IT had been all too common a sight, through the long years of the Second World War, the solitary policeman with a buff telegram in his hand, clearly marked On His Majesty's Service that was the sad intimation that yet another life had been lost, to add to the countless thousands of lives lost, as we struggle to comprehend that verse from John 15 "greater love have no man than this, that he lays down his life for his friends".

But this was incomprehensible to my aunt and not only to her but to Flight Sergeant Donald Bowden's wider family - for this was towards the end of September 1945 and peace had been settled between Japan and the British on VJ Day, on September 1, 1945.

Killed in action on September 2, my schoolboy heart could scarcely take it in that my super-hero, cousin Donald, had volunteered, on his last flight, to replace a poorly bomb aimer in a Royal Canadian Air Force Lancaster bomber.

Low flying over a concentration camp in Indonesia, heaving tons of food out of the bomb doors to hundreds of mainly British but also Dutch prisoners of war was not a skill which a 20-year-old Flying Officer at the controls had been taught. He had been trained to bomb German cities from 20,000 feet up and his all Canadian crew, none yet 21,were as equally confused as they stared down at the skeletal forms waving their tattered bits of uniform as the prisoners saw, with their own eyes, that war was over.

My family always believed that the Japanese had treacherously brought this Lancaster down even after peace had been declared; they never bought Japanese goods after the war. Completing my own RAF National Service, it became clear that Donald's death, and those of his fellow crew members, was due to the fact the heavily-laden Lancaster stalled approaching Palembang on its mercy mission.

The loss of this young life was keenly felt by his family down the years, accompanied by some dark mutterings about the people of Japan and gratitude to the Indonesians who had gathered the broken bodies so they could lie peacefully in a joint grave, side by side, in a Commonwealth War Graves Commission in distant Jakarta.

But then, for my wife, and I, a somewhat unusual occurrence as we were asked to act as the guardians for not one Japanese girl at Harrogate Ladies' College but for her younger sister as well. A whole decade of our lives was given over to these two schoolgirls who stayed in Long Preston and became part of our family at half-term and weekend breaks, The two eventually graduated at Cambridge, Durham, Tokyo and King's London before returning home to take up teaching in one instance and as a civil servant in the Ministry of Justice, in the other.

Yet we had not travelled to Japan and I was always anxious to get to know their country and their heritage. An exciting opportunity arose three weeks ago when Inside Japan Ltd, of Bristol, were able to mastermind a well-crafted programme for 26 historians to travel the length and breadth of Japan.

Time does not allow one to dwell on the excitements of Japan Railways speeding us 600 miles in three-and-a half hours or the geisha girl who danced to perfection and then spoke fluently, in English, to my group. The food was exotic and demanding; tourist sights were eschewed in favour of local transport to local sights, and that ultimate experience of life at a ryokan is unlikely to be forgotten.

The crowds in the museums were stupendous, with gaggles of quite young children, carefully escorted, and learning about their country's history from an early age (not seen in our museums). The outstanding memory of many museums and homes was, for me, the quietness and meditative approach to life, the care for others, the respect for generations gone and yet to be, based on the venerable theology of the Buddhist faith.

But what of the mighty challenge of visiting Nagasaki and Hiroshima, names indelibly linked to weapons of mass destruction, where it is well-nigh impossible to shrug off the challenge of nuclear weapons at a time when English-language newspapers ran headlines, speculating on the future of the British Trident option/deterrent. With Remembrance last week, you can hardly skate over the terrible events of that late summer of 1945 and - even if you could - political issues over the retention or use of such weaponry is again headline news.

So what of the two cities where the results of the Manhattan project finally, and expensively, erupted in that mushroom-shaped explosion which, forever, changed the history of warfare. Frankly I find it almost impossible to express my own emotions, as I stared - unbelievingly - at the facts and figures which, I suppose, I have always known but never been able to identify with living people, or equate with a Japan which the UK/USA had already determined would be unconditionally brought to its knees.

In a chilling reminder of my own dead cousin, here was Bomb Aimer Kermit Beahon who had been initially unable to locate Kokura (the initial target) and, on instruction, turned the curiously-named aircraft USAAF Bockscar towards Nagasaki, the secondary target. Here, in the exhibition halls, was Fat Man, the lethal weapon, which was to see the heat of the explosion over the city rise to 4,000 degrees centigrade, with more than 39,000 men, women and children instantly vaporised. Here were the terrible medical effects which lasted for years on every type of person and the harrowing story of the 12-year-old girl torn apart by galloping cancer - years after this event.

On a bright summer's day, there was the laughter of the young people, who had come to this Peace Park. My eyes were moist, my spirit stilled. Yet, movingly, the Peace Statue is symbolic of that day: its raised right hand pointing skywards to symbolise the threat of nuclear weapons, his flat outstretched left hand symbolising eternal peace, the statue's eyes firmly closed in prayer that the souls of the victims may find rest. It was almost too much to even try to comprehend.

Hiroshima was worst than even Nagasaki. I found its mile-long corridor of fearful artefacts too much, its one ruined, remaining building the centrepoint of all my grief and sorrow, meeted out to this beautiful country and loving people.

But the next few days were to put into perspective that which I had feared, that, by and large, much of the historical background to these fearful cities has been airbrushed out of Japan's consciousness as a nation. It was a fearful shock to realise that Tokyo's War Museums always hark to having most aggression thrust upon them, with never much mention of they themselves being the aggressors. It was a sobering experience but one worth knowing and experiencing; indeed to visit again.