The Hibakusha 被爆者

6th August 1945, Hiroshima. 広島の強制収容所

The sun rose high above the mountains, bathing the hills and valleys below in the morning light. The ripples of water in the bay shimmered as boats floated peacefully over them, while women and children gathered at the shoreline, reeling in nets and fishing lines. It was Zen-like, the epitome of Japanese serenity. Across the bay, a group of men gathered in the dusty yard, bones protruded from their skin, skeletons standing under the warm sun, among them was Archibald ‘Archie’ McLellan.

Guards watched their every move from the towers that loomed over the men. Two different worlds played out in such close quarters; the picturesque, idyllic bay, surrounded by the green valleys and mountains and the concentration camp that housed the Allied prisoners of war.

A shard of silver glistened in the sky high above the men, the familiar buzz of propeller powered engines slicing through the air. It was not unusual for reconnaissance aircrafts to circle overhead, identifying possible targets for bombing runs. Archie glanced up, watching it as it circled high above him. It was a chance to witness the outside world; a brief indication that civilisation still existed beyond the tall wooden fences and barbed wire that caged them like animals. Others chose to ignore the aircraft in a vain attempt to block out the world completely; torture and cruelty was all that existed in their lives now, acknowledging real-life would show they were human, humans that were susceptible to the beatings and punishment handed out by their captors.

Archie watched with envy as the plane flew over the valleys and the mountains. He was used to being squeezed in to the cramped confines of the rear gun position, the drones of the engine rattling around his head, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, ready to engage in battle. Archie’s mind drifted as he watched the plane disappear from sight. In an instant, the sky changed…

In March 1942, Archie found himself stationed in Java, the Dutch East Indies, as part of the Royal Air Force. The Japanese forces had been advancing throughout the area, Singapore had fallen and Java and Sumatra were expected to be attacked next. Archie’s squadron were deployed, along with other Allied forces, but the fall of Java was swift; it took seven days for the Japanese to claim the island.

‘The Nips are coming,’ was the cry.

The Allied forces radio station on the island issued its last broadcast, ‘We are closing now. Farewell till better times,’ and then silence.

Soldiers retreated towards the docks and airfields, fear etched upon their faces. Pilots prepped their aircrafts for a hasty escape. Amid the confusion, allied troops were left behind — Archie was among them.

Those left behind were quickly gathered up into prison compounds. Archie was stripped of his clothing and hosed down in front of amused enemy soldiers; mocking his pale skin and his tall slender frame.

After a few days of limited rations and little sleep, Archie was forced to his feet.

‘Speedo. Speedo,’ barked a Japanese officer, digging his rifle butt into Archie’s back in an attempt to make him move quicker.

Archie and his fellow soldiers undertook a long arduous march, under a blazing sun, along weather-beaten jungle roads, mosquitoes buzzing around their heads, feasting on their blood. The jungle road led to the sea and there, moored in the docks were the many steel prisons known as ‘hell ships’.

Archie was crammed into the stifling, soul-destroying cargo hold, alongside hundreds of other Allied troops; packed in like animals, crawling around on all fours, stagnant water pooling below them for more than twenty days. The rumour spread around the hold that they were destined for Japan, by which time their bodies would be emaciated and disease-ridden. Archie’s heart sank, but at least he saw land again; some men were destined to never make it ashore, dying on the journey. Archie would close his eyes, trying to ignore men breathe their last breath, their final resting place a metal, floating tomb. To Archie, it felt like a bad dream; but that dream would soon turn into a living nightmare. There was hope that while he was on Java, Archie and his fellow captives may be rescued; but from the moment he landed in Japan, Archie officially became a prisoner of war.

The ‘hell ship’ arrived in the docks in the middle of the night, the moon casting an ethereal light over the mountains and the floating prison. The men were forced down the gangplank, bamboo sticks hastening their descent; a shuffling line of tattered uniforms, broken spirits and broken bodies. Archie carefully made his way down to the quayside, squinting in the moonlight; Hiroshima 7B loomed in the distance.

Six men to a billet, a single 15-watt bulb providing enough light to show the dirt encrusted walls and floors; enough light to give confidence to the over-sized cockroaches that scurried amongst the men’s groundsheets and blankets. It was a far cry from Archie’s childhood growing up in the small Scottish highland village of Erbusaig. Memories of the playing on the golden beach, the salt air stinging his cheeks as the white horses rolled in with a thundering crash were all that Archie had.

Archie’s days at the camp were spent as part of a ‘gang’ at the Okinoyama coal mine; battering away at a coal face in blistering temperatures, dust and sweat stinging his eyes, trying to fill the quota of wagons demanded by the Japanese. As a ‘reward’ for being at the coal face, they were given extra rations; a measly 800 grams of rice on his days at the mine and 500 grams on his rest days. Manual labour and rations had an effect on Archie’s already slight frame; lean muscle steadily disappeared, his cheeks hollowed, his skin clung to his skeleton.

The rest days brought some normality. The senior officers in the camp allocated house duties; cleaning up the yard, tiding the accommodation and resting weary limbs. While this scene of domesticity served as a welcome distraction for Archie, it was often shattered by guards rushing into the housing blocks, screaming at the prisoners in broken English and dragging them out into the yard for perceived infractions of camp rules. If a man didn’t salute a guard, he would be beaten; if his hands were in his pockets, he would be beaten. All too often, Archie would be thrown to the ground, his body slamming against the hard earth; blood and saliva would drip from his mouth, mixing with the course dirt below him. The guards would beat the men indiscriminately, at any time of day, leaving the prisoners vulnerable. Bamboo, rifle butts, shovels or fists and feet would be used to break the men physically.

On more than one occasion, Archie and his ‘housemates’ would be forced to their knees, blindfolded and a gun placed to their head. Guards would yell inches from their faces, dogs snarled waiting for the attack command, while the prisoner was left waiting to die. Archie would tense his body, sweat dripping from his forehead, the salt stinging his dry skin, waiting for the final click; metal against metal, firing pin against bullet and then darkness…but it never came. The only sound, the hysterical laughter of the guards. Archie would be left curled on the floor, heart thumping against his ribcage, convulsing with fear, thankful to be alive, but living his own personal hell.

The guards were ruthless and merciless, the Allied troops were seen as dishonourable, surrender wasn’t accepted in Japanese life; in the guards’ eyes, the men were beneath contempt. While the beatings were savage, cuts and bruises would eventually vanish; the mental anguish endured by Archie and his friends was worse. It would haunt them.

…It was no longer the piercing blue dotted with cotton wool like clouds that greeted the residents of Hiroshima that morning. It now glowed red, the red that symbolised the land of the rising sun, the red that held a special meaning in Japanese culture — it represented their pure spirit. The air turned warm, singeing the skin of the men. Suddenly, an invisible force knocked Archie from his feet. Ringing filled his ears, his head felt heavy, his eyes closed.

Archie awoke, dazed and confused. He dug his bony limbs in the warm earth and unsteadily rose to his feet. He looked around him, the landscape had changed dramatically; destruction, fire and death stretched out into the bay and valleys. The buzz of the aircraft and sound of waves gently lapping against shore, were now replaced by an eerie emptiness, a void. He joined some of the prisoners and guards gathered at the fences, a mushroom cloud grew large in the sky, blocking out the sun.

The eerie silence was shattered; sirens split the air, screeches and cries for help rose up from the valley floor snapping Archie back into the present moment, his hands trembled as he stood against the fence, confusion filled his thoughts.

The ‘hell ships’, days at the coal mine, the beatings and starvation were in the past. He had survived it all. The physical scars would fade over time, muscle and fat would pad out his frame although the mental scars would endure; but Archie was alive. He had been in the Hiroshima 7B camp for over three and a half years. He had lived in that small, wooden hut, covered with a tight tar paper roof for 1275 day…he was a survivor, not only of the war, but the atomic blast. He was a Hibakusha. In under one month, Hiroshima 7B would be liberated, Archie would be returning home.