We have reached the time of significant anniversaries following the war years of the mid-20^th century. These early days of August in 1945 have a particular meaning. With the war in Europe already at an end, the conflict in the Pacific continued.

 The days that led up to that fateful morning of August 6th when the US dropped the first atomic weapon on Hiroshima gave rise to a long poem, Original Child Bomb, written in 41 verses in 1962, by Thomas Merton. He recounts in a methodical, almost pedantic, way the decisions that led up to the final go-ahead for its use.

“On Sunday afternoon ‘Little Boy’ was brought out in procession and devoutly tucked away in the womb of Enola Gay. That evening few were able to sleep. They were excited as little boys on Christmas Eve. (26)

He goes on to say that

“…they reached Hiroshima and started the bomb run. The city was full of sun. The fliers could see the green grass in the gardens. No fighters rose to meet them. There was no flak. No one in the city bothered to take cover.” (31).

 Ever since that terrible event, and a second attack on Nagasaki three days later, the moral absolutes have been debated. It may have saved lives, for an invasion of Japan would have produced huge casualties, but at this cost?

 It is not without significance that Merton wrote his poem in 1962, the year of the Council and the year of the Cuban missile crisis. He concluded his writing with these lines.

“Since that summer many other bombs have been ‘found’. What is going to happen? At the time of writing, after a season of brisk speculation men seem to be fatigued by the whole question”. (41)

Cold war and nuclear arsenal reduction, the realisation of the consequences that would arise from nuclear conflict and the continual flare-up of terrorist activity… are we any further forward? Our ability for self destruction is immense. The piece below was written twenty years ago. It says enough.

Hiroshima

There is

now no way

of knowing

what was said

in those

early morning

moments

by many voices.

Now no way

of hearing

their words

(of greeting

or recrimination)

traded across a room

or in passing

down the street.

Now no way

of smelling

the scent of flowers

from garden shrubs

or from potted plants

                   rivalling

the staleness of sleep

with breakfast done.

Now no way

of touching

the outstretched

hand of the child

walking with her Mother

just after eight

that blue skied hour          

                Hiroshima Day

dark brightness in the bright darkness Night Hiroshima.

Only then

in the agony

of that explosive instant

when over ground

razed of buildings

human forms that moved

just disappeared.

Only then

as the fireball rose

and the firestorm spread outwards

did voices of children cry

“Atsui, Atsui” * 

but without response.

Only then

did silent shuffling ghosts leaving the stricken town

hold out their savaged hands softly howling

“Tasukete kure ” *

but none came.

For now do we begin to realise

the transfigured Christ

 fire caught

that August morning

                  of fearsome Dawn.

·         Atsui  “It’s hot”  

·         Tasukete kure   “Help, if you please”

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