Nose pitched up, speed dropping, strange for a second--he thought with nose up they should climb but then realized it was actually the throttle that controlled climbing and dropping; by pitching the nose up with the throttle nearly closed, Fuchida was bleeding off speed and the plane was dropping.
The ground came racing up, he braced nervously, and then ever so gently there was a slight lurch, and they were down, rolling straight down the center line of the landing strip, slowing more, then taxiing over to a hangar, and then silence as the engine shut down.
Fuchida, already unstrapped, stood up, then turned to look at James, flight helmet pushed back, goggles off, grinning.
“What do you think?” he asked, and again there was that boyish enthusiasm.
James unsnapped his harness, taking off goggles and helmet, and, a bit shaky, stood up. Fuchida was now out on the wing, extending a hand to help him out, for which James was grateful; his back was more than a little stiff. He backed down along the wing and alighted on the ground, knees feeling a bit weak.
Several enlisted men were by the plane, and Fuchida ordered them to refuel and for someone to find a staff car to take their guest back to his ship.
“You didn’t answer me,” Fuchida said, putting his hand on James’s shoulder.
“The flight, it was beautiful,” he said, hesitating a bit.
“Your stomach feels fine now?”
“Yes.”
“You seem troubled, my friend.”
James nodded, unable to hide what he was thinking, that moment when the joy of flying had changed to something else, the realization of the game they were playing at and all the frightful implications of this machine of canvas, wood, and gasping engine.
“I see your point now,” James said quietly.
Fuchida nodded, understanding, and he seemed troubled as well.
“You showed me something I never really understood until I was out there with you.”
“And your report to your admirals?” Fuchida asked. James hesitated.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken you on this flight. Maybe I’ve made you a convert.”
James nodded.
“I honestly hope we will not be enemies some day, Commander Watson,” and he spoke formally now, using James’s official title as if speaking to a superior.
“What could be gained by either side?” James replied.
“But we are professionals and must answer to our orders when given.”
“A war between us?” James replied. “Hard to imagine.”
“Yes. I hope you convey that in your report as well. Do not underestimate us; that is always a fatal mistake for any country to do. Do not misread us.”
“Nor should you underestimate us,” James replied forcefully.
Fuchida did not say anything for a moment, then nodded in reply.
“I will remember that as well.”
A small car, an American Ford, came onto the field and rolled to a stop by the plane, the driver getting out. One of the ground crew had already fetched James’s overnight bag from the small cargo hold while another helped him out of his leather flight jacket, James a bit embarrassed that it was stained with the remnants of his breakfast.
He started to hand over his goggles and helmet.
Fuchida smiled and shook his head.
“Keep them as a souvenir of the flight.”
James grinned and nodded his thanks.
He truly liked this man, in fact something had happened in the plane and the night before. Drink with a potential enemy and you might find common ground, and that he had done last night. Flying had done the rest. This man loved his work, not just as a warrior, but he could sense the joy Fuchida felt as well, and he had shared that as they had soared over cherry and peach orchards in bloom. They had shared the joy of the moment and in that found yet more common ground. The diving attack on the Oklahoma had changed things back.
James looked at him and felt he had to be honest with this man.
Fuchida formally saluted him and James returned the salute, then they shook hands.
“I’ll pray you never have to do for real what we did out in the harbor, my friend,” was all he could say and then he got into the car and went back to his ship, there to write a report of all that he had observed, a report he knew would just be simply filed away and forgotten as he slipped into retirement and was forgotten as well.
TWO
Chartwell, England 4 March 1936
“Cecil, Glad you could come!”
Cecil Stanford approached Winston Churchill, hand extended, the two shaking warmly, Winston patting him on the shoulder and directing him over to sit by the fire in his study. It was a typical English late-winter day outside, dark, blustery, chilled rain coming down. Shed of his umbrella, hat, and overcoat at the entry, Cecil was glad to settle down into the heavy red leather chair, Winston personally pouring a good two fingers of scotch into an ornate cut glass tumbler for his guest and nearly twice as much for himself. He motioned to the half-open ice bucket, and Cecil shook his head.
“Good man, can’t see why anyone would water down a proper single malt.”
The room was typical “Winston,” overstuffed leather chairs, all four walls lined with bookshelves, in some places the books neatly arranged, the proper leather-bound editions any gentleman might have up for display, in other places books stacked up sideways, slips of notepaper sticking out from between pages, half a dozen volumes piled up on the floor near his chair.
The small table between them held all the “essentials”: a heavy cut-class decanter, the leather-clad bucket of ice, a humidor for the cigars, and two ashtrays, both of them overflowing. Over the fireplace was a typical painting of battle, something from his illustrious ancestor’s time, the Duke of Marlborough, lines of cavalry charging forward against the French. The air was rich with the scent of cigar smoke, well-seasoned oak from the fireplace, and that slightly old and musty smell that all such homes of the landed English gentry always seemed to have ... in short the remembered scent of home. He had just returned the week before, after eight years in Japan, and it was a blessing.
Of course he had loved his posting to Etajima, at least up until the final semester. His young charges, almost to a man, had proven to be a delight to work with. Once he got past their rigid external barriers, so many had opened up. His “tradition” of a Sunday afternoon English tea, his English club he had called it, was often met with an overflow crowd, the boys laughing as they forced themselves to speak only in English, peppering him with questions about everything from cricket, to the king, to Shakespeare. His advanced students would try to tackle Macbeth, and it seemed to resonate with them, they exclaiming that it was like many of their own tales.
A bit of a chilling thought for him was whenever he compared their eagerness, dedication, and toughness to his old school chums back home, or the current crop of ensigns being turned out by England and America; it was a frightful comparison.
Among many of his peers, Japanese professors of other subjects, friendships had developed as well. He had been invited, during summer breaks, to all parts of the islands, had climbed Fuji, an experience that he thought would kill him, and even enjoyed a two-week cruise aboard their battleship Hiei, amazed with how “English” it felt, except for the cuisine, typically rice balls, and some kind of fish which he often suspected was not cooked, or barely cooked at all. Though as a joke, on the final night aboard, the officer’s mess had presented him with a proper serving of fish and chips, complete to it being wrapped up in a copy of the London Times.
The friendship was warm, courteous; he would often be invited for evening tea to watch a sunset or moonrise. There had even been polite and very circumspect hints on several occasions regarding his bachelorhood, but mention of Allison, who had died along with the twins in an auto accident right after the end of the war, had stilled those inquiries.
It had been a warm, pleasant assignment, teaching English at Etajima, but of course it had
to come to an end, and in the last year, he could sense things changing. His students were, as always, polite to a fault, but the number attending the teas dropped off, and at one uncomfortable session the tradition of not discussing politics had broken down, a firebrand student asking for justifications for European colonialism and why Japan was not viewed as an equal partner in the global community. The others had sat silent, heads slightly bowed, and yet he could sense that what was being revealed was what was being discussed openly when he was not present.
He noticed a certain distancing when in the faculty mess, a few times even an embarrassed silence when he walked in, a sense that conversations were suddenly changed. And thus it was no surprise when, in the middle of the autumn semester, he was informed that his wonderful services were no longer required, regretfully due to budget concerns. No surprise either that a Japanese instructor would take his place.
Though he missed Japan, especially upon returning to London on a raw winter day, not really sure of what his “prospects” for the future held, still it was good to be home again.
They chatted politely for several minutes, catching up on life. Long ago, before going to “Room Forty,” a secret naval decoding center, Cecil had first come to Winston’s notice as a young adjutant, enlisted then commissioned right after graduation from Cambridge with a degree in Oriental studies, serving in the Admiralty. Upon discovery that he had attended Harrow, the boarding school that had changed Winston’s life, a bond formed, since Cecil, though twenty years younger, had studied under many of the same teachers who had guided Winston.
When things started to go wrong in Gallipoli, meaning on the very first day, Winston had dispatched him there as a personal observer of the fiasco that eventually caused his fall from the Admiralty.
Cecil had stayed on in the Med, posted as a liaison to the Japanese naval squadron in the Mediterranean, before transferring to Room Forty for the last year of the war. Winston and he had stayed in touch on and off over the years, and yet Cecil was surprised that Winston somehow knew he was back in England after his long stint at Etajima and had sent an invitation for him to come out to the countryside for an overnight visit and “chat.”
Winston had aged tremendously since last he had seen him, nearly a decade ago. It wasn’t just the physical aging though; there was a seasoning to him. The youthful enthusiasm had lessened; it was obvious he was burdened down. When Cecil had mentioned to a few friends where he was going to spend the weekend, there had been almost outright horror or disdain shown by them... “That madman, he’ll get us into another war the way he talks!”
Winston, it seemed, was now something of a social pariah with his outspoken criticism of the government and his calls of alarm over the rising of that “goose-stepping little corporal,” as the Times had quoted him just a few days past.
They shared their drink and cigars, catching up on family news for Winston, with a respectful avoidance of the subject regarding Cecil’s own.
“Guess you know why I asked you here,” Winston finally said, cutting to the chase, “delighted to see you, Cecil, but I need to get your insights now.”
“You want to talk about the coup attempt by the army in Tokyo last week?”
Winston nodded vigorously.
“Not just that, but things there in general. I’ll confess I’ve been preoccupied with that crew of thugs in Germany of late, but there are far broader issues confronting England in the days to come. I could wander over to the appropriate office along Whitehall for a briefing, but as you know, I’m not all that welcome in some quarters.”
Cecil smiled knowingly.
Winston leaned forward, picking up a couple of small logs and tossing them onto the fire, the wood crackling, sparks floating up the chimney.
“I want to understand just what the hell is going on over there. Fifteen years back we counted the Japanese as firm allies. With Stalin in power, I had hoped the Japanese could be a counterforce to any adventures he might consider in China. But there are rumblings, Cecil, rumblings that something over there is going wrong, terribly wrong.”
Winston finished his drink and poured a few more ounces, looking over at Cecil, brows furrowed, that look of deep concentration and intensity he was famed for.
“Remember Lawrence?” Winston asked.
“You mean Thomas?” Cecil asked.
Winston nodded.
“Yes, heard about his death while still in Japan. Motorcycle, wasn’t it?”
“Sad loss. A good friend,” he gazed at the fire. “We all should have listened to him a bit more closely, he had a feel for the Middle East. But too high-strung, eccentric, and, of course, those detestable false rumors that followed him.” Cecil said nothing.
“Don’t believe them for a moment, mind you, but still a brilliant man.”
He looked over again at Cecil.
“When I read in the Times about this coup attempt in Japan, well, I thought of Lawrence for some reason. And that led me to you.”
“Me, sir?”
Winston smiled. “You’re no swashbuckler in white robes”-- Winston laughed softly--”but you have a feel for the place. You’re not with the Foreign Office, those bloody fools, and you’re no longer in the service so you can speak your mind. And I thought, by God, if there’s anyone that can explain it all to me, it’s you, Cecil.”
“Well, comparing me to Lawrence and all his exploits in Arabia, that is a stretch, sir.”
“Find me someone else then who can explain the Japanese and what is going on over there. Find him right now and you’re off the hook. Otherwise, for the moment you are now officially my Lawrence of Japan, or should I say Cecil of Japan.”
Cecil could not help but smile. When Winston wanted to pour on the charm he could do so in spades. He sat back in his chair, sipping the scotch, trying to collect his thoughts. He suspected, of course, that this was why Winston had summoned him to his private retreat. The army coup plot had made the papers for a day or two, but then was submerged by news from Germany, the crisis in Spain, and the usual foolery about sports, fashion, and film stars.
“Fine then, sir, but let me warn you, I can give it to you two ways: I can tell you who the players are, what happened, and why; but I fear you’ll be lost in a sea of names and secret societies, and side-switching that will leave you dizzy. Or another way, what I see as the reasons behind the coup, and what it actually means.”
Winston smiled and Cecil relaxed slightly. Though charming, Winston had little time for fools, even those fools whom he considered loyal subordinates or even friends. He could indeed summon a report as a MP but he wanted something different.
“You know what I want.”
“Right then, and remember my information is the same as yours in one respect, I had to glean the information from the Times and fill in the blanks with what I already knew.
“The hard fact news item is that a small group of army dissidents attempted a coup: several key government officials were killed, and then the coup was speedily suppressed with only a handful of casualties.
“Based on several previous incidents, quite similar to this one, but which did not draw such international attention, the dissidents will go on trial, and a year from now will be quietly released.”
“Which means they have support within the government?”
“No, sir, and I think here is where you want some answers.”
“The government now, as I understand it,” Winston said, “is Western leaning, wants to rein in the army after its romp into Manchuria, and keep good relations with us and America. So if there’s hidden support, does that mean the government is about to switch policies?”
“Not quite yet,” Cecil interjected. “We define a coup as an actual attempt to overthrow the government, a dissident group trying to seize power and take over. In Japan, that is not necessarily the case. The Emperor, of course, is sacred and immovable; there is absolutely no Western comparison to his position.” Cecil shook his head.
�
�No sir, it is not about actually overthrowing the whole lot. What happened last week in Japan, their word for it is gekokujo.” Winston mouthed the word silently.
“It means insubordination, but not insubordination as we define it. That sir, is always the problem when dealing with Japan. So many subtleties of thought and words fail to translate. We say insubordination and we think of a young corporal gone cheeky to his sergeant, or a government minister telling the PM to go to hell .”
Winston chuckled softly.
“And sometimes deservedly so.”
“Gekokujo is insubordination with a higher purpose. It is actually an act of loyalty, at least to those who perform it, loyalty to a higher ideal, to the Emperor and beyond him to the concept of nation. Even there, the word ‘nation’ does not translate effectively. It can even be construed, at times, as an act of loyalty to the very man they are attempting to kill, to try and awaken him and have him return to a righteous course.”
“Killing him awakens him?” Winston grumbled. “That is one hell of a stretch.”
“Not in their culture. Don’t get all confused by how some Westerners view Buddhism and reincarnation. The Japanese blend, at least for the warrior class, is strongly mixed with Shintoism, the worship of ancestors and, by extension, the greater concept of national identity. If at the moment of death, the man who is slain faces it with stoic honor and a realization of atonement, then the killers have actually done him a favor. After they kill him. they’ll salute the body, even clean up the mess, and apologize to the family for the inconvenience they have created before leaving.”
“Bloody insane if you ask me,” Winston replied. “Some damn hothead who is pro-Nazi or Communist puts a bullet in me, and I thank him for it? Like hell!”
Cecil chuckled and shook his head.
“I think a story might explain it best. Have you ever heard of the forty-seven ronin?”
Winston shook his head.
“It is, to the Japanese, an epic as powerful to their national psyche as Henry V or the legends of Arthur are to us, or for that madman over in Germany, the Ring cycle of Wagner.”
Pearl Harbour and Days of Infamy Page 6