Mr Two Bomb

by William Coles

  MR TWO-BOMB

  MR TWO BOMB

  WILLIAM COLES

  BASED ON A TRUE STORY

  Legend Press Ltd, 2 London Wall Buildings,

  London EC2M 5UU

  info@legend-paperbooks.co.uk

  www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © William Coles 2010

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of

  this work has be asserted in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  ISBN 978-1-9074611-4-9

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and

  place names, other than those well-established such as towns and

  cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  Set in Times

  Printed by JF Print Ltd., Sparkford.

  Cover designed by Tim Bremner

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,

  in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

  recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

  publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation

  to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution

  and civil claims for damages.

  PRAISE FOR WILLIAM COLES

  ‘A superbly crafted memoir,’ Daily Express

  ‘A cracking read... Perfectly paced and brilliantly written,

  Coles draws you in, leaving a childish smile on your face.’

  News of the World

  ‘A piece of glorious effrontery… takes an honourable place

  amid the ranks of lampoons.’ The Herald

  ‘What a read! Every schoolboy’s dream comes true in this

  deftly-written treatment of illicit romance. A triumph.’

  Alexander McCall Smith

  ‘An outstanding debut novel. A wonderful story of first

  love. Few male authors can write about romance in a way

  which appeals to women.’

  Louise Robinson, Sunday Express

  ‘Charming, moving, uplifting. Why can't all love stories be

  like this?’ Tunku Varadarajan, The Wall Street Journal

  ‘Try Dave Cameron’s Schooldays for jolly fictional

  japes. It helps to explain the real Dave’s determination

  to whip us into shape.’

  Edwina Currie, The Times

  ‘A fast moving and playful spoof. The details are so slick

  and telling that they could almost have you fooled.’

  Henry Sutton, The Mirror

  OTHER WORKS BY WILLIAM COLES

  The Well-Tempered Clavier

  (Published as Prelude in the United States)

  Lord Lucan: My Story

  WORKS BY BILL COLES

  Dave Cameron’s Schooldays

  For my parents, Bob and Sarah

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  There were about twelve of us, that I know of, who survived the Atomic bombs of both Hiroshima and Nagasaki – and the question that I am asked more than any other is this: do I feel lucky? Were the Gods on my side as I lived through the nightmare of not one, but two Atomic bombs? Or were the Gods merely playing with me as I scurried from the hell of Hiroshima straight into that Seventh Circle of hell in Nagasaki?

  In short, the crux of the question is: have I been blessed – or cursed?

  I understand how perplexing it is for these students of wisdom as they come to me in search of knowledge. On the one hand, it might be deemed unlucky in the extreme to have been in Hiroshima on 6th August 1945. Anywhere else on earth would have been preferable to being in that city on that brilliant blue morning. But to have survived Hiroshima and then to have travelled so unerringly to Nagasaki for a second dose of atomic radiation... that, surely, must be considered ‘Unlucky – to the Power of Two’. And why not add the fact that Nagasaki was never supposed to have been bombed in the first place? That second bomb was originally destined for Kokura on 9th August; at one stage, the B29 bomber was directly over Kokura and within seconds of dropping its payload. But as it was, the clouds closed in, Kokura was saved and Bock’s Car turned South to drop its bomb on Nagasaki, where I had been waiting all of 90 minutes to meet my destiny.

  So I appreciate that in many ways I might be considered unlucky.

  I have, however, survived. I have pulled through. Not without injury, it has to be said. But I have lived to write my tale – and so, in that respect, I have had the most extraordinary luck.

  The bombs are how people best know me. The children on the streets would point me out and the name they gave to me was ‘Two-Bomb San’. With the passing of the years, it has been shortened simply to ‘Two-Bomb’ – and I have come to like the name. It is not the whole of what I am, but nevertheless those two bombs are what have come to define me.

  For what it is worth, this is what I believe to be true: I have been lucky. I would go further. I would say I am one of the luckiest men alive. And that is not just on account of having lived through those two bombs and come out the other side. For what I must also take into account is how those two bombs – Little Boy and Fat Man as they were called by the Yankees – have transformed my life, injuries and all.

  This, by the way, is not an apology for the bombs. It is not an apology for the Americans; nor for the Japanese. It is not an analysis of the beginning of the war; nor an evaluation of whether those two bombs brought the war to a speedier end. And it is certainly not to demean, or make light of the suffering of all the hundreds of thousands of victims and their families.

  Since the war, I have lived in several countries, including that of our old enemy, the Yankees. As a result, this account is not, perhaps, as solemn as many of the stories of the bombs. But then, I am not a solemn person. There has been much misery in my life, but there has been much joy with it. And although I will never forget my days in Hiroshima and Nagasaki – indeed can never forget my days in those illstarred cities – I choose instead to count my blessings.

  Out of the ashes of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were to spring the most incredible shoots; not that I even remotely deserved them. Of all the Atom bomb survivors, or Hibakusha as we are known, there is not a single one who was not more deserving of happiness than myself.

  So every day now I give thanks for the great good fortune that has been thrust into my lap; and when I consider also the immense grief that came from those two bombs, I can only weep at the magnitude of my own joy.

  There were so many heroes at Hiroshima and Nagasaki: great men and women who rose to the occasion and gave the very best of themselves; and children too, who without complaint have struggled for decades to deal with their injuries.

  But I am not like that. I was never a hero and, though I survived both bombs, have never done anything heroic. Well – possibly the once; but even that was probably more animal impulse than a conscious act of courage.

  The truth was that before t
he bombs, I was... I was a despicable human being. How you would have despised me! And had I thought to think it, I would even have despised myself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The only time I panicked was four hours after Little Boy had exploded into our lives. This was different, I understand, from the majority of Hiroshima’s victims. Most tended to panic within a few minutes of the bomb being dropped, as they began to realise the size of the catastrophe engulfing them.

  But during the immediate aftermath of the bomb, I was the most disciplined person in the wreckage of the building. Not even a trace of that hyper-ventilating, blood-rush as panic overwhelms the head and seizes up your brain. No, my one and only moment of blind panic came as the fire-storm swept the city, razing everything in its path.

  We had been trying to dig Sumie out of the ruins of her house for over an hour. I could see her, hear her, even stroke her upturned face through the wreckage. But there was too much to move, too many tiles to shift. But I was confident that, given enough time, we would be able to dig her out. I was her tenant, had been boarding with her for three months. And she was my lover.

  Little by little, we had been working away at the wreckage of the house, tossing tiles and splintered beams of wood out onto the rubble of the street. After 30 minutes, I caught a glimpse of her face. She had smiled at me and, despite the grey veil of dust, was as beautiful as I had ever seen her. She was in good heart too as she patiently waited to be freed.

  “Are you hurt?” she had asked me. That was the first thing she had said. Not for a moment had she complained about her own injuries, or of being trapped in the ruins of her home.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said, hurling another tile over my shoulder. “Can you move?”

  “My leg is trapped,” she said. “Is it one of the beams?”

  To the side I could see the end of a vast roof-beam poking out from the ruins. I shouted over to Shinzo, who was working on the other side of the wreckage. “Help me!” I called. “We must move it together.”

  We pulled and tugged, and the neighbour, that chit of a girl, added her puny weight too, but no matter how hard we hauled, nothing would shift that impossible mass of timber. The beam was square, over half-a-metre across, and perhaps 10 metres long.

  “We must clear more wreckage,” said Shinzo, the sweat trickling through the dust that caked his fat, jowly face.

  So we continued to haul and tug at the tiles, the thousands of tiles, and all the other smashed and broken bits of wood and plaster that went to make up a standard two-storey house in Hiroshima in those days.

  Every so often, I would peek through the hole that we were making towards Sumie and would give her a smile of encouragement. “You will be out in a few minutes.” I tried to sound confident. I suddenly noticed a trickle of blood on her chin. She had bitten right through her lower-lip. “Are you badly hurt?”

  “No,” she said, though as she spoke, she winced.

  “You always were a hopeless liar.”

  “I do not know,” she said – and even then, she still smiled, beaming up at me from beneath the rubble. “I cannot feel anything below my waist.”

  “We will get you to the hospital.”

  “Do you know what it was? I saw a flash.”

  I continued tossing tile after tile over my shoulder. “It was a bomb like I have never seen before. Half the city is destroyed.”

  “A single bomb?”

  “The warehouse was devastated. And we were over three kilometres away.”

  I picked up a piece of masonry and as I threw it onto the street, I looked about me. Carnage such as I would not have believed possible. It was as if a giant hand had smacked down from heaven and crushed everything beneath it. Save for Hiroshima’s few concrete structures, there was not a building that was not either destroyed or yawing crazily to the side. Through the dust and the smoke, as far as the eye could see, Hiroshima had been turned into a wasteland of rubble.

  The people, too; I haven’t even begun to mention the hundreds, the thousands, of benumbed victims, so awfully burned, their clothes in shreds as they tottered aimlessly through the streets. There is so much to say about them that I hardly know where to begin; I will try to do them justice later. But as I looked about me that I noticed the fire for the first time. Within minutes of the blast, there had been little outbreaks of fire all over Hiroshima, as power cables and kitchen stoves had set light to the tinder-dry houses. There had also been those will-o’-the-wisp flames, puffing in the air, as the radiation burnt itself out. What I saw about me, though, was much, much more than a series of individual fires across the landscape. It was a wave of fire that was sweeping north through the city, whipped up by the sea-breeze.

  At first it had seemed quite far off, over a kilometre away, but as I looked, I saw the firestorm moving towards at us at the most incredible rate; galloping, devouring everything in its path.

  We could already smell the sharp tang of the smoke, a harbinger of death as it flew ahead of the flames. Worse though was the noise, that crackling roar of ten thousand Hiroshima dwellings being consumed by fire.

  “Quickly!” I yelled to Shinzo. The pair of us lunged again at the end of the beam. I pulled till the tears squeezed out of my eyes. Shinzo grunting, mewling, beside me as he tried to heave that massive spar of wood. The girl, even though she was only seven, straining to push beside us.

  We might as well have been heaving against those oncegreat walls of Hiroshima castle – although even those had been destroyed by the bomb.

  I scrabbled back to the hole that we had burrowed down to Sumie. Easing myself down through the masonry, I braced my feet on the rubble and grabbed her by the armpits. I pulled – how I pulled. I pulled so hard that I was on the verge of dislocating her shoulders.

  All the while Sumie was staring up at me, silently willing me on. She bit savagely down on her lip, trying to stay silent through the pain. But she would not budge, the lower-half of her body trapped tight in the rubble.

  “Shinzo!” I screamed. “We need rope! Get me rope!” I thought we might slip it around her chest. Together, Shinzo and I might have had a chance of pulling her out.

  I bent down to caress Sumie’s head. I stroked a lock of long hair out of her eyes. “It will be fine,” I said, and at the time I still believed what I was saying.

  She smiled up at me and stroked my leg below the knee. “Do you still think it was a good idea to have taken me to Miyajima yesterday?” Oh, how she smiled through the pain. She must have known she was minutes from death.

  “Perhaps not.”

  “I forgive you.”

  I stooped and kissed the top of Sumie’s head. Over the smell of the dust and the smoke, I could even catch a trace of the oil that she used on her hair.

  Sumie clasped my hands briefly. “Thank you,” she said. I struggled to climb back out of the hole and gazed down at her beautiful face. It was as if she was drowning in a well of tiles and rubble.

  “Will you –” she swallowed. “Will you live for me?”

  “I –”

  “You will live for me?”

  She gazed up at me, a solitary tear rolling down her dusty cheek.

  As I poked my head out of the wreckage, I caught the sound, that terrifying sound, of the firestorm. It was closer than I could have dreamed possible. In all but three minutes, it was practically upon us, tearing through the wreckage of the houses and jumping from one street to the next.

  And that was when the simmering panic bubbled over and all but consumed me. I tore at the wreckage above Sumie, lunging desperately at the tiles and the snapped shards of wood. I hurled myself at the beam, screaming with rage as I tried to shift it. Trying desperately to free her; the smoke so tight in my throat I could hardly breathe; that infernal roar of the firestorm; Shinzo and the girl crying at me to save myself; and the tears of rage as I realised my utter impotence.

  For a moment I stood there on the ruins of Sumie’s house and howled at my own folly. She was goi
ng to die, burned alive, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.

  But the worst of it was the realisation that perhaps Sumie had been right. Perhaps it was I who had killed her. Perhaps it was I who had brought this whole disaster upon my love by taking her to the Miyajima shrine the previous day. I don’t know, I don’t know. But what I do know is this: that just 24 hours earlier, my dear Sumie had been cursed – and I had been the cause of it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I should never have gone to Miyajima. At least, I should never have taken Sumie to Miyajima.

  No-one should ever take their lover to Miyajima.

  Which is a shame, because Miyajima is the perfect place for lovers. To my mind, this little island shrine is the most romantic, the most picturesque spot in the whole of Japan. In fact, I go further: I have travelled to many countries in the world, but I have yet to see a place of such outstanding beauty as Miyajima. It is a perfect synthesis of man and nature, with a cluster of shrines on stilts that nestle on the shoreline. It is most famous for its towering Torii Gate, a vast camphor wood gate that stands in the water, 100 metres out from the bay. At high tide, the lacquered orange gate and the vermilion shrine seem to be actually floating on the water. Behind the shrine are the verdant green woods that rise up 530 metres to Mount Kisen.

  From the first time my father took me there, 25 years earlier, I have thought it quite magical. It is better still at night, when the visitors have departed and the candles shimmer in the shrine.

  My father was a merchant seaman and an immensely practical man. He would have laughed in your face if you had accused him of being superstitious. Yet even he, that most capable and straightforward of men, would not have dreamed of taking my mother to Miyajima. There are some things you just do not do.

  Only a maniac would think to take his lover to Miyajima; and only a woman who was brimful with love would accede to her man’s demands and accompany him there.