Standing amid the rubble, I felt a sadness that so many had died on both sides, not only there but in all the horrible places where the war had been fought. We would learn that over fifty million people had perished because of Japanese and German aggression—the majority of them unarmed men, women, and children—in Asia, the Pacific, Europe, Africa, the Middle East, and a thousand other places. And millions of soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen, the best and brightest of an entire generation, would never realize their tomorrows.
I thanked God that it was we who had this weapon and not the Japanese or the Germans. I hoped there would never be another atomic mission.
I took no pride or pleasure then, nor do I take any now, in the brutality of war, whether suffered by my people or those of another nation. Every life is precious. But I felt no remorse or guilt that I had bombed the city where I stood. The suffering evidenced by the destruction around me had been born of the cruelty of the Japanese militaristic culture and a tradition that glorified the conquest of “inferior” races and saw Japan as destined to rule Asia. The true vessel of remorse and guilt belonged to the Japanese nation, which could and should call to account the warlords who so willingly offered up their own people to achieve their visions of greatness.
