The Burnt School Cap

Written by Father of Koso

This is a story written by a father who ran through the living hell in the burning city of Hiroshima, searching for his beloved son, and found him dying from the atomic bombing.

5.53 sec.

[Trascription ]

On August 6 the atomic blast blew me about six meters back, and I was under a falling house. My head was injured, and I was bleeding all over from glass fragments that had stuck into my body. However, more than anything else, I was wondering what happened to my son, Koso. He was serving as the youth leader of a student group, which had been mobilized to work in an airplane factory in the Koi area of Hiroshima.

By now the entire city of Hiroshima was a sea of fire. Waves of flame were twisting through its streets like a mad demon. “It’s no use! We can’t cross the Misasa bridge!” I said. Thus, we managed to cross the railway bridge instead, heading for the town of Gion, which had become a first-aid center. As I approached I heard the sound of many voices groaning. They were calling out for their husbands and wives, for brothers and sisters, and for their children. Everyone was desperate. Fathers and mothers, who seemed like they might already be dead, somehow forced a final breath, calling out their children’s names. I was shouting too: “Koso! Akita Koso! Akita Koso from First Middle School!” frantically, again and again. There were dead bodies lying everywhere. I kept tripping over them, sometimes falling. I heard voices of dying people all around: “Water…please, water!” “Ahh, this is the end!” I thought, “I’m going to perish in the middle of all these dying screams!”

But then I thought of my child and determined to go farther to see him. I gathered my courage with a stick for support, and walked on to “Koi! To Koi I must get!” The airplane factory in Koi had become a temporary morgue. 50 or 60 people were there, moaning and wailing amidst the smell of rotting flesh that floated in the air. Everyone’s faces were horribly disfigured; their expressions were barely human. “He has a fair skin,” my wife said, “let’s look for a fair-skinned boy.” “Koso!” we shouted, desperately running around the area. “It’s your father! It’s your mother! Is Akita Koso here?! Akita Koso from First Middle School!” Our only wish was, ‘Please just let him be alive!’

Then, we heard Koso’s voice: “Father? Mother…” But it was the voice of a young boy whose life was already fading. “Father, mother, I’m sorry,” he continued. “At first 40 or 50 of us were trying to return home, saying, ‘Come on! Don’t give up!’ But when we reached the Asahi bridge I looked back and saw only 14 remaining,” he said with a fading voice. “All of them… died…” On the morning of August 7, 1945, while Hiroshima was in a sea of flames, Koso quietly joined his school friends in death. I can still see so clearly what remained of the Hiroshima First Middle School cap on Koso’s burnt and swollen head.

[日本語原文]

焼けついた学生帽

八月六日、爆風のため私は三間（＝５，６メートル）ほど吹き飛ばされて、家の下敷きとなり、頭に怪我（けが）をし、体にたくさんのガラスの破片をうけて全身血みどろ(=all covered in blood)となった。しかし、私の頭にあったのはただ、学徒動員で己斐（こい）の飛行機工場に、学徒隊の班長として勤務していた耕三(=Kozo)の身の上のことであった。

その時はすでに、広島市は一面の火の海、炎の波が、悪魔のようにのたうっていた。「とても駄目だ。三篠（みささ）橋も渡れない」仕方なく、あの長い鉄橋を渡り、一応、町の救護所(きゅうごじょ)となっていた祇園町（ぎおんちょう）に向かったが、至る所にうめき声を聞いた。夫を呼ぶ声、妻を呼ぶ声、わが子を、兄弟を呼ぶ声、しかもそれは死にものぐるいである。すでに息絶えんとしながらも、なお最後の呼吸を吐き絞って、わが子の名を呼ぶ父、そして母の声である。「耕三！　秋田耕三！　一中の秋田耕三！」私も叫んだ。死にものぐるいで叫び続けた。累々と横たわる死骸（しがい）、それにつまづき、つまづきながら、倒れながら、水を、という死の声を聞くのである。ああ、私は完全に、人間最後の叫びの中に抹消（まっしょう）されそうであった。

しかし、子供のことを思うと、休まれない。勇気を起して、杖をたよりに、己斐へ！　己斐へ！　と歩いた。工場は、死体収容所になっていた。プーンと人の肉の腐る臭いの中で、五、六十人がうめき叫んでいた。誰の顔も目茶苦茶（めちゃくちゃ）にくずれている。人間の形相（ぎょうそう）というものはない。「色の白い子です。色の白い子を呼んでみましょう」という妻と一緒に、「耕三！　お父さんです。一中の秋田耕三！　お母さんです。秋田耕三はいませんか！」と狂ったように、辺りを駆け回った。せめても生きていてくれ、という願いで一杯であった。その時、「お父さんですか？　お母さん」という耕三の声がした。しかし、それはすでに、若い少年の生命が消える最後の声であった。「お父さん、すみません。お母さん、すみません。はじめは四、五十人で、頑張れ頑張れと言いながら帰ったが、旭橋の上で後ろを振り向いてみたら十四人しかいなかった」と耕三は、もう絶え入りそうな声で言った。「みんな死にました……」昭和二十年の八月七日の朝、まだ広島市は火の海であったが、耕三は、一中の学友とともに、静かに死んでいった。耕三の焼けただれた頭に残った一中の学生帽のあとが、いまも私の目にはっきり残っている。