Eighty years ago today The US Army Air Corps dropped the first nuclear weapon on a civilian target at Hiroshima, Japan. A few days later, a second atomic bomb was dropped on the Japanese city of Nagasaki. These attacks signaled the Japanese surrender and the end of the Second World War. I’m not going to comment on whether or not these attacks were necessary or even justified; although I personally believe they were. Still, I recognize and respect the opinions of those who disagree with me, and I will leave it at that.

Twenty-three years later, in 1968, my ship was in Japan, and I took advantage of a tour organized by the US Navy for sailors who wished to visit Nagasaki to observe the anniversary of that city’s destruction. I was 21 years old. I was provided with train tickets to get me there and instructions on how to hook up with the Japanese tour guides who sponsored the tour. The city, of course, had since been totally rebuilt; very little of the vast destruction remained. Only a ruined building or two had been preserved to serve as a memorial of the event. Most of my time in Nagasaki was spent at a museum erected at ground zero where artifacts and exhibits relating to the attack were kept, and English-speaking tour guides answered our questions. I recall I was very moved by the visit, but I must confess I remember very little of the details. It was a somber experience, and I was struck by how the Japanese people I met there treated us with courtesy and respect.

I remember little of the visit. What remains strongest in my memory was how on my seat on the train I had the opportunity to look directly into many Japanese homes built along the railroad tracks. It was summer and warm and doors and windows were open to let in the cool breeze. The tiny houses were little more than shacks, humble structures of wood and paper, but they all had gardens filled with flowers, and I could easily see from my elevated position into their interiors. I was struck how everything inside seemed clean, neat and orderly. There was very little in the way of furnishings or decoration, but all was carefully arranged with geometrical perfection. The effect was of a Frank LLoyd Wright interior. That’s what reminded me most about the whole day–the serenity and peace of the domestic scene. There is no doubt all these houses were occupied, but for some reason I do not recall seeing any of the people that lived there.

I don’t want to linger on the philosophical or historical significance of that day, but feel compelled to put down my meager recollection of it. It seems appropriate to the solemnity and significance of the event.