From behind the air-raid shelter for locomotives a young girl with bobbed hair came running to me and pleaded, "Mister, please come and look at my little brother." In the shelter a kindergarten-age boy with burns, sitting with his legs straight out, was holding his arms straight in front of him. His skin was hanging down from his arms.
I was frightened then to see his left eyeball hanging below his nose, about 15 centimeters down from the place where it should have been located.
The young girl, his sister, begged, "Take care of him, please." I was totally at a loss, not knowing what to do. I was not an eye specialist nor any kind of doctor at all. I could have held his eyeball with my fingers and put it back in its socket, but I knew it would be of no use.
Even now I'm unable to forget them. When I visit the cenotaph on the evening of August 6 every year, I address them in my heart: "My dear little girl, and my dear little boy, I was very sorry that you were in great agony at that time. Please forgive me for not being able to help you."