George O’Brien (Wascott, Wisconsin): “I saw a reddish glow in the sky over Nagasaki and at first I thought it was a fire after the bombing. But it lasted too long for just Japanese shacks, and I was puzzled.”
Joseph Collins (San Antonio), captured on Corregidor: “The next morning after the noonday bombing of Nagasaki, I climbed on a waterboiler platform with Stanley Peterson of Los Angeles, and we could see flames over in Nagasaki, leaping up and dying and rising again like an oil fire, but with a peculiar absence of black smoke.”
Corporal Lee Dale (Walnut Creek, California), who visited the Nagasaki atomic bombsite: “Those flattened buildings made you want to cry, not on account of the lives lost, but because of the destruction involved.”
“THE JAPANESE LITTLE THEATER GIVES A RED CROSS BENEFIT”
Allied Prison Camp #17, Omuta, Kyushu
A cold brook runs through the tunnel of the Mitsui coal mine at Omuta, on Kyushu, but the air 1,440 feet underground is thick and hot. Your feet are ankle-deep in the rushing, icy water; at the same time your head swims with fatigue, and the sweat-towel around your brow is soaked with perspiration. “For almost two years we worked here twelve hours a day,” the G.I.s tell you. “We got a little less than a cent a day. Pretty good for the Mitsuis. Till we came along, they never thought the mine could be made to pay again. Our officers only knew about the mine what we told them. The Japanese never let them go down.”
But how about the neutral inspector from the International Red Cross?
“They never let him go underground, either.”
Whenever a new shipment of American prisoners was seen shambling down the tunnel to work, backs bent under the low ceiling and cap-lamps bright, the weary old shift would break away from the “long wall”—the most advanced face of coal—and ask those arriving, “What’s new topside?”
The incoming shift, skinny-legged and pale as the old on the same three half-bowlfuls of rice a day, would say, “Nothing, same as usual. Except the Japs strafed the new Red Cross packages today.”
“What’d they get?”
“They took all the meat and fruit cans, and the condensed milk and most of the chocolate.”
“What’d they leave?”
“Same as usual: the raisins and the prunes.”
“Whatsa matter with those raisins and prunes? Why do they always leave them?”
“Search me.” A minute of wordless thought on both sides; being a prisoner is submission, but sometimes you have to remind yourself. “Any ceilings fall today on anybody?”
“Not yet, but look out for that mushy one over there. She shifted twice this afternoon. Our shotai Joe made us work under the cracked beam, but she’s just about ready to let go and come down.”
Stripping the abandoned mine of the Mitsui barons, removing its last supporting coal pillars, was work for men who had already written off most of their future. But that did not mean that they had surrendered the present. Nothing that Captain Fukuhara, the camp commandant, could do was able to silence the horselaugh that rippled through the tunnels every six months or so, on the day after the visit of the International Red Cross inspector.
Underground in the mine you could always tell when the B-29s were making a visit overhead. The main power plant on the surface closed down, the weaker auxiliary pumps went into action, and the air grew gluey and hard to breathe. In a slightly different way you could tell, while underground, when the Red Cross man was making a visit. From every section gang the strongest American was told off and ordered to take the mine train to the surface. He had ceased being a miner; he was now an actor. He had a role in a play that the mine authorities were going to put on for the benefit of the audience of one: the Red Cross inspector.
Two or three days before the Red Cross man—usually a Swiss or Swede—actually arrived, secret rehearsals had already been begun by what might be called the leads: the Japanese authorities of the camp. But for the real fibre of the performance the Japanese counted on their unrehearsed extras, the Americans.
Show day comes. A one-shot performance can be as good as its scenery, rarely any better. What is this extraordinary change that has overtaken the filthy little clinic, where operations without anesthesia have often taken place? It is transformed. Not only ether and morphine, but other medicines have appeared, the very medicines that were unobtainable 24 hours ago . . . . And look at the notice board! What are those neatly typewritten sheets fluttering from its black surface, now suddenly innocent of punishment records? It is the Daily News Bulletin, no less. (“We do what we can, Mr. Inspector, to satisfy the extraordinary American curiosity about current events.”)
And here comes the Red Cross visitor, walking like a prisoner himself in a phalanx of potbellied Japanese colonels and majors. Has he been underground? He has not. Will he get a view of the barracks? Well, a quick one, maybe. But first he is shown documents for three hours, till his eyes ache. Then the place for him to go is to the hospital. After all, a hospital is the great index of humanity. If the hospital in a prison camp is all right, everything else must be all right, too.
And everything in the little hospital is right, as superlatively right as the last canto of Scrooge’s Christmas. Just the entrance alone is beautiful. On each side of the door, Red Cross boxes are piled tastefully in twin pyramids—medicines, food, a cornucopia of abundance. The military interpreter opens the door and the inspector enters. Order and cleanliness, a lovely sight. The faces of the men on their cots are turned toward him. Sick? If these men are the sick, confined to the hospital under medical treatment, then it is hardly necessary to see the healthy, now working down in the mine. For these men, as prison standards go, are not badly off at all. Their faces—though wearing a peculiar quizzical, stolid expression—are round and full. Their eyes are clear. A Japanese doctor would call them robust.
The visitor, stroking his moustache, turns to the Japanese nurse, one of several chubby little starched creatures who have been placed at even intervals the length of the ward, like markings on a clinical thermometer. “How are the prisoners doing?” he inquires through the interpreter. “Oh, very well, very very well,” she says, with a shining nursely smile.
The inspector observes there are white sheets on the mattresses. Really not bad, altogether. Each man has a can of salmon or of pears at the same geometrical point near his bed. Not quite within reach, perhaps, but nearby.
Gently Captain Fukuhara suggests that perhaps the official party had better not delay too long in the hospital. Luncheon is already waiting. Would the inspector like to see what the prisoners are eating? The party passes rapidly through the kitchen to the mess hall, where the prisoners are lined up, waiting to be seen. Their faces still bear looks of unmistakable pleasure and anticipation, in which a sharp eye might detect strong traces of astonishment. There is no doubt that this is a happy camp. Look at the faces of the prisoners as they scan the miracle that lies waiting for them in their wooden mess gear: three camp rolls with a dab of margarine, bean soup with a bit of pork, a spoonful of Japanese red caviar, and a baked apple.
(It is the baked apple, though the visitor does not know this, which has really bewitched them. This baked apple is more than remarkable; it is historical. It is the only baked apple ever seen at Camp #17 in two years.)
The inspector has now seen the camp. But he must not go away without talking to one or two individual prisoners. So he is led to the Japanese headquarters, he is settled in the comfortable chair of the commandant, and several handpicked Americans are brought to him. The room is full of Japanese military and police; the only non-Japanese are the prisoner and the Red Cross man.
“We were selected for health, first,” Sergeant Joe Lawson of Klamath Falls explains it. “Then, when they knew the inspector was at the railroad station, they double-timed us to a bath, clean clothes and a shave. We went in that room and only needed to look around at the familiar faces to know what we were up against. We’d had plenty of stickwork done on us already. We knew tha
t to get plenty more, all we needed to do was open our mouths.”
Now the last monosyllabic prisoner has walked out. The inspector rises. It is all over. Everybody is smiling. Nobody has said or heard anything disagreeable or discordant. Even the prisoners back in their quarters are happy in a way, for their fears that the visitor would ask penetrating questions and make it impossible for them to conceal the truth have been dispelled. The lie is still intact. How cheerful everyone is! Captain Fukuhara—on whose hands is the blood of five Americans beaten and starved to death in the aeso, the guardhouse—is geniality itself. He suggests a photograph to perpetuate the occasion. His lieutenants take up the proposal with an acclaim like bacchantes. A picture, a photograph of everybody! We must have it!
A table is decorated with cigarettes, cookies and fruit from the mess of the kempeitai, the military police. A Japanese Cecil Beaton runs around, all dithery excitement until he finds what he wants to put on the table with the edibles: a trumpet, a harmonica and a guitar. A suggestion is made that some of the irreproachable prisoners might be summoned back to get in the picture, but the picture is too crowded already, and the suggestion falls flat . . . . “All smile, prease!”(It is a little joke, for the fussy photographer to use the language of the prisoners, and all smile at it.) “Sank you! All finish!”
The military motorcar is waiting for the Red Cross man. Perhaps, in this last moment of shaking hands, he may be troubled by some inner doubts. But there is no time to sift them. He must hurry off, for he is to catch the train for Moji, connecting with the express for Tokyo. See you next year!
If he had seen the prisoners the next day, instead, the inspector would have learned more. If his officer escort would allow him to get off at the first station, turn around and go back to the camp, the inspector might see how the pageant of his welcome, as insubstantial as Prospero’s, faded into nothingness as soon as he left.
What has happened in the camp? The pyramids of Red Cross packages are demolished. The boxes are in Captain Fukuhara’s closet, and the key is in his pocket. The cans of fish and pears have disappeared. Gone, too, are the white sheets from the hospital beds; where, nobody knows. The little nurses are climbing into their truck to be taken back to the local hospital in Omuta, swans never seen before in camp, unlikely to be seen again. The Daily News Bulletin is gone without a trace from the notice board, and a kempeitai is frowningly nailing back the punishment schedule. In the kitchen the Navy cook, Woodie Whitworth of Bourne, Texas, is preparing supper. The menu is the same as usual: one-half bowlful of plain rice, laced with millet to make it cheaper.
A column of prisoners dressed for work, with cap-lamps and sweat rags, is marching past the god of the mine.* As their guards command them, they all bow to his exalted, unsmiling image. These miners are the extras of the benefit performance, who were patients in the hospital until a few minutes ago.
Having arrived at the entrance shaft they adjust their lamps for the last time, hug their mess-gear full of cold rice, climb into the roller coaster–like iron train and hold on. The cable starts moving. The train slides down the slanting chute into the sooty, echoing tunnel. For a while its roar is loud, but soon it dies away. After five minutes or so a bell rings. The cable slows, tightens, and finally stops. The patients from the hospital have reached their normal level of operation, 1,440 feet below ground. The sideshow is over. The Mitsui show is on once more.
Omuta, Japan—Wednesday, September 12, 1945
Allied Prison Camp #25, Omuta, Kyushu
The atomic bomb, seen bursting over Nagasaki by British prisoners from Camp #25 in central Kyushu, astonished and mystified them.
Captain Douglas Wilkie (Fairlight, England) said that it “seemed like a huge, ever-swelling mushroom-shaped whiteish cloud, with a glowing center and stem reaching to the earth. I was queerly uneasy and very puzzled, and thought it was perhaps a new type of incendiary bomb.”
Lieutenant William Miller (Glasgow, Scotland): “The bomb appeared like a growing ball of white smoke, with a red ball inside, giving me an impression of vague terror as an unaccountable phenomenon.”
Warrant Officer James MacIntosh (Invercargill, New Zealand): “It started as a white puff of smoke, swelling and growing to a mushroom shape, and suddenly lit up inside. It was terrifying, as if clouds had caught fire.”
Staff Sergeant George Duke (Lahore, India): “After a flash, white smoke expanded to the shape of an enormous parachute with an orange glow in the center. It remained suspended for half an hour and I thought it was possibly a prematurely detonated landmine. It gave me an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.”
Company Quartermaster Sergeant Norman Jones (Hartlepool, England) remembered “a huge white cloud, intermingled with orange flame spurting in all directions. I felt completely dumbfounded.”
Sergeant Albert Young (London, England): “I saw a flash—as if a mirror had shone into one’s eyes—followed by a white puff in the sky spreading to a huge ball of cloudy fire. I felt uneasy and frightened at something unknown.”
Corporal Hubert Fyfe (Edinburgh, Scotland) described it as “the top half of a colossal hourglass, with red flame inside instead of sand, rapidly increasing in size. I thought a chemical works had been bombed.”
Corporal William Lunan (Glasgow, Scotland): “I saw what looked like an enormous white wheel in the sky, with a glowing hub and axle pointing towards the ground. I felt unhappy about it, not knowing what to think.”
Private Ernest Newsome (Barnsley, England) recalled “a huge ball of fire suspended in the air, growing larger and larger. It was still there after half an hour. I thought it was perhaps a new kind of gas. And I was upset.”
Lance Corporal William Angus (Nuntley, Scotland): “A flash in the sky was followed two minutes later by a white puff growing to a mushroom shape, with a bright red glow inside. I thought it might be a new secret weapon, and was very bewildered.”
Gunner Denis Maguire (Merthyr Tydfil, Wales): “It looked like a revolving ball of cloud in the sky, with a red glowing center, becoming momentarily larger. I had never before seen its like, and was thunderstruck.”
Private Thomas Jones (Nieuport, Wales): “Following the explosion I saw a beautiful pure white cloud, which changed to red inside and commenced expanding. I thought it was a bomb raining red hot stuff down like a volcano.”
Sergeant Johnny Sherwood (Reading, England) saw what seemed “an enormous white parachute poised in the sky. But I did not think any further of it and went on with my work.”
Warrant Officer Richard Ranger (Auckland, New Zealand) said that the explosion “started as a small cloud, burning red in the center but fading to the edges. It gradually grew larger, with sheet lightning in the middle.”
Gunner Leslie Hughes (London, England) compared it to “a huge, whiteish parachute burning inside, like a Crystal Palace firework display.”
Warrant Officer Eddie Kuhn (Wellington, New Zealand) recalled: “I saw a ball of fire with a billowing white cloud at the edges. After a few minutes it became completely red-tinged, as if reflecting some huge city fire on the ground below. I was bewildered at this new horror.”
Gunner Ian Wiley (Pudsey, England): “I saw a white cloud suspended in the air, with tracers coming from it. My impression was that it must be a new type of anti-aircraft defense.”
Gunner Fred Dillon (London, England): “It seemed like a ball of fire giving off white smoke in the sky, and suddenly bursting out in all directions. I thought it was a new type of bomb.”
Gunner Leslie Huson (London, England): “I saw a parachute-shaped cloud with a red flame in the center, spreading sideways. It remained in the sky for about thirty minutes.”
And Corporal Stan Thompson (London, England) remembers that “it appeared as a glowing turbulent cloud, expanding at the edges. I considered that it might be a new bomb. But I felt it best not to express my opinion, for fear of alarming the others.”
Nagasaki, Japan—Wednesday, September 12, 1945 0130 hours
This camp has received a note dropped with food from a relief-carrying B-29 by Lieutenant Joseph Rose, bombardier of the nine-man crew.
The note reads, “Hello Fellows, I happen to be co-pilot, but I am trying to express the thoughts and feelings of the whole crew—many of them could probably do the job more eloquently.
“We sincerely hope you won’t need these supplies, but if the same conditions prevail in your camp as have been reported about others, you are sorely in need of them. Already some P.W. camps have been liberated and I want to assure you that every effort is being put toward getting you back home to rest camps and hospitals. Some crew members of our own bomb group have already been liberated and we are hoping more of them.
“Since they have sacrificed so much, it is with humility that I offer a short history of our crew. We arrived in the Marianas in March, 1945 and since that time have flown 33 combat missions. With this 37th mission, we have had our share of rough ones but by the grace of God our crew remains intact with no purple hearts to our credit.
“Again we wish you all the best luck in everything you undertake and if any of you live near any of our crew, or ever come close to where we live we want you to drop in and we will treat you as royally as possible.”
The co-signers were the pilot, Captain John Mapes; navigator, Lieutenant Joseph Andrews; radioman, Sergeant O. C. Cushing; Engineer Sergeant Ardia Vorley; Flight Officer Harry Gordon; Sergeant James Aretakis; and two gunners, Sergeants H. A. Hecleworth and Samuel Thrower.
Today Camp #25’s all-American medical staff, Captain William Brenner of Selmo, California, and Gilbert Cotner, of Riverside, California, are replying by courier from this radioless camp:
First Into Nagasaki Page 7