Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  “I wish I had been out here before it happened,” Fuchida said softly.

  “Word is that the plot was hatched out here among the pilots themselves, another act of gekokujo; higher-ups knew and said nothing, which is the same as saying yes, and your government seemed damn quick with its ready-made apology. There was no disciplining afterward, hell. If that had been a pilot of the Royal Air Force, he’d be stripped of rank and sitting in prison right now, not out flying.”

  Fuchida sighed and drew a bit closer.

  “Are we talking as friends, Professor Stanford, or as a reporter, Mr. Stanford?”

  Cecil said nothing.

  “We’ve known each other how long now, nearly ten years?” Fuchida asked. “Can we make it as friends for a few minutes, off the record, nothing that will go into the newspaper?” Fuchida finally nodded. Cecil suddenly felt like a heel liar. He had said nothing about what he might report to Winston.

  “You saw what happened with the coup two years ago,” Fuchida said softly. “It was a minority, but the message was clear and it took effect. The army wanted a free hand in China to do what the civilian government did not have the courage to do ... to end the civil war in China, restore order, and build out of it a modem state.”

  Cecil shook his head.

  “You believe that? Oh, not about the coup; I agree with you on that. But your presence here in China; you make it sound like you come as friends.”

  “Did you come as friends to India or South Africa?” Fuchida snapped back.

  “You believe in this campaign, don’t you?” Cecil asked.

  Fuchida nodded.

  “I believe it is Japan’s destiny to rule in the Western Pacific. My friend, we are you, England, of a hundred years past as it built its Empire. There is still much that can bind us, an English dominance in the West, Japan in the East.”

  “You seem to have forgotten the French, the Dutch, the Americans in this.”

  “If England should see fit to join hands with us, the others will follow.”

  Cecil shook his head. “You know the alliance between America and us is firm, unbreakable.”

  “Let us see how strong that alliance is when finally you must face German expansionism. They will run and hide. America has lost its moral courage.”

  “You think the Panay proved that, don’t you? Is that why your pilots did it, a test to see if America would run, a statement for them to get out?”

  “I’ll not comment,” Fuchida said, after a long hesitation. “Rather than speculate on your allies, let’s continue to talk about here, what is happening in China and why.”

  “Go on then.”

  “China is a vast pool of hundreds of millions still in the medieval world, as we were but eighty years ago. We can lead the way. You did that to India and South Africa. South Africa is now independent, and I daresay in another generation so will India be; but you will be bonded together.

  “And besides, China is in a vacuum. Does anyone in England want to see the Communists win? You’ve tacitly thrown your lot in with the Nationalists. The corruption of Chiang Kai-shek is already the stuff of legend. If you want to see disciplined cadres, look to Mao and his Communists, and believe me, in the end they will win if someone, meaning us, does not intervene.”

  “I cannot deny that the Communist troops are better led, better disciplined.”

  “There, you have it,” Fuchida said, slapping the table. “Let Japan take control here. Yes, there will be tragic fighting, but in short order that will end and stability will return. We’ll bring order, law, industrialization, the same as your people have done, and the English can look to us as being like England but on the other side of the Continent.”

  “An interesting proposition,” Cecil replied coolly, “but again, I doubt if the French wish to be dislodged, the Dutch and the Americans express their own interest in China ... and this Panay incident struck dangerously close to triggering a war.”

  Fuchida said nothing for a moment then sighed. “We are talking now as a reporter, are we not?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Commander Fuchida.”

  “And might I therefore reply that in the opening days of the war, Nationalist planes attacked a British ship, but fortunately, due to their terrible bomb aiming, no damage was done.”

  “A mistake in the heat of action is one thing,” Cecil pressed, “but the attacks on British ships on the Yangtze at nearly the same time as the Panay seems rather a coincidence, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Fuchida shifted uncomfortably.

  “And the same apologies and restitution have been made. I see no further use for an inquiry in this direction.”

  Fuchida remained silent for a moment, not adding that he felt it was Western arrogance to sail ships right into the middle of a war zone and then, in all that confusion, cry foul if one was hit.

  “Another question,” Cecil asked, breaking the silence.

  “Go on.”

  “Nanking, have you been down into the city of Nanking?” Fuchida shook his head. “I have been on the base here since my arrival.”

  “I want you to come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to see what the hell your army is doing,” Cecil snapped angrily. “I was there in December; I witnessed it. I saw children being raped, nuns decapitated, old men used for bayonet practice. I saw it!” Cecil sat back, angry with himself, his last words nearly shouted.

  Fuchida stood up and stepped away from Cecil.

  Cecil continued, “Do you know that at least two hundred thousand, maybe three hundred thousand or more have been murdered there? No, I shouldn’t say murdered, rather tortured and executed by your Imperial Japanese Army. Do you know that?”

  “The navy is here to provide air support only and patrol on the rivers,” Fuchida said defensively.

  “It is still your country, your army, your war. It is barbarity not seen in hundreds of years. But this time, this time the entire world is watching. I have filed my reports with my newspaper along with photographs of the dead. Newsreel footage is being shown in theaters around the world. But a few years back many looked upon your nation with favor, even saw it as a block against Stalin and his henchmen moving east, but now?”

  He hesitated. “Now they see you as conquering, Imperialistic barbarians.”

  “And do you see me that way?” Fuchida cried, voice rising.

  “Come with me to Nanking today, walk the streets with me and see.”

  Fuchida shook his head.

  “I have my duties here to plan for and then to the infirmary.”

  “I was there,” Cecil said, shaking his head, voice thick. “I will continue to report what I see. I was hoping that at least with you, an old friend, I might hear something different. The voice of a Japan I respected and loved.”

  Fuchida stood looking at him, uncomfortable, recalling so many evenings over a good scotch, talking history, the theories of war, but those were always abstractions. “Is there anything else?” Fuchida asked.

  Cecil slowly shook his head. “Why bother? If you take me around the airfield, I’ll see the usual planes, the usual fresh- faced kids, hear the usual platitudes. But the reality of it all? No, I don’t think so, my friend. What did you bomb today? What did you bomb yesterday? I’ve walked through some of those villages, the stench of bloating bodies making me vomit. And I was at Nanking, and that I can never purge from my mind.

  “No, if you will not walk the streets of Nanking with me, then the interview is over.”

  He jotted something on a piece of paper, tore the sheet out, and leaning over placed it on Fuchida’s desk.

  “Your old friend Commander Watson’s address. Perhaps a letter of apology is due. Let the man who saved your life this morning send him a note as well, if he has the courage to do so.”

  Fuchida looked at him coldly as Cecil folded his notebook and stood up, ready to leave.

  “You do not see our side of it,” Fuchida replied sharply. “China
will rot in anarchy for a hundred years to come or fall to the Communists if we do not intervene. We will restore order and bring peace.”

  “Your army murders hundreds of thousands as a bringer of peace?” Cecil Stanford shook his head. “We are all tottering on the edge. This will go out of control. You do not have the manpower, the equipment, the army to conquer all of China. It is simply too much for Japan to swallow and then hold. I’ll bet some damn fools with your general staff said it will be over in six months. Make it six years, more like sixty years, and you’ll still be fighting and sooner, rather than later, it will just expand, like a cancer. With the drain created by this, your eyes will finally be forced to turn elsewhere, to gain the materials needed to wage this war, and that will mean more war.

  “I’m sorry if you believe what you just told me and will not face what your military is doing, I am sad to say we are no longer friends.” He waited as if expecting a reply, an appeal in response.

  “You press too far, Commander,” Fuchida hesitated, “I mean Mr. Stanford.” His voice was cold now, distant. “You asked me to imagine how I would feel if I was Commander Watson. How dare you ask me to refute my nation? If it was I who demanded that of you, what would be your answer?”

  Cecil remained silent, not replying.

  There was nothing more to be said, Fuchida looking straight at him, expressionless.

  “I congratulate you on surviving today. I hope you survive all that is to come. Farewell.” Cecil turned and walked out of the office.

  Fuchida watched him go, saying nothing, for indeed, there was nothing more to be said.

  An escort accompanied Cecil to his car, a navy vehicle that would take him back to the international quarter in Shanghai.

  Fuchida turned away, walking over to the far wall, gazing at the maps, local tactical maps, and then, pinned to one side, the map of all of China. He felt cold, distant. He knew that in a few more months his tour of duty here would be finished, the promise already made that he could return to the War College in the fall to complete his studies there. Then most likely back to either a carrier offshore, perhaps his old beloved Akagi, or to yet again train new pilots, for the navy now needed them by the hundreds.

  And he knew that his former friend was right. In spite of all the promises of the chiefs of staff, the generals, the admirals, he would most likely come here to China yet again in a year or two, the war still raging, like an open sore that would not heal, that the decade would turn, and still there would be fighting ... and it would spread, like a cancer.

  He felt bad for James. Though they had met only twice, the bond they had shared in the flight had continued, the love of flying that can always bring pilots together, even if one had flown but for the first time.

  But James was American and, incredible as it seemed, America had not reacted to the war that his friends had tried to provoke that day with the Panay. It had revealed much about the character of America. They could be pushed, and if need be pushed hard, without reacting. They had built their Empire and expected the world to accept it, and then tried to hide behind their moral platitudes. But it was now Japan’s turn and in that he had utter faith, feeling a flicker of anger toward Cecil for even daring to ask him to make a choice. Two thousand five hundred years of history were behind Japan and her unbroken line of emperors.

  If it took sixty more years to fulfill that destiny here in China, then so be it... and he knew with utter certainty that neither England nor America would have the courage to dare to stop them. Other storm clouds were on their horizons and, hopefully, soon the Westerners would turn on themselves in their own frenzy and thus leave Japan to pick up the pieces that were left. He was Japanese, and no one from the West could ultimately understand the true meaning of that, even those whom he had considered to be his friends.

  He returned back to his desk, sat down, and begin to write up the report on the raid, noticed the address of James sitting on the comer, looked at it, hesitated, then balled it up and dropped it into the trash.

  The White House Washington, D.C.: 16 May 1940

  “General Marshall, I know you do not agree with my proposal for building fifty thousand aircraft a year. As commander in chief I have to follow my deepest instincts, my own judgment. It is clear from what we have seen in Spain during the Civil War, in China during the Japanese invasion, and now in Western Europe and North Africa that airpower is the dominant force. Germany and Japan have it and they are dominating. China, Republican Spain, Poland, France, all failed to have effective airpower, and now they are suffering. We must have dominance in the air if we are going to defend America.” Roosevelt looked up at Marshall from his wheelchair with an intense gaze.

  “Mr. President, we will implement your order if you insist. However, I feel obligated to point out that our war plan calls for a two-hundred-division army. If you insist that we build fifty thousand airplanes a year, we will have to divert so many men to the Army Air Corps and even more importantly to an industrial base big enough to build that many planes, that we will have a dramatically smaller ground force.” Marshall looked determined and spoke with sober precision.

  “General Marshall, I am afraid you will have to reshape your plans and reduce the number of divisions. I am going to issue an executive order today calling for fifty thousand aircraft a year,” FDR replied.

  Marshall could offer no reply, and the president offered his best winning smile.

  “I’m betting on the future here, General, and my instincts tell me that the future is with airpower.”

  SIX

  London Bridge: 7 September 1940 1730 hours

  The noise was deafening, all encompassing, as if the world was indeed ending ... and he could not help but be thrilled by the power and intensity of it.

  “You there, you ya bloody idiot, just what in hell are you doing?”

  Minoru Genda, stationed in London for the last two years as naval attaché to the Japanese Embassy, turned to face the air raid warden, crouching low, running toward him. The cacophony of noise continued to swell, the continual trembling wail of the air raid sirens, the pulsing thunder of thousands of engines overhead, and the ever-expanding concussion of explosions washing up the Thames River from the East End, which was taking the brunt of the raid.

  “Off this bridge now, you bloody fool!” and the warden reached out to grab him by the shoulder. Genda raised his hand, black leather of the oversized wallet containing his identification card and credentials flipped open, and stuck it in front of the warden, only inches from his face so that he had to step back.

  It identified him as a member of the diplomatic staff of His Imperial Majesty’s Government of Japan, one document in English, the other in Japanese, all of it very official looking and proper and guaranteed to intimidate a lowly air raid warden and for that matter many a member of the British government as well when used correctly.

  The warden stared at it for a few seconds and then the attention of both turned toward the river. A German twin-engine Heinkel 111 bomber, twisting and turning as it followed the banks of the river, was screaming straight toward them, skimming the river so low that as it turned it seemed as if its wing would dig into the water. A trail of black smoke was streaming out of its port-side engine. Behind it, a Hawker Hurricane was fifty yards off its tail, following every twisting turn of the desperate German pilot, cutting inside the turns to squeeze off short bursts. Some rounds hit, sparks flying off the wing, others missed, stitching into the river, each round sending up a geyser of water ten feet high, coming straight toward them.

  Genda and the air raid warden ducked down behind the stone siding of the bridge as the Heinkel 111, at more than 200 mph, screamed over the bridge, just feet above them, the thunder of its passing shaking Genda, the exhaust of its engines, the pungent smoke from the oil-starved pistons darkening the sky. It was so close that for a second he could actually see the face of the tail gunner, swinging his weapon around firing off a burst. The German pilot was now pulling up,
struggling for altitude. Genda knew why; the drama was nearing its end.

  The sound of it all sent a corkscrew thrill down Genda’s back. The roar of the engines, the smell of the exhaust... he was back on the deck of his beloved Akagi or Kaga again. Planes revving up, preparing to take off. Soon he would be back there, in another week he was leaving London to return home, and he had witnessed what was now being called the Battle of Britain from its opening stage to now, this moment, to what some would think was its dramatic climax, most of the staff in the embassy exuberantly betting that the Germans would come marching past Whitehall within the week.

  A split second later the Hurricane screamed over the bridge, banking in tight onto the tail of the 111, tracers slashing into its victim. A few rounds from the tail gunner of the 111 splattered the stone bridge the two were standing on, fragments of stone kicking up.

  The 111, now maybe five hundred feet up, began to roll into a sharp, banking turn, fragments tumbling from the port wing and fuselage, the turn taking it toward the south bank of the Thames. It wasn’t a controlled turn, Genda could sense that. Either the pilot was dead, or the aileron cables had snapped, that and the port wing was beginning to sheer off, flame erupting from the ruptured fuel tanks. A body fell out of the bomb bay, then a second, the chute of the second jumper instantly opening, the other struggling for a few tragic seconds too long; even as the chute started to blossom he slammed into the mud of the embankment on the south side of the river. The open chute of the lucky one drifted behind the trees lining the river.

  The Heinkel 111 fireballed along its portside wing, which now sheered off completely, and the plane went into a tumbling spin. Seconds later there was a rumbling explosion and sheets of flame erupted near Waterloo Station.

  The Hurricane turned in a sharp bank to the north, the pilot, obviously unable to contain his exuberance, doing a victory roll as he climbed heavenward over Parliament, soaring upward to rejoin the fray.