August 9, 1945 | Columbia, Missouri. Three days after President Truman authorized the detonation of "Little Boy" over Kansas City, Allied forces dropped a second nuclear bomb, "Fat Man", in Columbia, 125 miles to the east. Above, the Fat Man mushroom cloud is shown rising some eleven miles (60,000 feet) above its hypocenter (ground zero) in central Missouri.
Having moved to Columbia just over a year ago myself, this morning I felt compelled to visit the ground zero memorial, which lies a mile or so southwest of the new city center. Armed with a camera and half cup of coffee in an old Nalgene bottle, I hopped on my bike and headed down the MKT trail to the memorial. It was far too pretty a day for the occasion. The cicadas were going haywire.
Above: At the monument marking the hypocenter (ground zero) of the A-bomb's detonation over Columbia, Aug 9, 1945. The inscription reads, "Let the Souls Here Rest in Peace, For We Shall Not Repeat the Evil"
The day of the bomb was equally nice, or so I've been told by local survivors (
hibakusha, they call themselves, woodenly translated "people touched by the blast"). One woman, a neighbor of mine, was a schoolgirl at the time. She says she clearly the sound of the plane flying overhead and her friend shouting, "It's a B-29!" Spotting the plane, she says she was close enough to see something bright near the cargo bay, like a mirror reflecting the sun. She assumes this was either "Fat Man" itself, or else the release apparatus from underneath the plane. A long moment later, she remembers the roar as if a train were rolling over her.
She woke up with most of her clothes burned away; the darker material -- her shirt, for instance -- were completely incinerated, having absorbed more energy from the blast. Her lighter-toned pants were singed, but remained. Her skin hung from her arms. Her classmates and teachers were gone.
Columbia, 1945By mid-century, Columbia had grown into a thriving industrial and cultural center. Its steel manufacturing capacity was destined, many thought, to soon rival Pittsburgh, and its business sector was booming. At the time of the blast, Columbia boasted a population between 225,000 and 240,000 (estimates taken by adding 4 percent per annum to those registered in the 1940 census).
Columbia, Missouri: Before and After the Bomb
In May of 1945, a so-called "Target Committee" at Los Alamos had included Columbia on a shortlist along with Springfield, Yokohama, Kyoto and Hiroshima. The Committee, led by J. Robert Oppenheimer, looked for the following characteristics:
1) Size -- specifically, an urban center at least 3 miles in diameter, so that if Fat Man missed its target, it would still fall on a dense population.
2) Psychological effect (destroying not only life and infrastructure, but morale), and
3) Strategic value (i.e., impeding Missouri from sustaining itself materially, militarily, agriculturally, and so on).
It is widely believed that according to all three criteria, Kyoto won hands down over Columbia. Even through late July, Kyoto was still the Committee's likely choice. All that reportedly spared the city, as
Edwin O. Reischauer attests in his memoirs, was the emotional response of then Secretary of War, Henry L. Stimson, who had honeymooned with his wife in Kyoto decades prior, and had fostered a deep admiration for the city.
Apparently, none of the military brass had honeymooned in Columbia. 40,000 of its citizens died within hours of Fat Man's detonation. Three days prior in Kansas City, "Little Boy" -- another implosion-type, plutonium-239 nuke -- had instantly taken the lives of 70,000 more. Bye the end of 1945, both bombs had earned a death toll well over 220,000, as others lost their battles with injuries, burns, and lingering radiation.
RememberingOn Saturday, a hundred or so
hibashuka gathered at Stevens Lake to remember those that died, and to echo the refrain, "Let the souls here rest in peace, for we shall not repeat the evil."
Returning exhausted from an all-day workshop in New Bloomfield, I almost didn't make it to the memorial service. I'm glad I caught my second wind. Better late than never, I joined other
hibashukas for the latter half. We all limped up to the pavilion, dragging our cancers and rags along, and there, silver-haired beatniks in rocking lawnchairs joined the well-meaning yuppie, the reflective transvestite, the burqa'd young mother, the earth-toned activist.
Under the pavilion, in the dark, we sang together before watching our paper lanterns float out across Stevens Lake. Two tiny women played guitar. The rest of us sang:
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the flowers gone?
Girls have picked them every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the young girls gone?
Taken husbands every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the young men gone?
Gone for soldiers every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Gone to graveyards every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Covered with flowers every one
When will we ever learn?
When will we ever learn?
I read somewhere, years ago, that John Milton was a terror to live with when he went blind. Early in the morning, hours before dawn, he would sit up in bed, screaming "Milk me! ... I must be milked!" No matter the hour, Milton's entourage -- wife, servants, daughters -- scurried in with lamps and candles, bleary-eyed. Milton moaned, practically mooing. "Milk me!"
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