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PRIMARY TARGET – KOKURA, Japan By Millard E. Hileman -
On August 6th, 1945, a lonely B-29 lazily approached the city of Hiroshima, unchallenged by an impotent Japanese air force and almost unnoticed by the inhabitants of the city. The bomb bay opened, and a tiny speck separated from the silver belly of the monster. As the speck increased to the size of an orange, a parachute opened. It descended to an altitude of 1,500 feet and then it was as if a giant flash bulb had gone off. A blinding flash, ranging from a flue-white to a deep orange color, had in an instant released all of the fantastic forces of an earthquake, hurricane, and flood combined in one terrible package. In that instant, a city of 350,000 had been sixty percent destroyed. 30,000 people had completely disappeared; thousands lay mutilated and hopelessly wounded. The exact toll would never be known. With that blinding flash, the nuclear age had descended on mankind. On that day, a city died, with the hope that civilization might live. Three days later an even more powerful bomb was dropped on the city of Nagasaki, on Kyushu Island. The result: 30,000 lives lost, and the complete destruction of 18,000 buildings. It could have been much worse. This second effort was hampered by adverse weather conditions. In desperation, Nagasaki had been chosen as the alternate target, and even then, the target was missed by five miles. Amidst all this death and destruction, the people of Kokura went about their business in the same peaceful, quiet manner that had been their custom even before the start of the World War. Kokura, a beautiful, quiet , residential city of about 150,000 people lay nestled in the low, rolling coastal hills on the northern part of Kyushu Island. In distance, it lay about
sixty airline miles south of Hiroshima, and about the same distance north of Nagasaki. For some 1,200 American and Dutch prisoners of war, in the prison camp located on the outskirts of Kokura, the morning of August 9th, 1945, was just about like any other morning during the past year. It was 5:am, and already the Japanese guards were running through the barracks, chattering and waving bamboo sticks, waking the men as they had almost every morning since that hot august day a little over a year ago. That was the day the
Japanese freighter, "Nishi Maru", had quietly slipped into Moji and disgorged her human cargo of 1,500 American prisoners of war who had made the trip up from Manila as "Guests" of the suns of Nippon. On that day, all aboard were quickly unloaded, forced to wait for three hours in the hot sun, and then were divided into two groups. The first group was marched to the railroad depot, where they boarded cars for parts unknown. The second group, of which I happened to be an unwilling member, was left "sweating it out" under the relentless rays of the hot August sun for another two hours. Finally, we were herded from the port area and ordered to board several waiting streetcars. Once under way, a not unfriendly guard informed us that we were to get off at a town called Kokura. About an hour, and eighteen miles later, the noise, smelly cars ground to a stop, and we were pushed from the doorway. We were quickly lined up, and the never-ending ritual of roll call took place. Roll calls had always been extremely interesting, and Americans believed them to be a gimmick invented by the Japanese to instigate legalized confusion among the POWs. The first order of business after lining up was to count off. The counting, of course, had to be done in Japanese. As no man ever stood in the same place twice, his number was never the same. One slip in counting gave the guard in charge the right to punish the offender, by any means that his Oriental mind could devise at the moment, such as a knee to the groin, the butt of a rifle to the Adam's Apple, a resounding thumb under the nose, by snapping his finger off his thumb, and numerous other childish pranks, originated only to humiliate an American male by someone half his size. We always stayed very much alert during the counting off ceremony. We were immediately marched to a stockade, complete with barbed wire and guard towers. As we were approaching this structure, two large gates swung open, and we had our first look at Camp # 3, which was to be our home until the war's end. We were immediately marched to a stockade, complete with barbed wire and guard towers. The trip from Moji to Kokura had followed the coastline, and while the crowded cars had somewhat hampered our view, we were thrilled by the natural beauty of the landscape. All along the coast of Kyushu, the land rose from the sea in gentle contours, unmarked by freeways and outdoor advertising, and remains as green as the hills of Erin. As the streetcars entered the outskirts of Kokura, we noticed that it was mostly residential, and very delightfully situated among the low terraced hills that are so characteristic of Kyushu Island. Like most Japanese cities in 1944, the war had not actually reached Kokura. Isolated air raids had taken place in some areas, more for psychological reasons than anything else, such as Doolittle's Raid on Tokyo in 1942. As yet the Americans had not been able to position themselves in such a way that they could offer a concentrated barrage on the heart of Japanese heavy industry. Yomato, a sister city of Kokura, and an industrial giant of 250,000 people had been victimized by such an attack only two months previous. However little damage had been done, either materially or psychologically, and business went on as usual. The Japanese were refusing to believe that the Holy Empire would be violated. Yomato was the heart of Japanese heavy industry on Kyushu, and the home of the tremendous government-owned Yomato Steel Works, Sugar and Oil refineries, chemical works, paper and flour mills, glass factories and various types of metal industries completed the massive industrial complex. But for a low range of coastal hills, the two cities might have been one. Only only a few miles separated them geographically, but by the standards of culture, atmosphere and the daily humdrum tensions of industry, they were separated by centuries. The Yomato Steel Works would be our source of employment for the ensuing year. We would spend our working hours in Yomato, retreating at nightfall to the serene, pleasant atmosphere of Kokura and nineteenth century Japan. Each day we traveled to the mill area aboard a small work
train that rattled along at about ten miles per hour. A short distance from Kokura, the train entered a tunnel approximately one half mile in length, and then emerged abruptly into the confines of the vast industrial arena. The morning of August 9th, 1945, dawned hot and humid. Even though the sky was free of clouds, the smell and feel of rain was in the air.
As we ate our breakfast of rice and tea, guards circulated nervously among us, shouting and jabbing with sticks, and encouraging us to hurry. They had seemed unduly disturbed the last two days. This was somewhat puzzling and had caused us no end of anxiety. They appeared to be extremely emotional and an air raid alarm or the sound of approaching aircraft only increased the horror in their eyes. As we finished our breakfast and started lining up for work, everyone, somehow sensed that this day would be different, as if the strains and tensions that had been building up over the last three years would suddenly be released. While lining up, occasional glances were cast skyward, possible with the hope of catching a glimpse of an American plane, but mostly in anticipation of clouds that would open up and cast blessed coolness in the form of rain on the tired, haggard figures that had once been men of a proud fighting force. The past year had been a lucky one for the men in “Camp # 3”. Even though things had been rough at times, our good fortunes had been appreciated. Mostly, we thought that it had been a lucky camp, just as Kokura had been a lucky city. No bombs had fallen in our immediate area, yet we had been under constant alert for three months. There had been a minimum of atrocities. Food had not been plentiful, but it had been enough to keep body and soul together. The work was hard and certainly not suited to our skills, the guards were mean, and almost everyday someone was beaten up, but as of yet no one had been killed in camp or on the job. Yes, we had been very lucky. We had discussed it many times, wondering if we would always be lucky, even in the end. The End? What would be the End? What would it bring? The Japanese had been talking a lot about the possibility of an invasion by American troops. Then what? The Japanese guards had told us, "When the Americans come, you will die. You will be placed on the beaches to die by the shells of your own troops."
"COUNT OFF"! The command had caught everyone unaware. Being preoccupied as we were with thoughts of weather, what the future had in store, and being thankful for our good fortunes of the previous year, we had forgotten to pre-count our positions. Strangely, however, the guards this morning seemed oblivious of our mistakes. The gates of the stockade swung open and the march to the waiting train began. As we sat in the cars waiting for the train to pull out, once again the mood of the group turned to thoughts of what this day would bring. Would it rain? Today it must rain. Why? We could not answer that question. Looking around, I could see the pained expressions of the tired, haggard faces, and an occasional pair of pale, thin lips moving in silent prayer. Perhaps thanking God in Heaven for the life He had given us, and asking His protection from whatever this thing was that we felt was about to happen. In a few minutes we were shocked back into reality by the grinding and squealing of the brakes. The train had emerged from the tunnel and was stopping at its usual place in front of the offices of the Yomato Steel Works. Shortly, we would all line up for another roll call, and play Japanese Roulette, a term pinned on the never-ending ritual by some enterprising G.I. who had somehow been able to maintain a sense of humor even after years of intimidation by the Japanese. After we were all announced present and accounted for, we fell into our pre-determined groups to be taken by armed guards to our own part of the industrial area. Once again, things were normal. As we made the silent trek to our part of the mill, we looked forward to the 10:15 smoke break. We would then look at the clock and see that it was nearing 5:30 PM, and we would once again board the sputtering little train for the short trip back to Kokura, not realizing that for thousands of people on Kyushu that day, 5:30 would never come, but for every American POW who saw the sun rise of Kokura that morning, every one would live to see it set that night. The "Luck of Kokura" would once again envelope us in it's misty shroud, and protect us this day at least, from the birth of an age that would haunt and harass mankind for years, until he at last either learned how to live with it or would completely obliterate himself from the face of the earth. As we made this silent trek, a B-29 was already airborne, carrying a single bomb, PRIMARY TARGET - KOKURA. But once again Kokura was destined to remain untouched, just as it had in the past, from the horrors of attack by enemy aircraft, even though it had been determined by a select group of men, that on this day in August it was to be mutilated and ravaged as no city on earth had ever been before, by a weapon so horrible that even men tested by years of war would issue the order with tongue in cheek, wondering if their duties as soldiers, required this kind of responsibility. By 8:30, clouds had already began to roll in from Tsushima Strait, and we all breathed a little easier. We were in a deadly, unexplainable grip of the unknown, but as the sky darkened, tensions eased. There was no hurrahing, no emotional demonstration of elation. After all, we had hoped, we had prayed, and we had faith. We were just inwardly and quietly happy, for some reason we had all known that this was the way that it had to be. At this moment an unscheduled plan of fantastic circumstances was beginning to unfold, and through ignorance, we were not to question the events that were about to follow. Just three minutes before our usual mid-morning smoke break, the first bomb crashed into the area with a shattering force. If there had been any warning, no one had heard it amidst the clattering of the air hammers and the scream of high speed equipment, even the noise of approaching aircraft had gone unnoticed. As the first explosion rocked the area, all the hammers stopped. Switches were cut, stopping all the equipment. In the silence that followed, we could hear the drone of heavy bombers. How many or how high, it was impossible to tell. One of the guards, a heavy bearded fellow, with tears in his eyes and fear on his face, remarked that they were B-29's. With that he broke down completely, threw away his rifle, and with tears streaming down both cheeks, headed for the waterfront in utter panic. He had heard about Hiroshima, we had not. I have wondered many times what our reactions would have been had we been as up to date on the news as he was. It was only a matter of minutes until the whole area was complete chaos. Guards, civilian workers, both men and women, were running in every direction. We dropped our tools and headed for the open, with only one thought in mind, the nearest shelter. The clouds by then, were so low that it was impossible to sight any aircraft, but the boom of heavy demolition bombs could be heard in the distance. At that moment there was a tremendous roar of low flying planes directly overhead, and a screaming shower of incendiary bombs began to hit everywhere, spewing their deadly streams of white phosphorus in all directions. We noticed one thing with great delight; the Japanese were in utter panic, something that we had never seen before. We started to form into groups, with the hope that organization would be an aid in finding some kind of shelter. Non-commissioned officers that could not remember the last time they had issued an order were taking over. It was soon determined that the only adequate shelter available would be the tunnel, and as quickly as possible we all moved in that direction. It was then that a strange quiet descended over the whole
arena of destruction. The last plane had gone, and the rain came down. Gently at first, but rain never the less, and the clouds seemed to press in from every direction. Visibility decreased by the minute. Wasn't this the way we had wanted it? But then, hadn't the damage already been done? No one knew how many had died in the few short minutes the raid had lasted. Had our hopes, faith, and our prayers been in vain? The rain continued, and at least for the moment no planes were in the air. One thing was certain, fire was everywhere, and the acrid smell of phosphorus, fumes from gasoline and oil, burning buildings, and even the smell of burning flesh filled the air. We soon ascertained that every American was accounted for. Miraculous? Yes, but then this was to be a day of miracles. Once inside the tunnel, confusion again predominated as close friends tried to locate one another. Shortly, a feeling of restfulness began to creep throughout the whole group, and everyone began to work toward the far end of the tunnel. One by one, the two by two, and finally a mass exodus of haggard Americans began to emerge from the Kokura end of the tunnel. In Kokura, as always, there was no war, no ugly smells or burning buildings. Only the peaceful green countryside greeted our smoke and horror-filled eyes. There was a feeling of freedom in each of us as we trudged down the tracks, a feeling of being released from fear and uncertainty. In its place was security and freedom, freedom from war and all its horrors. Kokura was truly another world, a haven of peace and tranquility. Our war had just ended. The fears and anxieties of the last hour were gone, and the last act of the miracle was already beginning to unfold as we heard overhead the drone of a single airplane. We were not worried, one plane could not harm us, and anyway we were now safe within the city of Kokura. The roar of the motors died out, and once again all was quiet. Moments later we once again heard the roar of motors, and once again they passed and all was quiet. No one spoke, for fear, I suppose, of what could and might happen. Then the plane made a third
approach, and once again it faded into the distance. It did not return again. We listened, bewildered. The miracle was now complete. Some where above, someone said, "Kokura socked in, try Nagasaki". Moments later, this plane approached Nagasaki. Here too was a cloud cover, but not as dense as the cloud cover over Kokura. A break in the clouds was sighted, and in desperation, the Hell of atomic energy was unleashed over this unsuspecting city, sixty miles south of Kokura. The "Bomb" had been destined for Kokura, but inclement weather had made it impossible to deliver. It had rained on Kokura that day. The weather had fooled the experts; the same experts were to say that this mission was nothing but trouble from the start.
"Again, I had nine lives, thanks to a cloudy day".
On August 6th, 1945, a lonely B-29 lazily approached the city of Hiroshima, unchallenged by an impotent Japanese air force and almost unnoticed by the inhabitants of the city. The bomb bay opened, and a tiny speck separated from the silver belly of the monster. As the speck increased to the size of an orange, a parachute opened. It descended to an altitude of 1,500 feet and then it was as if a giant flash bulb had gone off. A blinding flash, ranging from a flue-white to a deep orange color, had in an instant released all of the fantastic forces of an earthquake, hurricane, and flood combined in one terrible package. In that instant, a city of 350,000 had been sixty percent destroyed. 30,000 people had completely disappeared; thousands lay mutilated and hopelessly wounded. The exact toll would never be known. With that blinding flash, the nuclear age had descended on mankind. On that day, a city died, with the hope that civilization might live. Three days later an even more powerful bomb was dropped on the city of Nagasaki, on Kyushu Island. The result: 30,000 lives lost, and the complete destruction of 18,000 buildings. It could have been much worse. This second effort was hampered by adverse weather conditions. In desperation, Nagasaki had been chosen as the alternate target, and even then, the target was missed by five miles. Amidst all this death and destruction, the people of Kokura went about their business in the same peaceful, quiet manner that had been their custom even before the start of the World War. Kokura, a beautiful, quiet , residential city of about 150,000 people lay nestled in the low, rolling coastal hills on the northern part of Kyushu Island. In distance, it lay about
sixty airline miles south of Hiroshima, and about the same distance north of Nagasaki. For some 1,200 American and Dutch prisoners of war, in the prison camp located on the outskirts of Kokura, the morning of August 9th, 1945, was just about like any other morning during the past year. It was 5:am, and already the Japanese guards were running through the barracks, chattering and waving bamboo sticks, waking the men as they had almost every morning since that hot august day a little over a year ago. That was the day the
Japanese freighter, "Nishi Maru", had quietly slipped into Moji and disgorged her human cargo of 1,500 American prisoners of war who had made the trip up from Manila as "Guests" of the suns of Nippon. On that day, all aboard were quickly unloaded, forced to wait for three hours in the hot sun, and then were divided into two groups. The first group was marched to the railroad depot, where they boarded cars for parts unknown. The second group, of which I happened to be an unwilling member, was left "sweating it out" under the relentless rays of the hot August sun for another two hours. Finally, we were herded from the port area and ordered to board several waiting streetcars. Once under way, a not unfriendly guard informed us that we were to get off at a town called Kokura. About an hour, and eighteen miles later, the noise, smelly cars ground to a stop, and we were pushed from the doorway. We were quickly lined up, and the never-ending ritual of roll call took place. Roll calls had always been extremely interesting, and Americans believed them to be a gimmick invented by the Japanese to instigate legalized confusion among the POWs. The first order of business after lining up was to count off. The counting, of course, had to be done in Japanese. As no man ever stood in the same place twice, his number was never the same. One slip in counting gave the guard in charge the right to punish the offender, by any means that his Oriental mind could devise at the moment, such as a knee to the groin, the butt of a rifle to the Adam's Apple, a resounding thumb under the nose, by snapping his finger off his thumb, and numerous other childish pranks, originated only to humiliate an American male by someone half his size. We always stayed very much alert during the counting off ceremony. We were immediately marched to a stockade, complete with barbed wire and guard towers. As we were approaching this structure, two large gates swung open, and we had our first look at Camp # 3, which was to be our home until the war's end. We were immediately marched to a stockade, complete with barbed wire and guard towers. The trip from Moji to Kokura had followed the coastline, and while the crowded cars had somewhat hampered our view, we were thrilled by the natural beauty of the landscape. All along the coast of Kyushu, the land rose from the sea in gentle contours, unmarked by freeways and outdoor advertising, and remains as green as the hills of Erin. As the streetcars entered the outskirts of Kokura, we noticed that it was mostly residential, and very delightfully situated among the low terraced hills that are so characteristic of Kyushu Island. Like most Japanese cities in 1944, the war had not actually reached Kokura. Isolated air raids had taken place in some areas, more for psychological reasons than anything else, such as Doolittle's Raid on Tokyo in 1942. As yet the Americans had not been able to position themselves in such a way that they could offer a concentrated barrage on the heart of Japanese heavy industry. Yomato, a sister city of Kokura, and an industrial giant of 250,000 people had been victimized by such an attack only two months previous. However little damage had been done, either materially or psychologically, and business went on as usual. The Japanese were refusing to believe that the Holy Empire would be violated. Yomato was the heart of Japanese heavy industry on Kyushu, and the home of the tremendous government-owned Yomato Steel Works, Sugar and Oil refineries, chemical works, paper and flour mills, glass factories and various types of metal industries completed the massive industrial complex. But for a low range of coastal hills, the two cities might have been one. Only only a few miles separated them geographically, but by the standards of culture, atmosphere and the daily humdrum tensions of industry, they were separated by centuries. The Yomato Steel Works would be our source of employment for the ensuing year. We would spend our working hours in Yomato, retreating at nightfall to the serene, pleasant atmosphere of Kokura and nineteenth century Japan. Each day we traveled to the mill area aboard a small work
train that rattled along at about ten miles per hour. A short distance from Kokura, the train entered a tunnel approximately one half mile in length, and then emerged abruptly into the confines of the vast industrial arena. The morning of August 9th, 1945, dawned hot and humid. Even though the sky was free of clouds, the smell and feel of rain was in the air.
As we ate our breakfast of rice and tea, guards circulated nervously among us, shouting and jabbing with sticks, and encouraging us to hurry. They had seemed unduly disturbed the last two days. This was somewhat puzzling and had caused us no end of anxiety. They appeared to be extremely emotional and an air raid alarm or the sound of approaching aircraft only increased the horror in their eyes. As we finished our breakfast and started lining up for work, everyone, somehow sensed that this day would be different, as if the strains and tensions that had been building up over the last three years would suddenly be released. While lining up, occasional glances were cast skyward, possible with the hope of catching a glimpse of an American plane, but mostly in anticipation of clouds that would open up and cast blessed coolness in the form of rain on the tired, haggard figures that had once been men of a proud fighting force. The past year had been a lucky one for the men in “Camp # 3”. Even though things had been rough at times, our good fortunes had been appreciated. Mostly, we thought that it had been a lucky camp, just as Kokura had been a lucky city. No bombs had fallen in our immediate area, yet we had been under constant alert for three months. There had been a minimum of atrocities. Food had not been plentiful, but it had been enough to keep body and soul together. The work was hard and certainly not suited to our skills, the guards were mean, and almost everyday someone was beaten up, but as of yet no one had been killed in camp or on the job. Yes, we had been very lucky. We had discussed it many times, wondering if we would always be lucky, even in the end. The End? What would be the End? What would it bring? The Japanese had been talking a lot about the possibility of an invasion by American troops. Then what? The Japanese guards had told us, "When the Americans come, you will die. You will be placed on the beaches to die by the shells of your own troops."
"COUNT OFF"! The command had caught everyone unaware. Being preoccupied as we were with thoughts of weather, what the future had in store, and being thankful for our good fortunes of the previous year, we had forgotten to pre-count our positions. Strangely, however, the guards this morning seemed oblivious of our mistakes. The gates of the stockade swung open and the march to the waiting train began. As we sat in the cars waiting for the train to pull out, once again the mood of the group turned to thoughts of what this day would bring. Would it rain? Today it must rain. Why? We could not answer that question. Looking around, I could see the pained expressions of the tired, haggard faces, and an occasional pair of pale, thin lips moving in silent prayer. Perhaps thanking God in Heaven for the life He had given us, and asking His protection from whatever this thing was that we felt was about to happen. In a few minutes we were shocked back into reality by the grinding and squealing of the brakes. The train had emerged from the tunnel and was stopping at its usual place in front of the offices of the Yomato Steel Works. Shortly, we would all line up for another roll call, and play Japanese Roulette, a term pinned on the never-ending ritual by some enterprising G.I. who had somehow been able to maintain a sense of humor even after years of intimidation by the Japanese. After we were all announced present and accounted for, we fell into our pre-determined groups to be taken by armed guards to our own part of the industrial area. Once again, things were normal. As we made the silent trek to our part of the mill, we looked forward to the 10:15 smoke break. We would then look at the clock and see that it was nearing 5:30 PM, and we would once again board the sputtering little train for the short trip back to Kokura, not realizing that for thousands of people on Kyushu that day, 5:30 would never come, but for every American POW who saw the sun rise of Kokura that morning, every one would live to see it set that night. The "Luck of Kokura" would once again envelope us in it's misty shroud, and protect us this day at least, from the birth of an age that would haunt and harass mankind for years, until he at last either learned how to live with it or would completely obliterate himself from the face of the earth. As we made this silent trek, a B-29 was already airborne, carrying a single bomb, PRIMARY TARGET - KOKURA. But once again Kokura was destined to remain untouched, just as it had in the past, from the horrors of attack by enemy aircraft, even though it had been determined by a select group of men, that on this day in August it was to be mutilated and ravaged as no city on earth had ever been before, by a weapon so horrible that even men tested by years of war would issue the order with tongue in cheek, wondering if their duties as soldiers, required this kind of responsibility. By 8:30, clouds had already began to roll in from Tsushima Strait, and we all breathed a little easier. We were in a deadly, unexplainable grip of the unknown, but as the sky darkened, tensions eased. There was no hurrahing, no emotional demonstration of elation. After all, we had hoped, we had prayed, and we had faith. We were just inwardly and quietly happy, for some reason we had all known that this was the way that it had to be. At this moment an unscheduled plan of fantastic circumstances was beginning to unfold, and through ignorance, we were not to question the events that were about to follow. Just three minutes before our usual mid-morning smoke break, the first bomb crashed into the area with a shattering force. If there had been any warning, no one had heard it amidst the clattering of the air hammers and the scream of high speed equipment, even the noise of approaching aircraft had gone unnoticed. As the first explosion rocked the area, all the hammers stopped. Switches were cut, stopping all the equipment. In the silence that followed, we could hear the drone of heavy bombers. How many or how high, it was impossible to tell. One of the guards, a heavy bearded fellow, with tears in his eyes and fear on his face, remarked that they were B-29's. With that he broke down completely, threw away his rifle, and with tears streaming down both cheeks, headed for the waterfront in utter panic. He had heard about Hiroshima, we had not. I have wondered many times what our reactions would have been had we been as up to date on the news as he was. It was only a matter of minutes until the whole area was complete chaos. Guards, civilian workers, both men and women, were running in every direction. We dropped our tools and headed for the open, with only one thought in mind, the nearest shelter. The clouds by then, were so low that it was impossible to sight any aircraft, but the boom of heavy demolition bombs could be heard in the distance. At that moment there was a tremendous roar of low flying planes directly overhead, and a screaming shower of incendiary bombs began to hit everywhere, spewing their deadly streams of white phosphorus in all directions. We noticed one thing with great delight; the Japanese were in utter panic, something that we had never seen before. We started to form into groups, with the hope that organization would be an aid in finding some kind of shelter. Non-commissioned officers that could not remember the last time they had issued an order were taking over. It was soon determined that the only adequate shelter available would be the tunnel, and as quickly as possible we all moved in that direction. It was then that a strange quiet descended over the whole
arena of destruction. The last plane had gone, and the rain came down. Gently at first, but rain never the less, and the clouds seemed to press in from every direction. Visibility decreased by the minute. Wasn't this the way we had wanted it? But then, hadn't the damage already been done? No one knew how many had died in the few short minutes the raid had lasted. Had our hopes, faith, and our prayers been in vain? The rain continued, and at least for the moment no planes were in the air. One thing was certain, fire was everywhere, and the acrid smell of phosphorus, fumes from gasoline and oil, burning buildings, and even the smell of burning flesh filled the air. We soon ascertained that every American was accounted for. Miraculous? Yes, but then this was to be a day of miracles. Once inside the tunnel, confusion again predominated as close friends tried to locate one another. Shortly, a feeling of restfulness began to creep throughout the whole group, and everyone began to work toward the far end of the tunnel. One by one, the two by two, and finally a mass exodus of haggard Americans began to emerge from the Kokura end of the tunnel. In Kokura, as always, there was no war, no ugly smells or burning buildings. Only the peaceful green countryside greeted our smoke and horror-filled eyes. There was a feeling of freedom in each of us as we trudged down the tracks, a feeling of being released from fear and uncertainty. In its place was security and freedom, freedom from war and all its horrors. Kokura was truly another world, a haven of peace and tranquility. Our war had just ended. The fears and anxieties of the last hour were gone, and the last act of the miracle was already beginning to unfold as we heard overhead the drone of a single airplane. We were not worried, one plane could not harm us, and anyway we were now safe within the city of Kokura. The roar of the motors died out, and once again all was quiet. Moments later we once again heard the roar of motors, and once again they passed and all was quiet. No one spoke, for fear, I suppose, of what could and might happen. Then the plane made a third
approach, and once again it faded into the distance. It did not return again. We listened, bewildered. The miracle was now complete. Some where above, someone said, "Kokura socked in, try Nagasaki". Moments later, this plane approached Nagasaki. Here too was a cloud cover, but not as dense as the cloud cover over Kokura. A break in the clouds was sighted, and in desperation, the Hell of atomic energy was unleashed over this unsuspecting city, sixty miles south of Kokura. The "Bomb" had been destined for Kokura, but inclement weather had made it impossible to deliver. It had rained on Kokura that day. The weather had fooled the experts; the same experts were to say that this mission was nothing but trouble from the start.
"Again, I had nine lives, thanks to a cloudy day".
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