“Too many fat ladies shrieking for my taste.” Winston chuckled.
“The story is a favorite kabuki play, told in schools, performed in puppet theaters, held up as a national ideal, and gekokujo is at the core of it.”
“Go on, you have my attention with this.”
“It was several generations after the ending of the civil wars that unified Japan, when the Tokugawa clan controlled the Shogunate. The atmosphere at the court had become highly rarified, filled with intricate rituals, the most subtle gestures conveying great meaning, the slightest stumbling in proper etiquette a source of amusement and disdain. One could perhaps compare it to Versailles on the eve of the revolution. The slightest breach of protocol triggered ridicule.
“A daimyo from an outback region ...”
“Daimyo?” Winston asked.
“Say our equivalent of a baron from the hinterlands.”
“Ireland,” Winston said, with a bit of a sardonic grin.
“Exactly.... arrives at the court, summoned to do his turn of duty, as were all vassals of the Shogun. It was considered an honor of course, but also a way of keeping an eye on the underlings.
“This daimyo arrives at the court, accompanied by his knights, forty-seven samurai. He makes a shambles of things with his behavior from the first day. He understands nothing of what the Japanese court considers to be the higher arts of a cultured man. It might seem strange to us, but here you have these tough samurai warriors, and I do mean tough. Good lord, man to man, they’d have cut any of our medieval knights to ribbons. Yet they place great stock in being cultured, being able to arrange flowers, to come up with an appropriate poem while watching cherry blossoms fall, to properly serve tea.
“Frankly, we aren’t all that different, sir, though, the way we greet each other, the expectations for an officer in combat to show total indifference to danger, the way a cultured man offers another a drink and a cigar, the old rituals of the regimental mess that you once knew. It is a way of marking a man and his social class.”
Winston grunted and nodded in agreement, a crease of a smile lighting his features with old memories of long ago in Africa and India.
“So the humiliation gets worse by the day,” Cecil continues, “and then enters the Court Chamberlain, the master of ceremonies we would call him.”
“And he won’t help,” Winston interjects.
Cecil nodded. He could see that Winston was getting involved in the story.
“Won’t help unless a bribe is paid. The daimyo is from a poor province, but beyond the issue of money, his pride forbids him from lowering himself thus, to pay a bribe to a simpering court official.”
“I think I can see where this is going,” Winston interjected, pausing then to prepare and light a cigar, thus giving time for Cecil to continue.
“Matters reach a head when the daimyo is humiliated once too often in front of the Emperor, the entire court laughing behind their sleeves when he fumbles a ceremony. Drawing his blade, he turns on the Chamberlain, who flees; the Emperor’s guards jump upon the outraged daimyo and disarm him.
“Well now, he has violated a sacred court law. It does not matter the provocation, he has drawn a blade in the presence of the Emperor and there is only one recourse left. Dishonored, he must commit seppuku.”
“You mean hara-kiri? Is it true they actually cut their stomachs open?” Winston asked, and Cecil could sense an almost schoolboy curiosity about the details.
“In the full ceremony, yes,” Cecil replied, “but usually there is just a ritual cut, or for the braver, a thrust of the blade into the stomach, and then a second beheads the poor devil. So thus it is done. The offending daimyo dies, and in the West that is where the story would die as well.”
“Obviously this leads us back to the matter at hand, this coup attempt,” Winston said.
And Cecil realized that though Winston did love a good story, he also wanted the point to be made as quickly as possible, so he nodded.
“It makes a powerful point. The forty-seven samurai who had come with their now dead daimyo are disgraced as well. In their world, they had failed to protect their lord. No other house will take them in, even if they sought that, but they did not. They became ronin. A ronin is a samurai who has no lord to serve. Without a lord he has no colors to wear, he is something of a societal outcast, in fact he is seen as on the borderline of the law, for many ronin turn to robbery and murder.
“The Emperor, upon the punishment death of the rather tragic daimyo, passes a decree that the matter is settled once and forever. Law had been broken in the court, penalty exacted, case is closed.
“The forty-seven samurai, who were the daimyo’s retainers, are now completely disgraced by the Emperor’s decree. In their culture, it is they who are at fault.”
“How so? The bloody fool should have paid the bribe and be done with it, or got someone of influence to put pressure on the Chamberlain. My God, if someone pulled a revolver out in front of the King or in Parliament, there’d be hell to pay.”
“Now we are getting into the deeper issues with these Japanese,” Cecil said, with a smile. He nodded toward the decanter of scotch, and Winston, smiling, waved for him to refill, which he did. Wreathed in smoke, Winston then nodded for him to continue.
“Disgraced in their world, the forty-seven ronin did not leave the capital. Instead they remained in the city, apparently casting aside their ceremonial robes and selling their swords. They took on the most menial of tasks, gardeners, night soil collectors, wood cutters, drifting to the edge of society, and over time they were all but forgotten.”
Cecil smiled.
“They waited for over a year. The Chamberlain was no fool; he knew they were out there, watching, waiting. He kept his guard up, extra samurai to keep watch day and night, so much so that he himself became something of a laughingstock, viewed as a coward afraid of his own shadow. But he had reason to be afraid.
“For finally, he did let his guard down, and then, at last, the leader of the forty-seven ronin, his name was Oishi, summoned his comrades together. In secret, they met in the graveyard where their lord was buried, and from secret hiding places drew out their ceremonial robes of his house and their swords, which they had not sold.”
Winston leaned forward, caught up in the tale.
“They stormed the Chamberlain’s palace and slaughtered everyone. Cornered, the Chamberlain begged for his life, but they killed him and took his head.”
Winston slapped his knee.
“Figured it would be something like that.”
Cecil nodded.
“But there’s far more, sir. You see they had, in so doing, fulfilled their own sense of honor, and yet had directly violated the will of the Emperor. They were now hunted men.
“The hue and cry went up. There are several versions of what happened next, but finally they are brought before the Emperor himself, who orders them to commit suicide.”
Cecil nodded, and unable to contain his desire any longer he motioned to the box of cigars, which Winston happily offered. He had managed to drop the habit in Japan--good tobacco was all but impossible to find there--but the scent of the smoke, the warmth of the fire, the taste of good scotch, a cigar would make it complete; and Winston sat in silence as Cecil unwrapped the cigar, cut the end, and puffed it to life.
“But, sir, there is far more. A Westerner hearing the story might say it’s a rousing good tale but not see the deeper meaning to it, a meaning that relates to what happened in Japan last week.”
“And that is?”
“Gekokujo. Their actions ultimately were gekokujo. Yes, they got the revenge they felt duty-bound to fulfill, but there is also their suicides. It was not just an apology to the Emperor for breaking the law, as some might read it. It was a message direct to the Emperor and the Shogun, an act of rebellion. The message was that they were right, and he had done wrong. The Emperor had failed their daimyo, allowing a corrupt official to stay in the court. He had failed in al
lowing a good man to be driven to the point of madness by this corrupt official. Killing the Chamberlain therefore was an act the Emperor or Shogun themselves should have done long ago. Their suicide would remain in the national psyche, be a lesson to all, and restore balance and purity.”
“Connect the two,” Winston said, “this rebellion and the story.”
“Easy enough, sir. The coup attempt on February 26 was carried out by a small cadre of disenchanted junior officers in the army and some revolutionary radicals. They are enamored with a mystical sense of a unique and special destiny for Japan. Their concept of nationhood is unlike ours. It is nationalism tied to religion, tied to, for lack of a better term, a racial destiny.”
“God save us, not another Hitler and his drivel,” Winston growled.
“No sir, very different, and one that will make us feel a bit uncomfortable. The Japanese nation is a joined entity. Their religion a dual one, an aesthetic form of Buddhism, Zen Buddhism, which truly fits the warrior code of the samurai. That life is a fleeting illusion, with a reality beyond that illusion. To let go of life is, in a way, to embrace life. Inculcate that into the hearts of warriors, and you have a fearsome opponent.
“Combine that with Shintoism. On the surface it is ancestor worship, a bit like the Romans if you will: the family and its honor are everything. The individual is nothing when compared to the family.
“Believe me, when I taught at their academy I saw it every day. The lads there would endure treatment and schedules that would set off a rebellion in our Sandhurst. And to wash out? Death is better. In fact, when a boy did wash out, a suicide watch had to be kept until he was escorted off the base, and not infrequently we’d hear that the poor boy had killed himself rather than endure the shame of facing his family as a failure.” Cecil fell silent for a moment. The memory of more than one of them was still troubling.
“Potentially a tough adversary,” Winston interjected. “Exactly. But to the point you seek. The coup? A sham. No one in their right mind, at least a Western right mind, would ever see it as having the remotest chance of success.”
“What was it they wanted? The reports in the Times are not clear at all, just saying some disgruntled soldiers.”
Cecil shook his head.
“Oh, there were some tenets spouted, sounded a bit communistic to some. Limits on amount of money a family can have, nationalization of industry, elimination of corruption, and, a key here, a return to a state of national purity.”
Winston cocked his head.
“How so? Sounds Fascist to me, this national purity thing.”
“Sir, don’t confuse the two. They mean it as a true state of purity. Like a minister saying it’s time to get right with Jesus. It’s about this national sense that Japan is unique, exceptional, the Emperor godlike.
“That one is tough to explain. A bit like the old Egyptians and their Pharaohs, but different. The Emperor is a direct bond back to the creator of all, and since the manifestation of that creator is Japanese, well then, that means Japan is exceptional in the eyes of God.
“Even their dating system is a reflection of their unique ties to the Emperor. They count years from the accession of Japan’s first in 660 bc. They consider this to be the year 2596. “They even name their planes by the year of the Emperor.
Their newest bomber was introduced this year as a Type 96 because it is being introduced in 2596. Every time they turn around, they are reminding themselves of the length of their heritage, the sanctity of their Emperor, and the uniqueness of their nation and race. You should not underestimate how deeply this defines them and makes them dedicated and courageous.
“These revolutionaries, these young Turks you might call them, are not about overthrowing the Emperor, rather it is to purify the government, to restore Japan to its proper destiny, and, yes, to send a message to the Emperor that his house needs to be placed back in order, in balance. I daresay that before they shot some of the officials, they most likely apologized first. It was a ritual.
“So, they’ve been arrested, the trial will be a show trial. The dead will be buried, but mark my words, the national destiny has just changed, even though by our standards the coup was a tragic farce and put down before it even started.
“Even as people publicly shake their heads over the bloodshed, in their hearts, the way they see the world, the men in the coup were purists out to cleanse Japan. We must remember, it is a country that has gone through a stunning cultural shock.
“There are people still alive today who can recall a world where firearms were unknown, no machinery, totally cut off from the outside world. They started their modernization in the 1860s, and in less than forty years trounced a colossal Western power, the Russians. They now race to carry out rapid industrialization, though without the resources inside their borders to do so. Besides looking at any graphs or charts about growth and economics, we must realize the psychic shock to their entire system. They know they have to embrace the future to survive, but within, there is a terrible longing for what was a world of proper order, control, without disturbance from an outside world that did not even exist. That outside has brought impurity and chaos; the rebels wanted order restored, purity restored.”
“And the army is the one to do that,” Winston grumbled.
Cecil nodded.
“They see themselves as the inheritors of the samurai class system. Through them the uniqueness of Japan will be saved, and add in this doctrine: that the ultimate destiny of Japan, now that it has been forced to join the global community, is to free all of Asia of Western influence and unify it, under their leadership, of course.
“Expect a sea change, sir. There’ll be an awakening of nationalism, a silent admiration for this act of gekokujo, even from some of the very people threatened by it. And we, sir, will eventually be the target.”
Winston exhaled noisily.
“Go on, it is what I was wondering.”
“Remember, they actually admire us. That’s something the Japanese are good at, admiring what is admirable in others and then borrowing it. The Romans were the same, remember. Culture, art, religion hijacked wholesale from the Greeks, naval skills from the Carthaginians, trade from the Phoenicians, mysticism from the Egyptians. The Japanese turned to us to help build their navy because we were the best. When it came to their land forces, more than one German was out there as an advisor fifty years ago. And like us, they covet an Empire and see nothing wrong with it.
“Their argument has its points. Imagine if it had been the Chinese coming around the Horn rather than Europeans; and Spain, Italy, and France were now controlled by Orientals. Might we not nod in agreement if Hitler, instead of preaching his German purity, was instead preaching a white, Western purity, asking why we allowed Orientals to rule us?”
Winston said nothing. And Cecil knew there was nothing he could say. He was a dyed-in-the-wool Imperialist; he had fought as a young man for the Empire; and now, in late middle age, stood firm on the India question.
“They want, as the Kaiser once said, ‘their place in the sun,’ and that is the East. Too bad the world is not bigger, that there isn’t still terra incognita out there we could point them toward. But it is not so. The subtext to this coup is about racial destiny, not just in Japan, but across the entire East.”
“You mean China.”
Cecil nodded.
“It’s a quagmire. The Nationalists, the warlords, the Communists all at each other’s throats, and the Japanese sitting in their puppet state up in Manchuria watching the show. Nature abhors a vacuum as they say, and to them, China is a political vacuum that they know they can straighten out.”
“You mean conquer and exploit.”
“I could bring you more than one of their naval officers, good men, many educated right here in England or the States, and they will sip tea with us and ask a blunt question. Would we want them in China or Stalin instead?”
Churchill grunted disdainfully at the mere mention of the Soviet
leader.
“Bloody butcher,” he muttered.
Cecil leaned back in his chair, his cigar having gone out, and he looked over at Winston.
“Sir, you might be focused here, on Europe, on Germany, but believe me. I spent eight years teaching their lads at the academy. I respect and admire them, would go to sea with any of them. But there is a logic building that is vastly different from the way we think. They vividly feel their lack of oil. They know oil is the key to modem power. They are determined to find a way to secure a stable supply. In their minds the alternative is not defeat; it is suicide. They believe they will cease to fulfill their destiny if they cannot find a way out of this box. On the surface, to contemplate a naval war with us, and most likely the United States combined, perhaps even French and Dutch forces thrown in, well that would be suicide. On the surface it would look like that.
“But they have a different sense of their time, their place in history. Suicide perhaps, but they have faced greater odds and won, and I think under the skin of most of them, they are gamblers with fate. Perhaps it’s their religion. So what if you lose, but you do so with honor. The wheel of life turns, and you return, and the honor of your family and of your race is made richer by your sacrifice.”
“And your conclusions?” Winston asked.
“Sooner or later, we’ll have to fight them.”
Winston took a deep puff on his cigar, inhaled, and blew out. “What is your situation now, Stanford?”
“Well, sir, to be honest, at loose ends. The naval pension helps enough. My sister has offered to share her home out near Salisbury, a pleasant little place. Some friends have encouraged me to try my hand writing a book about my years in Japan, perhaps look at some of the smaller colleges for a professorship.”
Winston chuckled.
“Hard way to make a living. Some day I’ll tell you about dealing with publishers.”
He looked up at the ceiling.
Pearl Harbour and Days of Infamy Page 7