. It had been a year since he’d last worn it, and he hadn’t exactly been watching his diet since, yet as he’d shrugged the tailored blue tunic over his shoulders and buttoned it, it had seemed to fit as perfectly as it ever had. Thorne wondered if perhaps another side-effect of displacement in time was an inability to lose or put on weight, as if the very condition of the body was held in stasis, suspended in a similar fashion to the ageing process itself. He couldn’t say he’d made any effort to test the theory properly, but as he came to think of it, neither could he recall any of his Hindsight colleagues having ever displayed any noticeable increases in weight.
You’re only putting off the inevitable… the voice in his head suggested kindly, no malice in the words.
“You think?” He asked sadly… rhetorically. “Procrastination is a personal hobby of mine, as you know.” He added with a rueful smile. “Never do today…”
…what you can put off until tomorrow, yes… it finished for him, repeating the old joke that never seemed all that funny.
“Mind you, I might avoid the whole issue if I just hid in here for the rest of the afternoon.”
Indeed… and you might also miss the last flight out of here and be stuck on this bloody island… again…
“Good point,” Thorne conceded with a grimace, shuddering faintly as he remembered the last time he’d been left stranded on Ambon, and had ended up staring up in horror at that terrible mushroom cloud on that very same date, twelve months ago. “Best I get changed then…” He decided, beginning to unbutton his tunic.
The ceremony has gone as well as anyone could have expected. The open fields near Soewakoda, where the executions had actually occurred, were currently listed as war graves, although the Australian War Graves Commission was about to begin the process of recovery and repatriation of what remains could be found and identified. From what Thorne new of history, it was likely to be difficult task, and even in his time, many who’d fallen at Laha were still listed only as ‘missing, presumed dead’ due to the difficulty of identifying individual remains from of the mass graves the Japanese had created.
A small cenotaph, simple and unassuming, had been erected near the airfield. Upon the sides of the polished, marble obelisk were engraved the names of all those Australians who’d died fighting with Gull Force during that terrible, second week of December, 1942. It had been at that memorial that the ceremony had been held, with surprisingly little hype and quite intentionally without any widespread publicity. That day – the first anniversary of the massacre at Laha and everything else that had taken place on December 14 – was for the families of the fallen, and for the surviving veterans to return, if they were able, to pay their respects to the mates they’d lost.
Thorne had remained well back into the crowd, allowing Briony to head on up the front and stand with Eileen, flanked on both sides by Langdale, John Watson and his daughter, Victoria. He’d watched Mal give a fine and very moving speech, feeling deeply for the man as he’d broken down in the middle, momentarily unable to continue as he spoke of the loss of his friend, Evan Lloyd. Thorne had cried with him, along with many of the others present.
Colonel Roach and Bill Jinkins, now a captain, had spoken of the men of 2/21st Battalion, and how valiantly they’d given their lives in the fight against a strong and numerically superior enemy, and both particularly singled out the sacrifice of the men who’d been taken out into those fields near Soewakoda. Gordon Bennett, representing the Australian Army itself, also stood and spoke of courage, before leading the entire gathering in a reading of The Ode; the traditional recitation – usually reserved for ANZAC Day – that was originally taken from the poem For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon:
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
The tears and emotion that had come before that moment – from men and women alike – was nothing compared to the outpouring of grief and sorrow that had filled the air around the cenotaph as those words were spoken, and many found it difficult to respond in kind as the passage had ended with the traditional vow of “Lest we forget…”
Thorne had left immediately, returning to the makeshift barracks huts on the outskirts of Laha set up specifically for the accommodation of guests for the ceremony. The organisers had asked him to speak – to give a short passage as someone who’d also experienced the horror of that day firsthand. He’d respectfully declined, thinking no good could come of it. As he’d returned to his quarters after, cheeks moist and eyes reddened, he’d been glad of his original decision.
“Were you going to head off without saying hello…?”
The words that came from behind him sent a chill through his bones in that moment, and it required every ounce of his strength and self-control not to burst into tears once more as he turned to see Eileen Donelson standing in the doorway, looking as beautiful as ever in her finest RN dress uniform, with the white, enamelled cross of a newly-awarded Distinguished Service Order hanging with the other decorations across her left breast.
“I… uh… I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me…” he answered after a moment of recovery, the honesty of the reply surprising her.
“Well, I always knew you weren’t that clever…” She pointed out with a kind smile, stepping inside the room to the point where proximity, under the circumstances, was perhaps a little uncomfortable for both of them.
“You’re… you’re looking as beautiful as ever,” he observed with continuing honesty, this time managing a smile of his own that made much progress in thawing the ice that remained between them.
“Oh, aye…? This new life must be agreein’ with me, I guess…” She conceded, giving a faint shrug.
“I heard you’d left the navy…” He nodded in understanding. “I was sorry to hear that.”
“I – I just couldn’t do it any more…” she shrugged again, that simple gesture conveying volumes in terms of body language as to the many months of internal conflict that had preceded the decision. “What happened here… what we all went through…”
“Yeah…” he agreed hoarsely, no further explanation necessary. “ I hear you’ve gotten engaged…?” He ventured tentatively, recognising he’d not necessarily picked the best topic with which to change the subject but not able to bring anything else to mind.
“Aye,” she nodded, smiling wanly. “That I have.”
“Watson… John…” Thorne corrected himself. “He’s a good man…”
“Aye,” she repeated. “He is that…”
“Listen, Eileen…” he began with renewed energy, finding strength to say something that should’ve been said a year ago. “What I said… what I did back then…”
“You don’t have to say it…” she offered gently, giving him, as she had so many times before, the opportunity to avoid words she knew he’d find difficult.
“Yeah, I do…” he replied quickly, this time not prepared to let himself off the hook. “Eileen, I can never take back what I did to you. What I did and said to make you the scapegoat for my own mistakes… for my own failings.”
“Max, love…” she began, a little unsettled by such unexpected directness and honesty.
“All – all you ever did was have my back, and I betr
ayed you with my arrogance and my immaturity,” he went on quickly, not prepared to allow her to interrupt. “I can say I’m sorry a thousand times, and not one of them will change anything that I did to hurt you.”
“Just the one’s more than enough…” she assured softly, tears in her eyes now as she accepted his characteristically circumspect apology.
“I’m working a lot these days,” he admitted, nodding in thanks and understanding, “but anytime you two – you three - want to see The States…” he added, correcting himself again as he recalled Watson’s daughter, “you just let me know. There’ll be a plane waiting…”
“He is a good man, you know…” she reaffirmed, taking another step forward as tears trickled down both cheeks, “but there’s one thing he’s not…”
“Maybe that’s the best thing about him,” Thorne suggested, knowing exactly what she was talking about and managing to maintain a thin smile as something inside him died painfully.
“Stay safe, Max Thorne…” she whispered, leaning up to place a soft kiss on his lips, her hand caressing his cheek for just a moment. “You stay safe…”
“Be happy…” he offered in return, reaching up and gently taking her hand in his as she lowered it once more from his cheek. “You deserve it!”
She was gone in the moment that followed, and it was only then, as he closed the door behind her, that Thorne allowed himself the luxury of tears. Slumping down onto the bed against the wall of that tiny room, he held his head in his hands and sobbed quietly for a few moments, the voices in his mind respectfully silent, although somehow he could nevertheless feel their presence and their sympathy. In some strange, inexplicable way, that sensation gave him some comfort.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 122