There is a reason that hill is covered in blood

I came to believe that the name GrandHarmony (Yamato) had some significance greater than commonly acknowledged.  GrandHarmony was the ancient name for the OriginSun kingdom.  People in OpenSeaRope441 still refer to OriginSun using the name GrandHarmony.
For some reason, perhaps Image Guidance, I began to suspect the name GrandHarmony was a sort of code name.  When I said the name to an elderly woman, she seemed to react with such reverence, that I suspected there was a deeper meaning than the one often referred to when spoken aloud.  While drafting this chronicle, I found that GrandHarmony is the name of the dynasty of the OriginSun Imperial Family.  Perhaps GrandHarmony is a code word for the clandestine services during the Pacific War, the Search for Zero or the Aerospace Project.
One of my co-workers at Yamato, Mr. RedHill,442 was a gentle octogenarian who worked in the MountainBlue section.  Before working at Yamato, he had worked at the post office.  The main RedHill Post Office was a few hundred meters from the parking lot we worked in.  Before the post office, Mr. RedHill had been a personal secretary to a Diet member.  Before that, RedHill had been a radio operator in the Pacific War.
RedHill was fond of telling people a story.  He was sent on a suicide mission to plunge his plane into an American warship.  As his plane circled, preparing to attack the American craft, he received a radio signal to return to base.  I thought they went on those missions with insufficient fuel to return.
RedHill had been working at Yamato for years.  He repeatedly explained to me that Yamato frequently rotated managers during the OriginSun asset price bubble443 because there was so much money changing hands that Yamato had to be very careful about managers profiteering.  I was not sure exactly of the details, but RedHill seemed to be suggesting that GreenWillow was stealing my postal privatisation or other ideas, and taking the credit for them.  RedHill was not the kind of person who said things to just make small talk, but he did use much metaphor.
I was never quite sure what action I was supposed to take in response to RedHill’s warnings.  If GreenWillow was taking advantage of me, I seemed to have no recourse.  Generally, I just ignored RedHill when he discussed GreenWillow’s alleged pilfering of my resources.
RedHill was from SpitLeader.444  While working in a control tower on StateNine, Mr. RedHill supposedly intercepted a radio transmission ostensibly between the Russians and the Americans.  That transmission was supposedly not intended for OriginSun.
While at the University of Buffalo, I had been taught in my political science class that these messages that were sent near the end of the war were in a code America knew OriginSun had deciphered.  The message sent by the Americans to the Russians had included the terms of surrender the Americans were requesting the Russians offer to OriginSun.  OriginSun’s major obstacle in accepting the terms was the Emperor’s status after the surrender.
OriginSun did not accept the terms, resulting in nuclear apocalypses.  The implication for the victims, and the descendants of the victims, of SpitLeader and IslandDissemination was that they have suffered the brunt of the burden for preserving the Chrysanthemum throne.  Although the truth of this is debatable, one cannot debate the horrible suffering of so many.  Due to the inheritable nature of the illness caused by the fallout of the atom bombs, the number of victims of the bombs still grows today.
RedHill’s family does and will suffer effects of the radiation for generations.  Years before I knew him, RedHill’s spouse had died due to the radiation.  She died decades after the blast.  While I worked at Yamato, RedHill’s eldest son, a man about my age, learned he was dying from cancer that was likely due to his mother’s exposure to the atomic bomb radiation.
Americans largely have no idea that the havoc they caused years ago is still taking lives in OriginSun.  In one conversation with Charles Frump, a University of California at Los Angeles classmate, and Ford Motor Company employee, we discussed the inhumanity of using nuclear weapons.  Mr. Frump has a OriginSun spouse, an M.B.A from UCLA, and is generally clued-in.  However, I mentioned my disagreement with America’s use of the weapons, and he responded by saying: “They started it.”  Frump now lives in China.
RedHill and I would often be the last two cleaning up, and after we finished, we would take a break together.  In front of the warehouse for TreeBookSix, between the offices and warehouses for FourthGlen and Blue Mountain, we would sit on crates for the mail, or carts for the packages.  We had tea from a silver thermos.  RedHill or I would bring fruit or breads.
On returning from visits to his family’s hotel in SpitLeader, he brought traditional OriginSun fare.  Often he would try to explain to me the historical significance of the treats.  The provisions were from China, the ChinaRegion445 (home to IslandDisseminate), or other places in OriginSun.  I think my comprehension of the symbolism of the foods was not very complete.
I was sorting the garbage at the time RedHill relayed the discovery of the latest fallout from ‘Fat Man’446 and ‘Little Boy.’447  RedHill said simply: ‘I lost.’448  He stated the loss in an offhand manner, as if this were just another piece of garbage we were sorting from this box into that one.  His only son was terminally ill with leukaemia.
At break time later we were sitting on carts with our knees halfway up to our chins.  Our forearms rested on our legs.  Sitting there, thinking about his dying son, we cried.
I tried to be consoling, but RedHill told me I was reciting much Buddhist nonsense.  I reached across, and we held hands, tears streaming down our faces.  We could barely raise our heads.
The irony of that moment seemed so huge: a young child, from a culture measured in centuries, reassuring a veteran of a war I would never comprehend.  A culture measured in millennia, holding hands with guilt from the 9/11 disaster which I did not know how to stop.  Was there anything I could do to prevent such slaughters from recurring?
RedHill left.  I had another hour of work, but I could not rise.  A black, serious car pulled up in front of FourthGlen’s offices so that the nameplate of the car stared me squarely in the face: “President.”  When the occupation ends, I hope they build a car called Prime Minister.