A Mother and Her Little Boy

A Mother and Her Little Boy

by Kelli Norris

"We call upon the government of Japan to proclaim now the unconditional surrender of all Japanese armed forces, and to provide proper and adequate assurances of their good faith in such action. The alternative for Japan is prompt and utter destruction."

The trio of B-29 Superfortresses fly through the blurred vision of a dream. I can see the name Enola Gay written in big black letters under the cockpit windows of the lead plane. I have it on good authority that the pilot named this vessel of death after his mother.  I cannot help but wonder how she feels about that.

The Hiroshima radar operator has already given the “all clear,” having detected this group earlier and assuming it is only a reconnaissance mission, because of the weather observation aircraft that passed harmlessly by a half an hour ago.

The bomb bay doors of The Gay open in slow motion 31,000 feet over the Aioi Bridge. I sense the ticking of a clock as the almost five ton gravity bomb starts its fall, click…click…click…

Due to crosswind, the automobile-size explosive veers off course and detonates directly over Shima Surgical Clinic exactly forty-three seconds later. The Enola Gay is over eleven miles away, yet it still seems very close to the growing column of smoke. My mind is playing tricks on me because it looks like a giantess made of clouds is reaching out for the plane.

My eyes are closed tight against the devastation of ground zero, but the images permeate my brain. The intensity of endless raging fires does nothing to drown out the agonized screams of the countless dying. My nostrils run from the stench of burning flesh and I force the bile in my throat back down. Thousands of bodies lie smoldering in the morning air. Everywhere I look people are on fire and begging futilely for my help.

Tears pour down my face as I stare stunned at a woman materializing from the smoke, hair and skin are white as new snow. She is holding what could be a baby. The lower half of her body is concealed by fog creating the illusion she is floating as she approaches me. She draws close and I see that the baby is in fact a little boy, larger than I first thought.

The little boy’s face is seared black and his small frame bloodied and broken. The mother holds the child’s battered body out to me with eyes pleading for a miracle. I take the boy in my arms praying for God to grant me one. The little body is stiff and very cold despite the heat. I realize at once, it is too late.

Choking on sobs, I drop to my knees, intending to lay the child on the ground. I scream in terror when I feel the corpse squirm in my hands. I try to drop it but a sudden shift in weight knocks me backwards pinning me beneath the undulating mass. Scared out of my mind I see that I no longer hold a child made of flesh and blood, but a pulsating cylindrical bomb made of iron and steel.

I throw my hands behind me attempting to crab-crawl out from under the device but it keeps growing, smashing me deeper and deeper into the ground. I flail my arms and legs in desperation as the girth of this expanding explosive crushes the life out of me. I shriek in pain when the sharp metallic fins of the projectile cut into my flesh severing veins and arteries.

Gasping for air, I am drowning as shattered shards of rib puncture my lungs causing them to fill with thick, muddy, blood. I stop flailing. I have no energy to move. A sense of calm washes over me and I remember my wife, Bess. I close my eyes and picture her beautiful face. I hear her sweet voice.

“Haaarry…Harry can you hear me?”

“Y-y-e-s,” I wheeze weakly.

I feel her soft hand on my cheek and her loving voice drifts to me as if from another world.

“Harry honey, please wake up!”

I bolt upright, the pulverizing weight of the bomb gone. Opening my eyes, I am blinded by the light of a thousand suns. I throw up a hand to shield my eyes from the brightness, blinking rapidly. At last I can keep them open long enough to get a shadowy idea of my surroundings.

I understand when a door bursts open and two men armed with hand-guns enter the room.

“Is everything alright, Mr. President?”

I pick up my glasses from off  the nightstand and adjust them on my face, forcing myself to sound composed.

"Everything is fine. It was just a nightmare.”

(797)