Japan Sinks

by Sakyo Komatsu

  “Okay,” said Onodera, looking at his watch. “See what you can do, anyway. We don’t have much time.” Onodera turned away and walked back toward the youths, four or five of whom were standing a short distance away with worried looks on their faces. One of them, a young man with long hair and glasses, spoke to Onodera: “You weren’t really serious, sir, were you? Before, I mean. You wouldn’t just fly off and leave us, would you?”

  “We can take three. Get the sick girl and the two injured on board. Hurry up.”

  “There’s one more girl. She’s not in good shape. Can she go, too?” asked a strongly built youth.

  “No. Only three. Even with me staying behind. So let’s get moving!”

  Onodera went into the dimly lit cabin with the young men, and as the sick and injured climbers were being carried out, he noticed a young girl standing as though in a daze, with the side of her face pressed against the cabin wall.

  “Better leave her alone, sir,” said one of the youths, frowning. “She was almost out of her head before. She’s suffering from shock.”

  Disregarding this advice, Onodera walked up to the girl and put a hand on her thin shoulder and shook her. Her cheeks and clothes were stained with tears, and from the gaudily stylish cut and color of her mountain-climbing attire, it was obvious at a glance that she was not an outdoor girl. She was frowning and her body shook from time to time as though with sobs.

  “Let me alone!” She shook off his hand, her voice like a scream, and shrank away from him. “I can’t walk any farther. . . . Mama! Please help me!”

  Onodera took hold of the sobbing girl and gave her two light slaps across the face.

  “Pull yourself together. Another helicopter will come to pick us up soon. Now help us load up these people.”

  The girl stared up in shocked surprise, her eyes swollen from crying. Onodera thought that in the dim light of the cabin he saw a sudden awareness come over her face, but with no time for such considerations, he turned and ran out of the cabin.

  “When you get them back, Sergeant, don’t tell anybody what really happened.”

  “I understand. They’re refugees who were trapped by landslides. And as soon as I find out the situation on the helicopter, I’ll contact you.”

  Onodera slapped the pilot on the shoulder, slammed the door shut, and turned to see a slight figure in bright-colored mountain-climbing garb walking unsteadily toward him.

  “Mr. Onoda!”

  Onodera was stunned. Then something stirred faintly in his memory.

  “You’re Mr. Onoda, aren’t you, sir?”

  “Onodera,” he said, staring at the girl.

  “Why . . . imagine you here, sir!”

  It was Mako. It was the little hostess he had met on the Ginza what now seemed long years ago. She threw herself into his arms and sobbed like a little girl as he stood buffeted by the wind and by the blast from the rotor.

  “I’m frightened, Mr. Onoda! I’m tired. I can’t walk. I’m cold. Please let me get on the helicopter.”

  “No,” he said, gently moving her away from the helicopter. “That’s for the sick and injured. Don’t worry. A big helicopter will come soon and take all of us.”

  He gestured to the pilot, and the helicopter lifted off with a roar and a still stronger blast from its rotor.

  “Does anybody know this girl?” he asked after the helicopter had gone.

  “Nobody here, sir,” answered one of them. “I was with her group. Another one, my friend, went in the helicopter, and the fourth one died. He was her boyfriend, and my friend and I never met them before this.”

  “All right,” said Onodera, taking hold of Mako’s arm and supporting her, “let’s get into the cabin.”

  “What do we do now, sir?” one of the youths asked.

  “We wait,” he answered, looking at his watch. It was 7:35.

  “How long, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. A big quake and tidal wave hit the Kansai Region this morning. Hundred of thousands of people were killed. We have perhaps a fifty-fifty chance that they’ll be able to send a second helicopter for us.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  They had reached the cabin door. Onodera stopped before going in and looked back at the windswept ridge. “Well, three have been saved anyway, and we will have had a chance to get to know each other.” Ignoring their varied reactions, Onodera helped Mako to lie down on a cot and then turned his attention to the wireless set he had taken from the helicopter.

  “Let’s take a look at your map. If worse comes to worst, we’ll have to try making it out on foot.”

  Just then the radio began to sputter. The voice was Sergeant Tomita’s, but it was hard to make out. Onodera pressed the receiver to his ear and spoke into the microphone as he balanced the set on his knees.

  “This is Shirauma. It’s Onodera. Sergeant Tomita, do you hear me?” Onodera repeated the question again and again. Finally his expression brightened. “Cheer up, gentlemen,” he said after he had put down the microphone. “A helicopter’s leaving Matsumoto in about a half-hour.”

  Though they had little strength left, the youths gave a hoarse cheer.

  Onodera raised a warning hand. “It’s not coming direct but by way of Nagano. So we have a good hour and a half to wait yet.”

  Before Onodera had finished speaking, however, the earth began to groan and the cabin began to creak as it rocked back and forth. A dull booming sound echoed through the mountains. Onodera bent quickly to pick up the radio, which he had put back down on the floor, but as he was lifting it up, a second shock hit the cabin, and he collided with one of young men, whose arm knocked the set from his hands. Before it struck the floor, however, a transmission came through marred by terrible static: “Attention ... emergency warning ... Norikura is on the verge of eruption.”

  There were explosions that sounded like fireworks and then a cannonlike booming that seemed to reverberate through one’s whole body.

  “An eruption!” shouted someone in a shrill voice.

  “It’s started. We can’t get away.”

  “Take it easy,” said Onodera. “Norikura’s way to the south.”

  “No, it’s here. There’s another Norikura, and it’s right above us.”

  Onodera glanced at his watch. It was 7:45. Outside there was a rumble as though the very axis of the earth had been shaken. One youth ran outside.

  “It’s water,” he cried as the thunderous rumble grew louder. “Water’s coming down the slope.”

  “It’s from Shirauma Lake,” said a tall young man quietly, his face white.

  “We’ll get swept away!” somebody shouted. “We’d better run.”

  “Wait,” commanded Onodera. He shouted to the boy outside: “Where is it going?”

  “It’s all right,” the boy answered. “It’s turning toward Ume Pond.”

  Onodera went to the door and looked out. The muddy water mixed with snow rushed down the slope close to the cabin with the force of a cascade, sending up a spray of snow and water. From time to time it would strike a rocky outcropping, and a plume of muddy water would spurt skyward. The mountains around echoed and re-echoed its deep rumble, and the valleys below, from which the mist was starting to rise, seemed to tremble. Part of the flow, arching like a waterfall, was falling into a crevice that had opened just below. Gradually its rumble subsided, but the sinister explosions and the roar that came from beyond the ridge line did not grow any less. Suddenly Onodera threw away his half-lit cigarette and sniffed the air. He could smell sulfur.

  “Let’s go. We’ll go north of Akakura and down to Otani. It’s our only chance, and we should be able to make it.”

  He rushed out of the cabin and drew an arrow in the snow with his foot. Beside this he wrote: “To Otani.” The wind would probably blow it away before the helicopter came, but with a wind like that no helicopter was likely to come anyway. He looked up to see Mako’s bright jacket in the midst of the windblown group that had come out of
the cabin. He went over and took her by the arm.

  “I can’t walk,” she said, sobbing. “I’m freezing ... let me die. The helicopter won’t come, will it?”

  “Come on now. Pull yourself together and walk. If you fall down, I’ll pick you up.”

  Fighting the wind-driven snow, they made their way across an open meadow and then began their descent of the east slope by means of a ravine. The sulfur smell grew more intense.

  Heavy mist was rising from the Itoigawa Ravine in front of them, hiding the Togakushi Range on the other side. A chill suddenly ran through Onodera.

  “Sir, look at that!” came a shrill voice behind him. “There’s fire behind the mist over there.”

  Red flames tinged the dirty gray mist that was covering the sky, and as the ever present rumble of the earth grew louder yet, a second layer of flame appeared below the first, and a curtain of inky black smoke began to blot out the little brightness left to the sky. What was falling around them was no longer small rocks falling down the sides of the ravine but a steady rain of still-warm volcanic fragments.

  Onodera stopped in his tracks and stood gazing at the red hell seething behind the mist. The sulfur smell had been in front of them, not behind them. It had been coming from Mount Togakushi.

  “Sir, what are we going to do?” a youth beside him screamed as the hot ash poured down on them.

  On April 30 at 8:03 A.M. Mount Takazuma in the Togakushi Range erupted with an explosion that blew off its crest. And an instant later there began that series of eruptions that tore open twelve distinct craters along the western slopes of the Togakushi Range.

  Epilogue

  The Death of the Dragon

  At the eastern edge of the Eurasian land mass, which covers half of the Northern Hemisphere, a dragon lay dying. As he twisted his huge body and thrashed his tail, smoke and fire poured from every part of him. He shook convulsively, racked by spasms. His once powerful back, covered with towering spines surrounded by green forests, had been hacked asunder, and from his wounds hot blood poured out spasmodically. And from the depths of the sea, whose Black Current had gently caressed his belly from ancient times, there now rose the chill jaws of death. As savage as a school of crazed sharks, it shook the dragon’s body as it tore away piece after piece of flesh from his belly, gulping them down one after another into that vast stomach that covered most of the earth.

  Kyushu, Shikoku, the southern half of the Kii Peninsula were already torn away and nearly swallowed up. The Boso Peninsula, which had formed one side of Tokyo Bay, had also been severed from the body, and its tip was already plunged some fifty feet below the sea. In northeastern Honshu the coastline had slid some sixty feet into the Pacific. The waters were rushing in on Hokkaido, too, and sections of it had fallen away. As for the islands to the southwest of Japan, the transformation had become evident more than a year and a half earlier, and by now many islands had vanished entirely.

  An unseen giant stood behind the dragon, pressing upon him. It was this same giant who, 400 million years before, had helped to form the young dragon, thrusting him away from the continent that had conceived him. But now the giant’s benevolent strength had turned into something vicious. It had shattered the dragon’s backbone, twisted his body, thrust him down into the sea.

  In the short space of two or three years Japan had been pushed nearly thirty miles to the southeast. The pressure on Central Honshu was especially intense. Such was the heat coming up from the earth that the rainy season began in May, and as the soft rain fell upon Japan, coastlines melted away and plains became shallow seas. Sea then linked up with sea, and ocean-going ships were able to make their way to what had once been inland cities and towns.

  The agonized dragon fought back against the violent forces that were pushing him away from the continent and down into the sea. At the beginning of June four fifths of his body were still above water as he tried to shake off the cold hand of death that had reached up from the depths. And as the dragon writhed and bellowed, smoke and fire pouring from each gaping wound, there perished vast numbers of the tiny creatures that had lived upon him. And the rest were fleeing over the encroaching sea, leaving behind the body that had for countless centuries given them sustenance. The dragon still lived, but his death was quite near. And the eyes of the whole world were fixed upon his death agony.

  Planes laden with cameras, flying through smoke and fire, ranged far and wide over the sinking Archipelago. Every major television network throughout the world had its men on the scene.

  Ordinary men and women mourned what was happening as a great tragedy for humanity, but for them it was also a spectacle of immense fascination. What was sinking into the ocean was not some shadowy Atlantis of legend, but a modern industrial nation of immense wealth and power, a nation, furthermore, rich in history and culture. A great island nation which some massive force deep within the planet was breaking apart, tearing with eruptions, shattering into fragments, and, finally, drawing down into the depths of the sea. For scientists, of course, the cause for fascination ran far deeper. Never before had they had the opportunity to witness such a thing, and never would they again. What did this phenomenon mean? Had the earth reached a new stage of existence?

  The emotions of the rest of the world were complex, therefore—sympathy, curiosity, a zealous desire to help, a feeling of relief that this was not happening to one’s own country, concern about what effect the flood of refugees might have. . . .

  The only ones who could face the tragedy in simple, straightforward fashion and throw themselves headlong into the struggle were the Japanese themselves. And soon the rescue units were performing in such spectacular fashion that the world began to speak of the “Japanese Miracle.” They worked without sleep or rest, and as the end drew near, their casualties mounted at an incredible rate. Among the foreign rescue units, the largest contingent and the group that worked most closely and most effectively with the Japanese was the United States Marines, who lost more than 200 men.

  In a television interview the Marine commander, Brigadier General Grant, expressed himself in highly emotional terms: “The Japanese relief organizations—government officials, soldiers, civilians alike—have been performing with incredible courage. I’ve seen situations where even veteran Marines who have been through all kinds of combat would have held back, but these people rushed fearlessly ahead. It’s their fellow countrymen they’re saving, of course, but they have so little regard for danger, no matter how desperate the situation, that sometimes when we talk it over among ourselves, we wonder if perhaps this tragedy hasn’t made them half crazy.”

  This was all that was actually broadcast, but General Grant in fact went on to say: “I think that as a people they have a Kamikaze instinct. Or else you might say that they’re all soldiers at heart. Why, even the supposedly weaker younger generation has fitted right in. ...”

  As the end drew nearer and nearer, the Japanese Miracle went on, a desperate challenge flung in the face of death. Despite earthquake, eruption, and flood, 65 million people had somehow been evacuated, at the incredible rate of some 16 million per month. As the devastation and sinking began to reach a more acute stage, however, with a large-scale breakdown of communication and transportation facilities, the pace of evacuation began to slacken. It became difficult to marshal large concentrations of refugees, and soon there was no choice but to pick up small groups isolated throughout the country.

  By the beginning of July there was only one international airport left in operation, at Chitose, in Hokkaido, and it was only a question of time before that, too, was gone. There were some smaller airports remaining in the north of Japan as well as some military airports, which were used as much as their capacity allowed. For the rest, the transport planes were reduced to landing and taking off on whatever broad, open meadowland still remained beyond the reach of the sea.

  Now instead of airliners and ships, the burden of the rescue came to rest entirely upon helicopters, STOL aircraft, and
other kinds of military planes that could operate under difficult conditions. The huge Soviet transport planes proved especially valuable, as they were able to carry heavy loads and negotiate the worst possible terrain.

  By mid-July more than 70 million had been evacuated, at the cost of the most desperate labor. The toll of victims, including those who had died in the Tokyo earthquake, had passed 12 million. Among these, many had died after they thought they had been saved, perishing in air crashes or sea disasters. The rescue units themselves had suffered more than 5,000 casualties. And 30 million Japanese were still left upon the ravaged, sinking Archipelago—frightened groups scattered throughout the country, in isolated inland sections or on high ground near the seacoast. The rescue units threw themselves into the task of saving each and every one of them with an almost insane zeal. They hardly noticed whether it was day or night, spending themselves without rest or sleep, carrying through their desperate missions even at the cost of life itself.

  As July gave way to August and rescue became more difficult, the cataclysm claimed more and more victims and the casualties of the rescue units themselves shot up sharply. Many dropped from exhaustion as they toiled unremittingly beneath a sinister sky covered with a pall of smoke, the stink of sulfur in their nostrils and the taste of ashes in their mouths, while the never quiet earth rumbled beneath them. All this took its toll of their morale. As they grew wearier with each passing day, a growing despair took hold of them. How could they hope to win their battle against the violent, overwhelming force of nature? Their fate was sealed, and nothing they could do would alter it. Together with the scattered remains of their countrymen, they would perish beneath the smothering ashes or be swallowed up by the voracious, dark sea.

  In the middle of August the first typhoon of the season took form in the South Pacific and began to move toward Japan. In the midst of her other torments, she was now to be afflicted with that of a raging storm. The fleet of rescue vessels sought the relative safety of the open sea, and many among them sailed for home. The efforts of June and July had brought more than 4.5 million people out of the country, bringing the total to some 70 million. During these same two months, however, the toll of dead and presumed dead had increased by more than three million. Among these were many who, either overwhelmed with despair or crazed with shock, committed suicide. And of the 20 million remaining, a considerable number yielded their turns to others and went off by themselves. The vast majority of these were men in their seventies and older. They would leave notes for their families and disappear from the marshaling points in the middle of the night. The future could be entrusted to youth. They had lived long enough, and what happiness could there be in living on away from their beautiful homeland, gone forever?