The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [211]
He had thought often of Tokyo, the horrific ravages of the firebombing that had destroyed so much of the grand city. His wife had gone there often, was there now, seeking out relatives, caring for the injured, a task that by all accounts had grown obscenely difficult. Years ago they taught us to fight the fires with buckets, he thought, long lines of citizens hauling water by hand. It seemed like the right thing to do, preparing us, organizing us to deal with a burning building, or a block of homes. But a city? Tokyo was a firestorm, and the men with buckets were swept away like so many pieces of straw in a bonfire. The government did not tell us that. I only know because my wife was there to see it. Officially, that disaster never happened. How many people were lost … unofficially? How much of what we are told is simply wrong? Hata is my friend, and he chose to share his thoughts with me. I should be honored by that. He is an important man, respected, even by the emperor. He surely knows what he is talking about. He surely knows what is best for us. He would not lie to me. Certainly he believes what he says. Can I?
He moved to the door of the clinic now, saw no one waiting for him, a relief. He hesitated, still felt the discomfort in his belly, his stomach in one great knot.
He opened the clinic door, caught the smell of disinfectants, comforting somehow. The front office was empty, and he glanced at the small clock on the desk, after seven, knew that his assistant had gone home. He thought of the young woman’s family, her husband in the army, missing for months now, her child barely walking. What will she do when the Americans come? Will she stand and face them with a bamboo stick in her hand, while her child stands behind her gripping her skirt? Is that how their war will end? There is one certainty, he thought. If the Americans land here, we shall see for ourselves what this war will do to our people. Is that not as important as all this talk of empire? Surely the Americans will bring guns and tanks and great pieces of artillery, and their planes will lead the way. And if Field Marshal Hata is to be believed, we should stand proudly and face death with pride that we have fought for the emperor, that merely by the act, we have preserved the empire. I wish I found comfort from that.
He stood in the darkening room, heard talk from beyond the inner door, patients and his staff, the suffering and those who did what they could to ease it. Outside, a new chorus of rumbling began, more bombers, far away, another target, more deaths, one more day in a war he was simply supposed to accept.
29. TIBBETS
HEADQUARTERS, 509TH COMPOSITE GROUP, TINIAN
AUGUST 3, 1945
The thundering impact rattled the Quonset hut, and Tibbets flinched, felt the jarring blast rolling through the offices, his coffee cup spilling, a photograph on the far wall tumbling to the concrete floor. He pulled himself up quickly from the chair, rushed outside, saw the others there already, the darkness giving way to a bright orange glow to the north, the last flames of a great fireball.
“What happened?”
Ferebee responded, the bombardier staring fixed at the sight.
“Never made it past the end of the runway. You could hear the engine fail, sputtering like hell. They never had a chance.”
He saw flashing red lights in the distance, fire trucks and ambulances, the emergency vehicles that waited close to the runways for every mission.
“Damn. The thing just lit up?