Operation Unthinkable, part 10: the Japanese doctor who became a traitor
First part about the Japanese doctor Tanaka in Siberia: https://www.reddit.com/r/AlternateHistory/s/cj7d5955tu
Entries from the Diary of Doctor Tanaka
23 August 1945
I sit in the officers' mess, spoon in hands that tremble like leaves in the wind. Major Kimura speaks, his voice like hollow thunder, full of tall tales about "glorious" victories. I'm struck by his laughter, which reverberates like a burst of machine gun fire. His eyes, full of contempt, rest on others, on prisoners, on men who were once men, now reduced to beasts. “We are defeating and massacring Russians like mice in a burning barn,” he laughs, his smile sharp as a knife. "They're not even human," adds Lieutenant Yamamoto, with the ardor of someone wanting to impress.
Their words hurt me more than I could ever say. My hand trembles as I put the spoon down, and a thought torments me: my father, who taught me how to care for the fish in our pond. "Every creature has a soul, Hiroshi," he repeated to me. "The real doctor sees it and respects it." But today, in this hell, who has the courage to see? Who has the courage to respect?
24 August 1945
The camp infirmary is a place of death and despair. The Soviet and Chinese prisoners are shadows, bodies that slowly fade away. Today I visited twenty men. The cold kills them. The plague consumes them. There is no medicine that can stop death.
A young Russian woman, Nina, translates the prisoners' moans. His words are like stones, hard and cold. "He says he can't feel his toes anymore," he murmurs as I examine an elderly man, now reduced to an empty shell.
“Why are you so nice to us?” Nina asks me, her blue eyes filled with a sadness that has no words.
I hesitated before answering. "Because before I'm a soldier, I'm a doctor."
His eyes become moist. "My father was a doctor in Leningrad. He said the same thing."
And in that moment, between the cold and the pain, I understood that war does not separate people. It unites them in pain, in suffering. War destroys, but in some hidden corner, something resists.
25 August 1945
Today I met Chen Wei. A man who, despite the death that surrounds him, has not lost his dignity. While I was dressing his wounds, he noticed the book I left in the hospital for mistake.
"Du Fu?" he asked, with a smile that surprised me.
"Do you read it too?" I replied, incredulous.
“In spring, the river rises with the sky,” he recited in perfect Chinese.
"A thousand miles of human sadness," I completed, in Japanese.
For a moment, war no longer exists. There is no longer a boundary between the winner and the vanquished, between the doctor and the patient. We are just two men sharing a moment of beauty, a fragment of humanity that no battle can ever destroy.
26 August 1945
"You see, Doctor Tanaka," Chen Wei told me today as I changed his bandages, "Du Fu's poetry is about universal suffering. It doesn't matter if you are Chinese, Japanese or Russian – the pain is the same."
His words hit me like lightning. A flash of truth that pierces the darkness that surrounds me. "I have a daughter," he added, as if reading my thoughts. "Her name is Mei. It means 'beautiful' in Chinese. She was three years old when I left."
"How old is he now?" I asked, but I already knew the answer.
"I don't know," he whispered. "I haven't received any letters for two years."
And in that moment, I felt the weight of his loneliness, the weight of all loneliness, of all wars, of all losses.
27 August 1945
I brought Chen Wei some books. Chinese, Japanese poetry. We sat together in the corner of the infirmary, talking softly, as if we were afraid the whole world might hear us.
"Do you know why I'm here, doctor?" he asked me.
"You are a prisoner of war," I replied, but he smiled sadly.
"I'm a university professor. I taught literature in Shanghai. But I believe that every human being deserves dignity and respect. This makes me dangerous."
"Is this what Mao teaches you?"
"Mao is only part of the story," he said, "the ideas of justice and equality are as old as our classics. Don't you read Wang Wei? Under the same sky, we are all wanderers."
And in that moment, I understood that war is never just war. It is the story of every man, every woman, every child who tries to find meaning in a world that seems to have lost it.
28 August 1945
Today I have seen that the body of Chin Wei is marked by violence and torture. Probably the Japanese guards have harshly treated him in the past. But now, the plague is progressively killing him. He has had High Fever. He kept quoting Du Fu between groans of pain. "Why are you smiling?" I asked him, incredulous. "Because I see in your eyes that you are changing, Doctor. And change is the only constant in the universe."
And in that sentence, I felt the weight of my helplessness. I can't change the world, but maybe, just maybe, I can change myself.
1 September 1945
Chen Wei was dead this morning and he was cremated. Before dying, he left me a carefully folded piece of paper.
"It's a poem I wrote for her," he said. "Read it when you're alone."
The poem said:
On this Siberian night Two men from different lands They share ancient words Like bread broken between brothers Your white coat, my friend It is purer than falling snow And in your heart I see it blossom A flower that no winter can kill
Today Colonel Sato summoned me to his office.
"Tanaka, they tell me you spend too much time with the prisoners."
"They are patient, sir."
"They are enemies."
"Medicine knows no enemies, sir."
He looked at me for a long time, as if searching for something in my eyes. "Your father was a respectable doctor. I would hate to have to write to your family..."
His words hit me like a blow to the head, but there is no fear in me anymore.
2 September 1945
The new colleague, Doctor Sato, joined our hospital recently. He had worked in the biological warfare department, a sector that was completely foreign to me. When we talked about bacteria, viruses and biological weapons, I thought about medicine, about caring for people. But Sato seemed to have a different view.
“I don't understand how you can continue to think of medicine as a matter of healing,” he said, as we sat in the small hospital office. “Medicine is a weapon, Tanaka. Our mission is greater than that of healing. We must protect the Empire. We must win this war by any means.”
His words hit me like a punch in the stomach. He looked at me with eyes that seemed to be trying to probe my soul, but I didn't know how to respond. I had always believed in the oath I had taken, the one my father had taught me: “A doctor must be a light in the darkness, not an agent of destruction.”
“You don't understand, do you?” Sato continued, smiling with an air of superiority. “War is not just fought with conventional weapons. The Empire needs weapons that can destroy the enemy without firing a single shot. And bacteriological warfare is the weapon of the future. We are creating enhanced bacteria. Human guinea pigs are just a means to a greater end.”
His words made my blood run cold. “Human guinea pigs?” I repeated, trying to stay calm. “Are you saying we are using human beings in some experiments?”
“Exactly,” Sato replied, without any hesitation. “These are necessary sacrifices for the good of the Empire. We cannot afford to be weak. Loyalty to the Emperor comes first, Tanaka. There are no alternatives. War cannot be won with kindness. You win with strength."
I was struck by the coldness with which he spoke. I couldn't find the words to reply.
My oath, which I had always held sacred, seemed to vanish in the face of his distorted view of the war. How could I respond to such a belief? How could I defend medicine as a tool for life when he saw it as a means of inflicting death?
I didn't say anything. I remained silent, watching his hands tremble slightly, as if he was trying to convince himself of the rightness of his words.
“Don't you have anything to say?” he asked me, almost amused by my reaction. “Did you expect it to be different? This is the reality of war, Tanaka. There is no room for humanity. Only for the Empire.”
I felt helpless. I had always believed that medicine was a path to salvation, but Sato was showing me a reality I had never wanted to see. The war was not just a conflict between armies; it was a war against humanity itself. And I was just a pawn in this game bigger than me.
“I can't… I can't accept this,” I murmured, looking at the floor. “I can't be part of this.”
Sato laughed, a hollow, joyless sound. “There is no choice, Tanaka. You can't escape. And if you think it's just a matter of principle, you're wrong. Loyalty to the Emperor is our only salvation.”
I didn't answer. I felt overwhelmed. What should I have said? Military justice, the laws of war, everything was suffocating me. There was no room for my humanity in a system that saw people as tools to be used and thrown away.
That night, as I walked back to my room, I thought long and hard. My mind rebelled, but my body seemed unable to react. The war had taken over everything. I had always thought of medicine as an act of compassion, but now I was realizing that I had been just another cog in a machine that knew no mercy.
I realized I had to make a choice. I could no longer blindly follow orders. I could no longer ignore the truth that was before me. The war, with all its falsehoods and cruelties, had changed me. But perhaps, somehow, it was still possible to find a way to oppose, to not be just a pawn. Maybe I should have rebelled. Not for my life, but for my dignity. And for all those who, like me, were trapped in a game they hadn't chosen.
5 September 1945
I dreamed of being in my garden in Tokyo. Chen Wei served tea, Nina translated poetry from Russian, my son played with Chen Wei's daughter. In the dream, there were no uniforms, there were no borders.
My wife and my son were incinerated in the American bombing of Tokio in 1942 and I didnt see them for years even in my dreams.
I woke up crying. War has destroyed everything that makes human life worth living.
6 September 1945
Every day I see prisoners slowly dying, not only from the relentlessly spreading plague, but also from hunger and desperation. Nina has also inevitably contracted the bubonic plague, which is reducing her to a human larva with a very high fever. I've decided I can't stand by and watch anymore.
Tonight, while the other officers slept, I took a ration of food from the mess hall. It was a small amount – a handful of rice, a few pieces of dried fish – but enough to feed at least one prisoner. I took her to the infirmary, where Nina, the young Russian interpreter, still lay feverish. He ate slowly, with tears in his eyes, muttering a "spasibo" that broke my soul.
She wasn't the only one who received my help. I have begun administering doses of streptomycin to Chinese and Soviet prisoners showing the first symptoms of the plague. They are not enough for everyone, but some are starting to recover. Their looks, full of gratitude and surprise, remind me that I am doing the right thing, even if every step brings me closer to the abyss.
8 September 1945
The Russian translator Nina is better: she Is back to work now. I have no illusions that this will go unnoticed: the Japanese command gave the clear order of not using medicines to cure ill Soviet and Chinese prisoners. The guards are becoming more suspicious, and Kampeitai Lieutenant Jinaki has already questioned me about why I spend so much time in the infirmary. I lied, saying I'm trying to contain the infection to protect our soldiers. But I know I can't fool everyone forever.
If they find me, my fate will be sealed. But I don't care. I vowed to save lives, not destroy them. If I have to die for this, so be it.
**Note from the Military Japanese Police officer Jinaki:
Doctor Hiroshi Tanaka was arrested by the Kenpeitai on September 14, 1945 for insubordination, theft of military property, and collaboration with the enemy. This diary was used as decisive evidence against him. After a summary trial, the doctor was executed by firing squad for treason against the Japanese Empire. His memory will not be honored. His corpse has been cremated and dispersed.**
First part about the Japanese doctor Tanaka in Siberia: https://www.reddit.com/r/AlternateHistory/s/cj7d5955tu
Entries from the Diary of Doctor Tanaka
23 August 1945
I sit in the officers' mess, spoon in hands that tremble like leaves in the wind. Major Kimura speaks, his voice like hollow thunder, full of tall tales about "glorious" victories. I'm struck by his laughter, which reverberates like a burst of machine gun fire. His eyes, full of contempt, rest on others, on prisoners, on men who were once men, now reduced to beasts. “We are defeating and massacring Russians like mice in a burning barn,” he laughs, his smile sharp as a knife. "They're not even human," adds Lieutenant Yamamoto, with the ardor of someone wanting to impress.
Their words hurt me more than I could ever say. My hand trembles as I put the spoon down, and a thought torments me: my father, who taught me how to care for the fish in our pond. "Every creature has a soul, Hiroshi," he repeated to me. "The real doctor sees it and respects it." But today, in this hell, who has the courage to see? Who has the courage to respect?
24 August 1945
The camp infirmary is a place of death and despair. The Soviet and Chinese prisoners are shadows, bodies that slowly fade away. Today I visited twenty men. The cold kills them. The plague consumes them. There is no medicine that can stop death.
A young Russian woman, Nina, translates the prisoners' moans. His words are like stones, hard and cold. "He says he can't feel his toes anymore," he murmurs as I examine an elderly man, now reduced to an empty shell.
“Why are you so nice to us?” Nina asks me, her blue eyes filled with a sadness that has no words.
I hesitated before answering. "Because before I'm a soldier, I'm a doctor."
His eyes become moist. "My father was a doctor in Leningrad. He said the same thing."
And in that moment, between the cold and the pain, I understood that war does not separate people. It unites them in pain, in suffering. War destroys, but in some hidden corner, something resists.
25 August 1945
Today I met Chen Wei. A man who, despite the death that surrounds him, has not lost his dignity. While I was dressing his wounds, he noticed the book I left in the hospital for mistake.
"Du Fu?" he asked, with a smile that surprised me.
"Do you read it too?" I replied, incredulous.
“In spring, the river rises with the sky,” he recited in perfect Chinese.
"A thousand miles of human sadness," I completed, in Japanese.
For a moment, war no longer exists. There is no longer a boundary between the winner and the vanquished, between the doctor and the patient. We are just two men sharing a moment of beauty, a fragment of humanity that no battle can ever destroy.
26 August 1945
"You see, Doctor Tanaka," Chen Wei told me today as I changed his bandages, "Du Fu's poetry is about universal suffering. It doesn't matter if you are Chinese, Japanese or Russian – the pain is the same."
His words hit me like lightning. A flash of truth that pierces the darkness that surrounds me. "I have a daughter," he added, as if reading my thoughts. "Her name is Mei. It means 'beautiful' in Chinese. She was three years old when I left."
"How old is he now?" I asked, but I already knew the answer.
"I don't know," he whispered. "I haven't received any letters for two years."
And in that moment, I felt the weight of his loneliness, the weight of all loneliness, of all wars, of all losses.
27 August 1945
I brought Chen Wei some books. Chinese, Japanese poetry. We sat together in the corner of the infirmary, talking softly, as if we were afraid the whole world might hear us.
"Do you know why I'm here, doctor?" he asked me.
"You are a prisoner of war," I replied, but he smiled sadly.
"I'm a university professor. I taught literature in Shanghai. But I believe that every human being deserves dignity and respect. This makes me dangerous."
"Is this what Mao teaches you?"
"Mao is only part of the story," he said, "the ideas of justice and equality are as old as our classics. Don't you read Wang Wei? Under the same sky, we are all wanderers."
And in that moment, I understood that war is never just war. It is the story of every man, every woman, every child who tries to find meaning in a world that seems to have lost it.
28 August 1945
Today I have seen that the body of Chin Wei is marked by violence and torture. Probably the Japanese guards have harshly treated him in the past. But now, the plague is progressively killing him. He has had High Fever. He kept quoting Du Fu between groans of pain. "Why are you smiling?" I asked him, incredulous. "Because I see in your eyes that you are changing, Doctor. And change is the only constant in the universe."
And in that sentence, I felt the weight of my helplessness. I can't change the world, but maybe, just maybe, I can change myself.
1 September 1945
Chen Wei was dead this morning and he was cremated. Before dying, he left me a carefully folded piece of paper.
"It's a poem I wrote for her," he said. "Read it when you're alone."
The poem said:
On this Siberian night Two men from different lands They share ancient words Like bread broken between brothers Your white coat, my friend It is purer than falling snow And in your heart I see it blossom A flower that no winter can kill
Today Colonel Sato summoned me to his office.
"Tanaka, they tell me you spend too much time with the prisoners."
"They are patient, sir."
"They are enemies."
"Medicine knows no enemies, sir."
He looked at me for a long time, as if searching for something in my eyes. "Your father was a respectable doctor. I would hate to have to write to your family..."
His words hit me like a blow to the head, but there is no fear in me anymore.
2 September 1945
The new colleague, Doctor Sato, joined our hospital recently. He had worked in the biological warfare department, a sector that was completely foreign to me. When we talked about bacteria, viruses and biological weapons, I thought about medicine, about caring for people. But Sato seemed to have a different view.
“I don't understand how you can continue to think of medicine as a matter of healing,” he said, as we sat in the small hospital office. “Medicine is a weapon, Tanaka. Our mission is greater than that of healing. We must protect the Empire. We must win this war by any means.”
His words hit me like a punch in the stomach. He looked at me with eyes that seemed to be trying to probe my soul, but I didn't know how to respond. I had always believed in the oath I had taken, the one my father had taught me: “A doctor must be a light in the darkness, not an agent of destruction.”
“You don't understand, do you?” Sato continued, smiling with an air of superiority. “War is not just fought with conventional weapons. The Empire needs weapons that can destroy the enemy without firing a single shot. And bacteriological warfare is the weapon of the future. We are creating enhanced bacteria. Human guinea pigs are just a means to a greater end.”
His words made my blood run cold. “Human guinea pigs?” I repeated, trying to stay calm. “Are you saying we are using human beings in some experiments?”
“Exactly,” Sato replied, without any hesitation. “These are necessary sacrifices for the good of the Empire. We cannot afford to be weak. Loyalty to the Emperor comes first, Tanaka. There are no alternatives. War cannot be won with kindness. You win with strength."
I was struck by the coldness with which he spoke. I couldn't find the words to reply.
My oath, which I had always held sacred, seemed to vanish in the face of his distorted view of the war. How could I respond to such a belief? How could I defend medicine as a tool for life when he saw it as a means of inflicting death?
I didn't say anything. I remained silent, watching his hands tremble slightly, as if he was trying to convince himself of the rightness of his words.
“Don't you have anything to say?” he asked me, almost amused by my reaction. “Did you expect it to be different? This is the reality of war, Tanaka. There is no room for humanity. Only for the Empire.”
I felt helpless. I had always believed that medicine was a path to salvation, but Sato was showing me a reality I had never wanted to see. The war was not just a conflict between armies; it was a war against humanity itself. And I was just a pawn in this game bigger than me.
“I can't… I can't accept this,” I murmured, looking at the floor. “I can't be part of this.”
Sato laughed, a hollow, joyless sound. “There is no choice, Tanaka. You can't escape. And if you think it's just a matter of principle, you're wrong. Loyalty to the Emperor is our only salvation.”
I didn't answer. I felt overwhelmed. What should I have said? Military justice, the laws of war, everything was suffocating me. There was no room for my humanity in a system that saw people as tools to be used and thrown away.
That night, as I walked back to my room, I thought long and hard. My mind rebelled, but my body seemed unable to react. The war had taken over everything. I had always thought of medicine as an act of compassion, but now I was realizing that I had been just another cog in a machine that knew no mercy.
I realized I had to make a choice. I could no longer blindly follow orders. I could no longer ignore the truth that was before me. The war, with all its falsehoods and cruelties, had changed me. But perhaps, somehow, it was still possible to find a way to oppose, to not be just a pawn. Maybe I should have rebelled. Not for my life, but for my dignity. And for all those who, like me, were trapped in a game they hadn't chosen.
5 September 1945
I dreamed of being in my garden in Tokyo. Chen Wei served tea, Nina translated poetry from Russian, my son played with Chen Wei's daughter. In the dream, there were no uniforms, there were no borders.
My wife and my son were incinerated in the American bombing of Tokio in 1942 and I didnt see them for years even in my dreams.
I woke up crying. War has destroyed everything that makes human life worth living.
6 September 1945
Every day I see prisoners slowly dying, not only from the relentlessly spreading plague, but also from hunger and desperation. Nina has also inevitably contracted the bubonic plague, which is reducing her to a human larva with a very high fever. I've decided I can't stand by and watch anymore.
Tonight, while the other officers slept, I took a ration of food from the mess hall. It was a small amount – a handful of rice, a few pieces of dried fish – but enough to feed at least one prisoner. I took her to the infirmary, where Nina, the young Russian interpreter, still lay feverish. He ate slowly, with tears in his eyes, muttering a "spasibo" that broke my soul.
She wasn't the only one who received my help. I have begun administering doses of streptomycin to Chinese and Soviet prisoners showing the first symptoms of the plague. They are not enough for everyone, but some are starting to recover. Their looks, full of gratitude and surprise, remind me that I am doing the right thing, even if every step brings me closer to the abyss.
8 September 1945
The Russian translator Nina is better: she Is back to work now. I have no illusions that this will go unnoticed: the Japanese command gave the clear order of not using medicines to cure ill Soviet and Chinese prisoners. The guards are becoming more suspicious, and Kampeitai Lieutenant Jinaki has already questioned me about why I spend so much time in the infirmary. I lied, saying I'm trying to contain the infection to protect our soldiers. But I know I can't fool everyone forever.
If they find me, my fate will be sealed. But I don't care. I vowed to save lives, not destroy them. If I have to die for this, so be it.
**Note from the Military Japanese Police officer Jinaki:
Doctor Hiroshi Tanaka was arrested by the Kenpeitai on September 14, 1945 for insubordination, theft of military property, and collaboration with the enemy. This diary was used as decisive evidence against him. After a summary trial, the doctor was executed by firing squad for treason against the Japanese Empire. His memory will not be honored. His corpse has been cremated and dispersed.**