“A toll then!” someone shouted, and an instant later a loud scream caused Cecil to turn. The Japanese soldier had stepped around the edge of the group and even now was dragging off one of the schoolgirls Cecil had just rescued. His comrades closed in, laughing.
“Merciful God,” Cecil whispered, as he started to turn to try and intervene.
“Mr. Stanford!”
He looked to the barrier rope. It was the German, John Abe, Nazi armband prominently displayed on his right arm.
“For God’s sake, man!” Abe shouted in English, “run for it now! Or you’ll lose them all!”
Torn, horrified, Cecil looked back at the schoolgirl being dragged away. One of the other girls was starting to break from the group, to try and help, others grabbing her, holding her back.
“Save my sister!” the girl being dragged away screamed, even as the Japanese soldiers circled around her and pulled her back into the alleyway like spiders engulfing their prey.
From farther up the street Cecil could see more soldiers approaching, pointing in his direction.
It was a moment of horror he had never dreamed he would ever face, a slowing of time, the look of resignation and despair on the one girl’s face, the screams of her younger sister, the screams of the two toddlers in his arms, the weight of an old woman, near collapse, clinging to his belt.
He had to make his choice.
“Run!” he screamed.
The small pitiful circle about him staggered forward, several of the Japanese soldiers from farther up the street laughing, moving to block them off; but Cecil and his group were ahead, John Rabe holding up the rope, the group collapsing underneath it. John stopped at the edge of the rope, looking up at the tattered Union Jack.
“Get in!” Rabe shouted, and reaching over he pulled Cecil over the rope to safety.
The Japanese in pursuit slowed, one of them making a show of saluting the German flag but then spitting on the ground in front of Cecil, who stood just a few feet away.
Cecil fixed him with an icy gaze.
“By God, someday all of you will pay for this, you bastard,” Cecil snapped.
The Japanese soldier, having just endured the worst of insults, an attack on his lineage, the honor of his mother and his father, leveled his rifle and worked the bolt.
Rabe stepped between them and pushed Cecil back into the swarming crowd. And at that moment, all Cecil’s self-control began to crack and break apart.
He had loved these people, he had taught their sons for eight years and seen in so many of them the son that God had taken away from him in one tragic instant. Boys who he would always call “his boys,” who were now in the navy of this country. He did not want to believe that “his boys,” of what he almost considered to be his adopted navy, would ever have allowed this, tolerated this.
Rabe grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him farther back into the crowd.
“Why did you step over the barrier line?” he shouted, trying to be heard above the bedlam, the terrified screaming and sobbing of those around him, the rattle of gunfire, the crackling roar of the fire spreading across the city.
Cecil couldn’t speak, the two toddlers still clinging to his arms.
Rabe looked around, shouted something in German, and a woman, Chinese, came up in a soiled, blood-soaked nurse’s uniform and pried the screaming children out of his arms. She looked at Cecil.
“Namen?”
He looked at her and could only shake his head.
She nodded, her features implacable, the tragedy of two orphans, now nameless, but another fragment of anguish blowing in a maelstrom of agony.
He watched as they disappeared, and his control began to break. The memory of the nun, the girl being dragged off… he bent his head, shaking. “Goddamn all this!” he cried, “Goddamn all of them.” He began to sob, unbelieving that soldiers of Japan could actually have sunk to this level of brutality, of sheer raw bestiality.
He felt strong hands on his shoulders and he looked up. It was Rabe, who then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a flask, uncorking it.
“American whiskey,” he said, trying to smile.
Cecil nodded. Hands trembling, he took the flask and drained nearly half of it in two strong gulps, the drink hitting him hard; within seconds he felt as if he were about to collapse.
“You are a madman for stepping out there,” Rabe said in English. “I thought you were dead. You English!” And he smiled.
Cecil nodded, handing the flask back, and Rabe drained the rest, the two gazing at each other, holding an island of refugees in the middle of Nanking, where three hundred thousand were being slaughtered; hundreds of thousands more terrorized, tortured, raped by an army that had gone out of control in a frenzy of drunken killing, pillage, and hatred; an army that claimed to have come as liberators, the bringers of justice, of a new order.
Cecil looked into RRabe’s eyes and could see the man’s anguish. They had known each other casually, crossing paths several times since his own arrival here in China back in the spring.
He suddenly felt weak-kneed, about to collapse, and Rabe braced him up.
“Go back to my quarters, take my bed,” Rabe said. “You’ve done enough saving for one day; try and get some sleep and something to eat.”
Cecil grabbed hold of Rabe by his forearms and again noticed the swastika armband, which Cecil knew his friend now wore in order to intimidate the Japanese and to save the lives of what would ultimately be a quarter of a million Chinese. He sighed. “I wish the world was different, my friend,” Cecil whispered.
Shanghai
17 December 1937
Through the haze of fever he knew they were working on his hand, something about how they could not give him a general anesthetic and just knock him out. The water he had taken in had helped trigger a dose of pneumonia, compounded by the raging infection from his wound.
He felt something; the local they had shot him up with helped somewhat, but still he could feel it and winced.
“A few more minutes, sir, just a few more.” He looked up. A naval corps man was leaning over his side, hands resting gently on his shoulders, ready if need be to restrain him. More pain, worse now. The sound, he didn’t like it, like a wire clipper snapping something. He felt another wave of pain, dulled but still there.
Muttered conversation, the doctor, a naval surgeon from the cruiser now anchored in Shanghai harbor. The bright light of the surgical light overhead forced James to close his eyes.
Fevered thoughts, memories, lying in the feces and mud of the river bank, the artillery shelling that raked the area, a ship, British, pulling in close to retrieve the survivors, returning fire. At first he had tried to fool himself. The wound hurt like hell, but surely they’d fix it up, some stitches. The thoughts of that turning into a haze when, by the following morning, he started to run a fever, lungs beginning to fill up, too painful even to breathe. The British corps man on board redressing the wound, whispered conversation with someone helping him about the filth of the water, infection.
Another snipping sound.
“What the hell are you doing?” James gasped, voice slurred from the morphine they had given him.
“Almost done, sir,” the corps man said, a huge, bluff-looking fellow, but gentle with a soft Southern drawl.
A sound of instruments rattling, steel being dropped on steel, a sigh.
“Stitch it up. I’ve got to get to the next case,” he heard someone say, and then another face, removing a surgical mask, the doctor he thought.
“Can you hear me, Commander?”
James nodded.
“We have this fever under control; you’ll pull through okay.”
He caught an exchange of glances between the doctor and the corps man. Even in the haze, he knew that look. How many times over Davy’s bedside had he seen those glances, Davy learning to read it as well, the reassurances, even as the leukemia destroyed him?
“Straight,” James whispered.
>
“What?”
“Straight answer, no bull, straight answer,” was all he could say.
The doctor nodded. “You’re one hell of a sick man, Commander. You swallowed half that damn river and have pneumonia, but I think you’ll pull through.”
“Know that. My hand?”
The doctor hesitated for a second. “Gangrene was setting in with all that filth. It was take the hand, sir, or you’d die. It was pretty well shattered anyhow. I’m sorry, sir.”
James nodded, not saying anything, drifting.
“You’re going home, Commander. I’m giving it to you straight like you want. Retirement, sir, but a Purple Heart; they’ll promote you. Where you from?”
“Hawaii.”
The doctor patted him lightly on the shoulder. “You’ve got your life ahead of you, sir.”
“Next one’s prepped.”
The doctor looked up, nodded. “Coming.”
“Goddamn slants, those Japs,” the doctor said.
James looked up at him, not saying anything. My wife is half-Japanese, he wanted to reply, but then remembered the red “meatballs,” as the men had taken to calling the rising sun painted on the wings of their planes.
“Bastards,” was all he could whisper as the morphine caused him to drift off. The doctor turned to his next patient, a chief petty officer, an eye gone, the infected wound–nearly all of them infected due to the river water–still under a rough bandage, the man sitting up, waiting stoically for what was to come.
American Embassy, Tokyo
Christmas Eve 1937
“Please admit him,” Ambassador Joseph Grew said to the staffer at the door to his office.
Grew debated for a moment whether he should remain behind his desk but elected to stand. He knew the intent of the message that was about to be delivered; a slight gesture of standing rather than remaining seated was in order.
If ever there was a man who looked to be the stereotype of a senior American diplomat, it was Joseph Grew. Born of a patrician Boston family, tall, gray-haired, sharp-angled distinguished features, he had been a schoolmate of the president at both Groton and Harvard, though his rise to his current posting as Ambassador to Japan had nothing to do with his lifelong friendship with the president.
After graduating from Harvard he had traveled the Far East, a grand tour for a member of the elite pre–World War I social set before settling and then authoring the obligatory book, Sport and Travel in the Far East, which had been moderately successful and was a favorite of yet another traveler and hunter, Teddy Roosevelt, who had sent him a fan letter. Joining the diplomatic service, he had served in Denmark, Switzerland, and Turkey until finally achieving a long-sought-after posting, as Ambassador to the Court of the Emperor of Japan, assigned by another presidential friend, Herbert Hoover. It was an assignment he felt was the capstone of his career. He and his wife loved the country, admired the people, their industrious nature, which in some ways was so American, and the beauty of the country. Having first traveled there nearly thirty years earlier, he was awed by the Westernizing transformation that had taken place in little more than a generation… railroads, factories, shipyards, even an increasing number of privately owned automobiles of Japanese make. Close friendships had been formed on that first trip and more now across his last five years of service. He was well liked by those both Oriental and Occidental, who interacted with him. Invitations to his parties and receptions, official and unofficial, were highly sought after. One night his parties might feature the performance of a famed No play, the next one, a showing of the latest Hollywood musical in the embassy’s highly prized and envied theater room, which even had a modern 35-millimeter projector.
Above all else, he had a deep empathy for the Japanese, a genuine attachment that was obvious, and a profound desire to smooth over troubled times and eventually cement a lasting friendship.
In spite of the aggression of the Japanese army, acting on its own authority to seize Manchuria in 1931, he at first tried to rationalize it as a rogue group of the military exceeding authority, and what had happened was now an accomplished fact that it was futile to attempt to change.
Though he would never voice it publicly, he felt analogies could be drawn to Andrew Jackson as a rogue military leader, all but stealing Florida, and later, in a base, cruel act, taking the land of the Indians in the Old South. Beyond that there were so many other such actions during the Mexican War. Beyond those issues, he did see a Japanese presence in Manchuria as preferable to that of Stalin and his henchmen. The Japan he had returned to in 1932 was bursting at the seams, but at a hard price, for the island was a net importer of nearly every essential item required for industrialization, and for just simple survival as well. Like England it could no longer feed itself without massive imports. Manchuria, it was claimed as justification, was a depopulated land cruelly ruled by a tin-pot Chinese warlord. Japanese officials, many of whom had traveled in America, tried to draw the analogy to the American West of sixty years past. Manchuria would be a place for settlers to pour into, for resources to be exploited, the land to be civilized and made prosperous.
Grew hoped this would be the limits of the desires of the Japanese military, and for five years those he worked with claimed that Manchuria was indeed the end of their “need for growth.”
That was now unraveling. First the absurd but dangerous attempted army coup of the previous year, which did have the effect of shaking up the government, bringing in officials who were increasingly “hard line” about the “destined role” of Japan, including the current foreign minister, Koki Hirota, who for a brief period after the army coup had been prime minister with the army’s approval.
In the year after the coup, the army had begun shifting an increasing number of troops to Manchuria, Manchukuo as they now called it, claiming a need for security both against Chinese banditry and Soviet threats.
The tension had finally exploded early in July in Peking at the ancient, famed Marco Polo Bridge, so named because the Italian traveler had described its splendors in his writings. A Japanese garrison was camped at one end of the bridge, Chinese Nationalist troops at the other. The garrison was not unlike the small outposts of the U.S. Marines, British troops and Royal Marines, other European forces stationed in key locations around China, supposedly there to react, if needed to protect the property and lives of their own nationals while the civil war between the Communists and Nationalists raged.
In all cases it was, of course, a cover, a showing of the flag and its always potential trigger points.
Apparently the trigger was all a mistake. A Japanese soldier turned up missing at roll call one morning and then during the night a shot was fired across the river. No one was sure who fired it: many felt it was some fool tossing fireworks. Regardless, it escalated. The commanders of the two sides met the following day, the “lost” Japanese soldier was found drunk on the wrong side of the river, salutes were exchanged between the two commanders; but then, within hours, rumors exploded of provocations, insults shouted, discipline broke, and a full-scale battle exploded.
Such actions, real, planned, or conspired in by some officers in the field, trigger wars. No one would ever know who fired the first shot at Lexington Green; most likely it was a mistake, but nevertheless it had sundered an empire and created a new nation.
And regardless of its original intent at the Marco Polo Bridge, the Japanese army reacted with such stunning speed that it was possible to believe the provocation had been deliberate, though Grew had reliable reports that the first incident was indeed an accident that higher-ups decided to exploit the following day. Accident or not, it now threatened to destabilize the entire Pacific region.
The war triggered by the stupid misunderstanding at the Marco Polo Bridge had, within days, escalated into a campaign that was stunning in speed and scope. Peking fell within the month, and from that vantage point, Japanese armored columns poured down into the central plains. Seaborne assaults seized Shanghai
and were now pushing inland, Nanking having just fallen. Reports of the brutalities committed were now leaking out of both cities. One of those reports sat on his desk; it had left him sickened.
His own position in all this had been made more difficult by his president, though of course he would never admit this in public.
In a speech on October 5, in Chicago, the president had bitterly denounced the rise of aggressive acts around the world and had all but directly linked Japan to Germany and the other Fascist states and then spoken of a “quarantine” of such nations. It was tantamount to a threat of an economic blockade.
All of this was made even more complex by the Japanese-German Anti-Comintern Pact signed the month before. On the surface it was supposedly an agreement to contain Soviet aggression, but nevertheless, to the world it appeared a linkage between Japan in the East and the ever more aggressive Hitler in the West.
But that was not the reason for the visitor who was now being announced at the doorway to Ambassador Grew’s office. Bad enough as the initial crisis was, what happened on December 12 on the Yangtze River had been infinitely worse as far as America was concerned. The two nations were tottering on the brink of war.
“Mr. Ambassador.” He looked up, his thoughts interrupted, and he braced his shoulders back, checking to make sure his suit coat was buttoned. His aide standing in the open doorway stepped politely aside. “Foreign Minister Koki Hirota.”
The Japanese foreign minister came through the doorway, dressed in the formal morning coat that the Japanese felt was the proper uniform for an official meeting between government representatives. There was nothing truly distinctive about Hi-rota; of medium height for his race, on the surface he could be mistaken for some middle-level businessman or official, but his gaze was icy, hard, and he was noted for sharp anti-Western commentary when aroused.
He was followed by a young interpreter, and at the sight of him Grew gave a subtle nod to his aide to remain and act as interpreter as well. Though his command of Japanese was fairly good and though he knew Hirota spoke English, at such a delicate moment, it was best to have experts on hand to ensure that not even the slightest inference or subtlety of language be mistaken or misinterpreted.
Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th Page 11