At the eastern edge of the Eurasian land mass, which covers half of the Northern Hemisphere, a dragon lay dying. As he twisted his huge body and thrashed his tail, smoke and fire poured from every part of him. He shook convulsively, racked by spasms. His once powerful back, covered with towering spines surrounded by green forests, had been hacked asunder, and from his wounds hot blood poured out spasmodically. And from the depths of the sea, whose Black Current had gently caressed his belly from ancient times, there now rose the chill jaws of death. As savage as a school of crazed sharks, it shook the dragon’s body as it tore away piece after piece of flesh from his belly, gulping them down one after another into that vast stomach that covered most of the earth.
Kyushu, Shikoku, the southern half of the Kii Peninsula were already torn away and nearly swallowed up. The Boso Peninsula, which had formed one side of Tokyo Bay, had also been severed from the body, and its tip was already plunged some fifty feet below the sea. In northeastern Honshu the coastline had slid some sixty feet into the Pacific. The waters were rushing in on Hokkaido, too, and sections of it had fallen away. As for the islands to the southwest of Japan, the transformation had become evident more than a year and a half earlier, and by now many islands had vanished entirely.
An unseen giant stood behind the dragon, pressing upon him. It was this same giant who, 400 million years before, had helped to form the young dragon, thrusting him away from the continent that had conceived him. But now the giant’s benevolent strength had turned into something vicious. It had shattered the dragon’s backbone, twisted his body, thrust him down into the sea.
In the short space of two or three years Japan had been pushed nearly thirty miles to the southeast. The pressure on Central Honshu was especially intense. Such was the heat coming up from the earth that the rainy season began in May, and as the soft rain fell upon Japan, coastlines melted away and plains became shallow seas. Sea then linked up with sea, and ocean-going ships were able to make their way to what had once been inland cities and towns.
The agonized dragon fought back against the violent forces that were pushing him away from the continent and down into the sea. At the beginning of June four fifths of his body were still above water as he tried to shake off the cold hand of death that had reached up from the depths. And as the dragon writhed and bellowed, smoke and fire pouring from each gaping wound, there perished vast numbers of the tiny creatures that had lived upon him. And the rest were fleeing over the encroaching sea, leaving behind the body that had for countless centuries given them sustenance. The dragon still lived, but his death was quite near. And the eyes of the whole world were fixed upon his death agony.
Planes laden with cameras, flying through smoke and fire, ranged far and wide over the sinking Archipelago. Every major television network throughout the world had its men on the scene.
Ordinary men and women mourned what was happening as a great tragedy for humanity, but for them it was also a spectacle of immense fascination. What was sinking into the ocean was not some shadowy Atlantis of legend, but a modern industrial nation of immense wealth and power, a nation, furthermore, rich in history and culture. A great island nation which some massive force deep within the planet was breaking apart, tearing with eruptions, shattering into fragments, and, finally, drawing down into the depths of the sea. For scientists, of course, the cause for fascination ran far deeper. Never before had they had the opportunity to witness such a thing, and never would they again. What did this phenomenon mean? Had the earth reached a new stage of existence?
The emotions of the rest of the world were complex, therefore—sympathy, curiosity, a zealous desire to help, a feeling of relief that this was not happening to one’s own country, concern about what effect the flood of refugees might have. . . .
The only ones who could face the tragedy in simple, straightforward fashion and throw themselves headlong into the struggle were the Japanese themselves. And soon the rescue units were performing in such spectacular fashion that the world began to speak of the “Japanese Miracle.” They worked without sleep or rest, and as the end drew near, their casualties mounted at an incredible rate. Among the foreign rescue units, the largest contingent and the group that worked most closely and most effectively with the Japanese was the United States Marines, who lost more than 200 men.
In a television interview the Marine commander, Brigadier General Grant, expressed himself in highly emotional terms: “The Japanese relief organizations—government officials, soldiers, civilians alike—have been performing with incredible courage. I’ve seen situations where even veteran Marines who have been through all kinds of combat would have held back, but these people rushed fearlessly ahead. It’s their fellow countrymen they’re saving, of course, but they have so little regard for danger, no matter how desperate the situation, that sometimes when we talk it over among ourselves, we wonder if perhaps this tragedy hasn’t made them half crazy.”
This was all that was actually broadcast, but General Grant in fact went on to say: “I think that as a people they have a Kamikaze instinct. Or else you might say that they’re all soldiers at heart. Why, even the supposedly weaker younger generation has fitted right in. ...”
As the end drew nearer and nearer, the Japanese Miracle went on, a desperate challenge flung in the face of death. Despite earthquake, eruption, and flood, 65 million people had somehow been evacuated, at the incredible rate of some 16 million per month. As the devastation and sinking began to reach a more acute stage, however, with a large-scale breakdown of communication and transportation facilities, the pace of evacuation began to slacken. It became difficult to marshal large concentrations of refugees, and soon there was no choice but to pick up small groups isolated throughout the country.
By the beginning of July there was only one international airport left in operation, at Chitose, in Hokkaido, and it was only a question of time before that, too, was gone. There were some smaller airports remaining in the north of Japan as well as some military airports, which were used as much as their capacity allowed. For the rest, the transport planes were reduced to landing and taking off on whatever broad, open meadowland still remained beyond the reach of the sea.
Now instead of airliners and ships, the burden of the rescue came to rest entirely upon helicopters, STOL aircraft, and other kinds of military planes that could operate under difficult conditions. The huge Soviet transport planes proved especially valuable, as they were able to carry heavy loads and negotiate the worst possible terrain.
By mid-July more than 70 million had been evacuated, at the cost of the most desperate labor. The toll of victims, including those who had died in the Tokyo earthquake, had passed 12 million. Among these, many had died after they thought they had been saved, perishing in air crashes or sea disasters. The rescue units themselves had suffered more than 5,000 casualties. And 30 million Japanese were still left upon the ravaged, sinking Archipelago—frightened groups scattered throughout the country, in isolated inland sections or on high ground near the seacoast. The rescue units threw themselves into the task of saving each and every one of them with an almost insane zeal. They hardly noticed whether it was day or night, spending themselves without rest or sleep, carrying through their desperate missions even at the cost of life itself.
As July gave way to August and rescue became more difficult, the cataclysm claimed more and more victims and the casualties of the rescue units themselves shot up sharply. Many dropped from exhaustion as they toiled unremittingly beneath a sinister sky covered with a pall of smoke, the stink of sulfur in their nostrils and the taste of ashes in their mouths, while the never quiet earth rumbled beneath them. All this took its toll of their morale. As they grew wearier with each passing day, a growing despair took hold of them. How could they hope to win their battle against the violent, overwhelming force of nature? Their fate was sealed, and nothing they could do would alter it. Together with the scattered remains of their countrymen, they would perish beneath the smothering ashes or be swallowed up by the voracious, dark sea.
In the middle of August the first typhoon of the season took form in the South Pacific and began to move toward Japan. In the midst of her other torments, she was now to be afflicted with that of a raging storm. The fleet of rescue vessels sought the relative safety of the open sea, and many among them sailed for home. The efforts of June and July had brought more than 4.5 million people out of the country, bringing the total to some 70 million. During these same two months, however, the toll of dead and presumed dead had increased by more than three million. Among these were many who, either overwhelmed with despair or crazed with shock, committed suicide. And of the 20 million remaining, a considerable number yielded their turns to others and went off by themselves. The vast majority of these were men in their seventies and older. They would leave notes for their families and disappear from the marshaling points in the middle of the night. The future could be entrusted to youth. They had lived long enough, and what happiness could there be in living on away from their beautiful homeland, gone forever?