Salisbury in England, an executive officer in the training command.
My letters to Father were returned to me in 1942, along with a formal letter of
regret from the national headquarters of the AFS.
Richard’s wife, Marian, stayed in nearby San Juan Capistrano while Richard was at
Camp Pendleton. When he shipped out, I invited her to move in with us, with her
children – four, and one that was born shortly after she arrived. We could make room
for them and it was actually easier for us mo women to take care of seven children
than it had been for each of us to cope with our own unassisted. We worked things
out so that one of us could assist at Letterman Army Hospital every afternoon, going
to the Presidio by bus (no gasoline ration expended) and coming back with Brian. I
was fond ‘of Marian; she was as dear to me as my own daughters.
So it came about that she was with us when she received that telegram: Richard had
earned the Navy Cross on Iwo Jima – posthumously.
A little over five months later we destroyed Tokyo and Kobe. Then Emperor Akihito
and his ministers shocked us all by ritually disembowelling themselves, first the
ministers, then the Emperor, after the Emperor announced to them that his mind had
been quieted by President Barkley’s promise to spare Kyoto. It was especially
shocking in that Emperor Akihito was just a boy, not yet twelve, younger than my son
Patrick Henry.
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We will never understand the Japanese. But the long war was over.
I am forced to wonder what would have happened if the Emperor’s father, Emperor
Hirohito, had not died in the ‘Star Festival’ air strike on 7 July? He was reputed
to be so westernised. The other pertinent histories, time lines three and six, give
no firm answers. Hirohito seems to have been the captive of his ministers, reigning
but not ruling.
Once Japan surrendered Brian asked for early separation, but was sent to Texas –
Amarillo, then Dallas – to assist in contract terminations – the only time, I think,
that he regretted having passed his bar examinations back in 1938.
But moving away from San Francisco at that time was a good idea – a change of
background to a place where we knew no one – because on arrival in Texas Marian
became ‘Maureen J. Smith’ and I dyed my hair and became her widowed mother, Marian
Hardy. None too soon; she was already showing – four months later she gave birth to
Richard Brian. We kept it straight with the Foundation, of course, and registered
Marian’s new baby correctly: Marian Justin Hardy + Brian Smith, Senior.
What happened next is difficult for me to talk about, because there are three points
of view and mine is only one of them. I am certain that the other two are each as
fair-minded as I am, if not more so. `More so’ I think I must concede, as Father had
warned me, more than half a century earlier, that I was an amoral wretch who could
reason only pragmatically, not morally.
I had not tried to keep my husband out of my daughter-inlaw’s bed. Neither Briney
nor I had ever tried to own each other; we both approved of sex for fun and we had
established our rules for civilised adultery many years earlier. I was a bit
surprised that Marian had apparently made no effort to keep from getting pregnant by
Brian… but only in that she did not consult me ahead of time. (If she consulted
Briney, he never mentioned it. But men do have this tendency to spray sperm around
like a fire-hose while letting the females decide whether or not to make practical
use of the juice.)
Nevertheless I was not angry, just mildly surprised. And I do recognise the normal
biological reflex under which the first thing a freshly bereft widow does, if she
can manage it, is to spread her legs and sob bitterly and use her womb to replace
the dear departed. It is a survival mechanism, one not limited to wars but more