The Heat of the Sun (29 page)

They had dropped the bomb the day before: eight-fifteen in the morning, Hiroshima time. Later, every detail would be branded on my brain: the predawn takeoff from Tinian Island, just north of
Guam, sixteen hundred miles from Hiroshima; the crew of twelve men; the B-29 called
Enola Gay,
after the pilot’s mother. Over Iwo Jima, two other B-29s joined the first, their tasks to
take photographs and make scientific records. On and on they flew through the gathering dawn. When they reached Hiroshima, no sirens sounded, no anti-aircraft fire boomed out, no Japanese fighter
planes took to the air. The bomb, code-named Little Boy, had been scrawled on by playful crew-members, with messages for the enemy that the enemy would never read: obscenities, taunts, curses.

Gravity had done its work. Down dropped Little Boy through the placid morning. Seconds passed: forty-three seconds before the explosion, 1,900 feet in the air above Hiroshima. How precisely the
scientists measured it all! It was a matter of mathematics: the 350,000 people in the city; the 4.4 square miles around ground zero devastated almost completely; the thousands or tens of thousands
killed at once, blitzed out of existence like insects in a flame – and this was to reckon without the thousands more blinded, burned, or slashed by flying glass, stumbling through field after
field of blackened corpses for hours, even days, after the explosion. Many had skin hanging from their faces in strips. Many would die later in agonies of the damned, eaten from within by atomic
radiation.

President Truman heard about the bombing as he sailed home from the Potsdam Conference. He was elated – this, he declared to a group of sailors, was the greatest thing in history.

The official statement from the White House was simple and direct. The Japanese, said Truman, had been repaid for their attack on Pearl Harbor. Now they must surrender or the bombing would be
ceaseless, blasting their islands into oblivion:
a rain of ruin from the air, the like of which has never been seen on the earth.

The story continued on the inside pages. Senator B. F. Pinkerton (Democrat, New York) was to address both houses on the President’s behalf on the morning of Thursday, August 9.

A pulse leaped in my neck. Could I talk to the senator – make him see reason? Might he not speak out against further attacks? For years his rhetorical gifts had been the envy of the
Senate.

I could stop nothing. I knew that. But I had to try.

That afternoon I bought a plane ticket to Washington, DC. Flights across the continent were a long business in those days. We would put down in Salt Lake City and Des Moines,
then change planes in Chicago.

In the air I drank whisky, ate nothing, and did my best to sleep. On the Chicago plane I sat next to a businessman from Baltimore. He wanted to talk about the bomb. ‘Can you believe
it?’ he kept saying. ‘Can you believe it?’ – overjoyed, it seemed, at this latest revelation of American know-how, as if Oppenheimer were Thomas Edison and had just invented
the light bulb. When the fellow asked me what I did in the army, I slapped my bad leg and told him I had been at Iwo Jima. He demanded to shake my hand. Later, at Washington National Airport, I saw
him in the distance, staring across the concourse, amazed, as three military policemen approached me with rifles trained, arrested me, handcuffed me, and led me away.

I said to them, ‘You’re going to explain this?’

The oldest one looked at me warily. The youngest twitched his mouth. The one in the middle seemed about to say something, but glances from the others made him hold off – for a time, at
least.

‘Traitor,’ he whispered to me, as our armoured car drew up outside the lock-up, a grim, red-brick building on a base outside Washington.

Blankly, I let them lead me to my cell. ‘Do I get to call my lawyer?’ I asked as the door slammed behind me.

I slumped on my cot. The cell was like Trouble’s a continent away, give or take a touch or two. No toilet bowl, only a chamber pot. No movie magazines, only a Bible. I curled on the cot,
face towards the wall, and did not much care what happened to me next.

It was morning. Breakfast came on a tray: toast, sausages, eggs over easy.

It was afternoon. Lunch came: lamb, potatoes, minted peas.

It was night. Dinner: chicken, potatoes, minted peas.

Morning again. I stood by the window. Swampily, greenly, the Potomac crawled by, and I thought of other rivers, harbours, seas. My spirit was a paper boat, buffeted on the tide.

Questions now: ‘
Major, could you confirm... ?
’ and
‘Major, could you clarify... ?
’ and, ominously, ‘
Major, you’re sure there isn’t
more... ?
’ The military policemen were not the ones who had arrested me, but might as well have been: disguised a little, that was all. The middle one, the one who had called me traitor,
had turned into an earnest, bespectacled type, taking down my answers like a clerk of the court; the older one, heavier of frame now, led the questioning in a Voice of America voice, while his
young assistant, flush-faced, made stammering, supplementary offerings when prompted by his superior.

I told them everything. But everything was not enough.

When they came again, I could not think what to say. I was tired of minted peas, and said so; I wanted something to read other than the Bible, and said so; I wished the window in my cell were
lower: such a pleasant view, I said.

‘
But tell me, Major...
’ Questions again – and again, I told them about Mendoza. No, I had not known Mendoza before. Yes, I had been startled by what Mendoza had
done.

Voice of America took another tack.

‘In San Diego, you were alone with Colonel Pinkerton in his cell for some time – and keen not to be interrupted, I gather. Would you like to tell me why? What did you
do
with
Colonel Pinkerton?’

‘Do?’ I said. ‘Talked to him. What else?’

Voice of America arched an eyebrow. ‘Just talked?’

‘Of course. He’s an old friend.’

‘Or lover?’ said the young man, more flushed than ever.

The question hung in the air like incense.

Had Trouble been my lover? I smiled. I laughed.

‘Shut up!’ cried Voice of America.

Still I laughed. And laughed and laughed, even as he struck my face and I jerked back, almost falling from my chair. Perhaps there would be another blow, and another; blood, tasting like rust,
pooled beneath my tongue and I laughed again, splattering droplets down the front of my uniform. Oh, let him hit me again: I wanted him to hit me. Yes, I should have denied the ruinous charge,
denied it vehemently. But I could not: I would not. I wanted it to be true.

Fearing nothing, I looked up into the glowering, disgusted face.

Afternoons in August never end. When days are long and heat coils around us, sticky as molasses, we enter an eternal realm where it seems that nothing will happen, yet
everything could happen. Like phantoms, we pass through a dreamy haze, and I thought Voice of America was a phantom too, when he stood over my cot as that afternoon declined at last. His fingers
touched my forehead. Ruefully, he smiled. I should have been puzzled, but in the fog that consumed me I registered no surprise as he crossed to the sink, wet a washcloth, bathed my lips, and helped
me stand. I thought there would be handcuffs, but there were none. Calmly, he led me along grey corridors, down grey steps out to a waiting jeep.

Guards saluted as we passed through a checkpoint, and only as we ran along the Potomac did I become aware that Voice of America was apologizing to me: I’d understand, wouldn’t I,
that they could never be too careful? Explore every avenue. Leave no stone unturned. And if, from time to time, an innocent man was caught up in the fray, it was greatly to be regretted but, but...
Senator Pinkerton had explained everything. Now he wanted to see me.

We passed Arlington Cemetery, then crossed the bridge. Sunlight fell around us, golden in the late-gathering summer evening. Here, the Lincoln Memorial; here, the Washington Monument; here, the
White House, where the Pinkertons had hoped to live, and never would. Familiar phrases jangled through my mind like fragments of a poem I might write one day, if only I were a poet.

O Great Republic... Land of the free... Home of the brave! One nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all! How many years have passed since this nation was brought forth? Your
star-spangled banner, how long has it waved? There are truths, you tell yourself, that are self-evident: Life... Liberty... Pursuit of happiness. Government of the people, by the people, for the
people. But it is you, America, not God, who tramps the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. Where is there an end of it, the red glare of rockets, the bombs that burst in air? Why have
you practised so long to learn to read? You have read a fiery gospel. You have heard the sounds of trumpets that will never call retreat... And we pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States
of America and ask ourselves when this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom.

The Mall stretched towards the Capitol, with its many-pillared dome. Never, until this moment, had I felt American. Love and hatred, pride and shame, swelled in my helpless heart.

‘The centre of the world,’ I said, and meant it.

‘Yes,’ said Voice of America, ‘I like to think that too.’

We arrived, as I had expected, at Constitution Avenue. As Voice of America accompanied me from the jeep, I looked at him fondly; he held my arm, but only to make sure my steps were steady. He
flourished a pass. I had never been to the Senate offices before. Trouble must have been a thousand times, and I realized, with a plunge of sadness, that he would never come again: never again
through this wide lobby; never again up these broad stairs; never again to this set of double doors with this serviceman on guard and this brass plate, polished brightly, bearing the legend:
SEN
.
B
.
F
.
PINKERTON
(
D
–
NY
).

Before I entered, Voice of America shook my hand. I wanted to protest: Have you come so far with me, only to abandon me? I’m sick, Voice of America: stay with me, guide my steps. But all I
could do was smile and watch as he retreated. Ten paces away, he raised a hand, not turning, waggled the backs of his fingers in the air, and whistled ‘Avalon’ by Al Jolson.

I looked at the guard by the door. A child: just a child.

Carefully, he opened the doors for me.

‘Sharpless, is that you?’

The office was vast. Through tall windows, open in the heat, thick golden light disclosed acres of Turkey carpet; high walls, lined with stately volumes, supported a ceiling with elaborate
carved cornices and a wide, mandalic rose, from which impended an immense unlit chandelier. A flagpole, with a draping Stars and Stripes, jutted up next to a kingly desk – and behind the
desk, propped there like an enormous, bulky mannequin, sat Senator Pinkerton in a quilted smoking jacket, bandages covering his eyes.

‘How long has it been?’ he said. ‘You’ve grown lax in your duties, I fear.’ His hands toyed with an object that flashed, catching the setting sun; approaching, I
saw it was a dagger in a jewelled scabbard. I had seen that dagger before.

‘Senator, how did all this happen?’ Sadly, I looked at the clutter before him: the legislative papers, the letters from constituents, the dossiers marked top secret that he could no
longer read. Perhaps, in my next words, there was something mad, but no madness of mine could matter when all the world was mad. ‘I’ve wandered in a mist,’ I said, ‘and so,
I’m certain, have you. But everything’s come clear. Don’t you see better, now that you’re blind?’

Three telephones squatted on his desk: one red, one white, one blue. The red one shrilled, a light flashing under its dial, and he reached for it unerringly. What was that? The mission on its
way? They must keep him informed. No, no change of plan: the authorization remained. He spoke as if he were a machine, a mechanical man emitting lines someone else had written.

Gently, he replaced the receiver. ‘Turn on the radio, Sharpless.’

Darkness gathered in the corners of the room, but I made out a large hunched curve of burnished cedar. I switched it on. It hummed and whirred, faceplate glowing like a tiny sun.

News, perhaps?

The senator shook his head.

A soap opera?

‘Music,’ he said, and I sought it out.

Tommy Dorsey was not to his taste. Nor was Benny Goodman. Only when opera swelled around us did he seem content. I knew the work:
Tartarin
, that curious mock epic, at once hilarious and
sad, which Puccini had composed between
Tosca
and
The Girl of the Golden West
. Curling around us came the great leave-taking duet, ‘
Il mio amore puro, sarò sempre
costante
’ – my pure love, I shall be constant always. What gorgeous swirls of emotion Puccini conjured from the air, at once noble and decadent, elevating and absurd! ‘They
say that emotionalism is a sign of weakness,’ the composer said once. ‘But I like to be weak.’

I turned the sound low and asked the senator why he had sent for me.

His voice was hoarse. ‘You loved him, didn’t you? A fine irony. To think, that you – you! – should be the one who understands me! Woodley Sharpless. You were a baby in
Japan when I first saw you. We all said,
Such a pretty baby! What will become of him?
The possibilities seemed wide open, though funnily enough no one thought to say,
The boy will grow up
to be a cripple, a degenerate, and a traitor to his country.
Call us unimaginative! Back then, so much had yet to happen. We hadn’t even had the Great War.’

‘Then you understand,’ I said, ‘that we’ve come too far? This bomb, how could you let it happen? What was the argument – that we’ve spent two billion in Los
Alamos, so we can’t waste taxpayers’ money? Let’s just drop the damned thing and see what happens? Frighten the Russians? Because you sure as hell know we’ve beaten the Japs
already.’