Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  If there was to be war, though, to what purpose? The fire- and-blood youths of the army, caught up in some strange almost cinemalike illusion of being warrior samurai of 350 years past, eager to fight--and frankly to hell caring not with whom it was they fought, just simply to fight--now held a strange perverse sway, so powerful that even the upper ranks, the older heads, some of them who actually had seen total real war back in 1904-05, were now swept up in the fever as well.

  China was a deadlock, the analogy of the serpent and the pig so apt. Japan had swallowed the pig halfway, but it was so big it could never fully be swallowed, nor could it be disgorged. Any realist knew that for a generation to come, if they should decide to try and stay on, it would be a long, twilight struggle. If not against the Nationalists then the far more deadly Communists, so adept at dissimulation, the dagger in the night, thousands of good soldiers dying to no possible gain other than more reprisals and blood... and still no profit.

  Why the Americans were so damn insistent to pick a fight over that godforsaken country of China was beyond him in spite of all his years of professional experience and his current tenure as the prime minister.

  He was trapped. In the week after the German invasion, the army had actually argued to reconsider the “northern approach,” to take on the Soviets, though of course, ultimately there was no logic to it beyond the grabbing of territory, since it would take billions of yen in capital investments across a score of years before even the remote hope of a profit to the Empire could ever be shown.

  And in this now insane topsy-turvy debate it was the navy that presented the counter-argument... if there was war let it be to the south.

  He was boxed. The army wanted war, at least the middle-level rankers did, and there was still the haunting fear of another February 26 coup if they did not get their way. The upper echelon paid lip service to the “revolutionaries” out of fear as well, but also saw the potential political power within their grasp if war should indeed be declared. It did not matter if it was the Soviets, the British, the French or the Americans. The navy saw no future in a war with Russia, but most definitely power, and with it a logical goal of seizing Indochina for all its resources and bases. Once bases were established there, Malaya and Singapore, the Gibraltar of the East, and ultimately the oil-rich Dutch East Indies would be ripe for the taking.

  At this moment the entire oil usage of all Japanese coming from their possessions and reserves was but eighty thousand barrels a day. Barely enough to keep the fleet afloat, let alone a modem army of nearly a million in the field in China, and that would run completely dry in less than a year if the Americans, sitting atop their vast reserves of billions of barrels, should turn the flow off.

  Every barrel was rationed, every barrel balanced between turning it into aviation gas for a plane to fly for an hour or a battleship to cruise but for a minute or two at flank speed. The Americans most assuredly knew this.

  That was his frustration now. It was foregone that the army’s next move would be into Indochina. There was no stopping that now, their appetite for a quick acquisition from a weakened and nearly craven Western opponent too much to resist. And yet his conversations with Ambassador Grew made it clear that such a move would trigger President Roosevelt to a rage, and the taking of the next step could be a full oil embargo, and at that moment war would be inevitable. Otherwise within less than two years every ounce of fuel reserve would be gone and Japan, in an instant, thrown back to a powerless medieval kingdom, ripe for the picking.

  It was an impasse, and he was trapped in the middle now with no real recourse. Resist the army and there would be another February 26 and he would be dead. Not that he feared that death, but he did fear the thought of Matsuoka somehow then seizing his post.

  And there was the other thought as well, one with a faint glimmer of optimism. Was this indeed the moment that Japan must risk all, in spite of the known risks, to seize the destiny that had awaited it for two thousand years, to bring to the rest of the world the realization that their nationhood ultimately represented the living manifestation of God on Earth? That there could be a new Golden Age, a unification of all the Orient under a single banner, the expulsion of the exploiting West, the establishment of Japan’s proper “place in the sun,” and from that, after but a brief struggle, the realization by America and Britain that a new equal had emerged upon the global field, and out of that, a lasting peace with each cooperating with the other in their destined spheres of influence?

  There was a sharp hand clap, the signal by the privy seal that the Emperor was seated.

  Prime Minister Prince Konoye raised his head, upright gaze turned toward the Emperor. It was a breach of protocol--to look directly at him was uncouth--but after all, as boys they had once been friends.

  He sat there, so curious looking. Pale porcelainlike skin, dressed in the field uniform of the cavalry, thick glasses distorting his eyes, almost fragile. Dare he think it: if met on the street in other circumstances the Emperor might be mistaken for a bank clerk, a professor, or the owner of a dusty bookstore. And he wondered if inwardly this man, the grandson of the great Meiji, might not have secretly wished for a fate different than this one.

  Bowing formally to the throne, Konoye bent over stiffly and picked up a report, its cover bound in ornate red silk. Turning back the cover he began to speak formally, in the ritual language of the court, ignoring the eyes of the others upon him, that of the President of the Privy Council, of Matsuoka, the assembled heads of the army and navy.

  It was July 2, 1941, and Konoye began to read: “Outline of National Policies in View of Present Developments . .”

  French Indochina was to be occupied within the month, under the pretense of establishing more bases to wage the campaign against China, and also to interdict the road across Burma, built with so called “volunteer help” from America, that was feeding supplies to the Nationalists. But the move was a cover as well to establish bases for the eventual attack on Malaya, Singapore, and from there on into the oil-rich Dutch East Indies.

  Such a move would surely provoke America to war, and it was now stated that such a war must open with a blow that would cripple the Americans in the opening minutes of battle, and thus in one strike finish their will to fight . . . then to seek a generous, negotiated peace, perhaps even to make concessions about partial withdrawal from the quagmire of China, a concession that could never be made now with the Americans insisting upon such without any concessions from them in return.

  He read the report, forcing his voice to remain calm. It was, he realized, without doubt the boldest move Japan might very well have made in over six hundred years, since its rejection of the demands of the Mongol emperor Kublai to swear submission or face an invasion of annihilation. They had resisted, the gods had intervened with the sending of the Divine wind, the typhoon of legend, the Kamikaze, and Japan had survived. May the gods intervene again, he prayed even as he read his report.

  He knew what would transpire once he was done speaking. The privy seal, always the cautious one and in such a meeting the voice of the Emperor, who by tradition would remain silent, would argue against, suggesting instead waiting to see if Hitler’s legions did succeed in collapsing Stalin, thus leaving the back door open to take Siberia, or at least continuing negotiating with the Vichy government, and each argument would be shot down in turn by the army and or the navy, now set on their course.

  The Emperor would say nothing; it was all but unheard of for him to do so. The meeting would wind down, for after all, it was already mere ritual. The decision had been reached days ago. Once the report by Konoye was accepted, it would be taken to the secretariat, who would transcribe it into traditional form on the finest of silk paper. It would then be signed by Konoye, the representatives of the army and navy, presented before the Emperor to gaze upon without comment, then taken before the keeper of the privy seal, who would stamp it with the Royal seal of the emperors. And at that moment, on July 2, 1941, it would become
official policy. Japan would seize French Indochina by force before the month was out, and then prepare for war with America, Britain, France, and the Dutch before the year was out. The move to the south was now official policy and was as certain as the juggernaut rolling forward toward its destiny.

  Hanoi, Vichy French Indochina: 23 July 1941

  This was beyond ironic, Cecil thought as he stepped off the plane and into the boiling heat of Hanoi on a late summer afternoon. Six months ago he would have been arrested and thrown in jail the moment the plane landed, because Vichy France and Great Britain were at war. But now, though technically still governed by Vichy France, this was as much Japanese territory as Nanking, Formosa, or Manchukuo.

  Japanese planes, mostly twin-engine transports but also some bombers and their new Zeroes, lined the far side of the tarmac.

  The half dozen other passengers getting off the flight from Hong Kong, flown by a Portuguese airline based out of Macao, were mostly Westerners, plus several Japanese businessmen.

  Walking the short distance to the terminal he was already drenched in sweat, and once inside endured fifteen chilled minutes of questioning at the customs gate by a typical French official.

  The French were still seething with anger over what they deemed the British betrayal of sinking their main fleet shortly after France’s collapse last year. For Churchill to have left that fleet intact, most likely ready to go over to the Germans, would have been madness, but it had triggered the declaration of war against England by the Vichy government.

  But in the outer colonies there was still a strange flow of traffic, smuggling, looking the other way if the proper bribes were offered. And besides, his visa was stamped by the Japanese Consulate Office in Hong Kong, listing him as a British correspondent, with documentation that he was there as a guest of the Japanese consulate in Hanoi. In other words, this French official had to dance to the tune of his new masters and did not like it.

  Cecil’s French was barely adequate at best, and, of course, the customs officer refused to speak anything other than French at top speed, so the interview was going nowhere fast.

  As the officer played out his usual officious role, shaking his head, slowly reading each word of the attached documents, while two of his lackeys, both subservient Vietnamese, took Cecil’s single piece of luggage and shoulder bag apart, the small line of disembarking passengers sweltered in the heat, swearing under their breath, the Frenchmen in the crowd becoming increasingly irate, until final a Japanese official came over, made a quick scan of Cecil’s passport and documents, said something in French which made the customs officer give Cecil a withering glance, and Cecil was ushered out of the terminal to a waiting car.

  As the Japanese official opened the car door he smiled, and in perfect English introduced himself. “I am Shogo Mikawa,” he announced. “I’m with the Consulate Office here in Hanoi. I was sent to bring you to our office and will serve as your guide for the next day.”

  Cecil nodded his thanks, tipped the Vietnamese porter who brought out his bag, with a shirt sleeve sticking out of it, all the clothing inside now rumbled, and placed it in the boot of the rather nicely appointed Citroen. Cecil and Mikawa slid into the backseat, Mikawa ordering the driver to leave, the driver doing so with gusto, as if eager to get out of the airport as quickly as possible before someone changed their mind and came out to collar the Englishman and drag him back in for more questioning.

  A small cabinet set into the armrest between Cecil and Mikawa was opened, and inside was a bottle of Vichy water and of all things one of bourbon and, mercifully, an insulated bucket of ice. Cecil gladly made himself a drink.

  So far, so good, he thought, looking over at his host, who, so typical of such officials, had a permanent smile frozen on his face.

  “Rather unusual for a British reporter to request a visit here in these times,” Mikawa opened, dropping all the protocols of inquiring about health, family, the prospect of mutual friends, and, so typical of Japanese who spoke flawless English, a discussion as to which school he had attended in Britain or the States.

  “My newspaper wanted an article on the operations here, the obvious cooperation of the Vichy government with yours. I promised to write a balanced report.”

  “Such as the ones you filed from Nanking?” Mikawa interjected, his smile not breaking.

  Cecil looked at him steadily, not breaking eye contact. “I was there and wrote what I saw. Did you see what happened in Nanking?” Cecil shot back.

  Mikawa hesitated and then lowered his gaze. “No, and many of us were shamed by the revelations. It shall never happen again.”

  “But the officers in command are still in command, with only a mild public reprimand that carried no meaning.”

  Mikawa nodded and looked away as they drove through the airport gate and merged into the traffic made up primarily of bicycles, carts drawn by oxen or humans, and the occasional car, usually a Renault, but also half a dozen open trucks loaded with Japanese soldiers. The Citroen was such a curious contrast that the gendarme directing traffic at the intersection outside the airport gate, obviously French, gazed intently at it, making it stop for a moment before finally waving it through the intersection, turning his back as it passed.

  A Japanese flag was mounted to the front fender, marking it as a diplomatic vehicle, and Cecil found it amusing how Mikawa’s frozen smile shifted for a second to anger at this deliberate display of disrespect. As they circled along the edge of the airport before turning in toward the center of the city he saw a flight of half a dozen bombers coming in, one of them trailing smoke from a feathered engine. Two Zeroes were weaving back and forth above the damaged plane, which was touched down with obvious skill on the part of the pilot. On the far side of the tarmac were a row of newly constructed hangars, dozens of Japanese planes drawn up in front, twin-engine bombers primarily and some of the new Zeroes.

  Cecil knew better than to even think about reaching into his shoulder bag for his notebook, but still he did a quick mental count.

  “I can provide you later with any information you might have as to how many aircraft are based here,” Mikawa offered in a friendly tone.

  “Thank you, I’d like that.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence.

  “Your real reason for being here?” Mikawa suddenly asked, and Cecil was startled by the directness. There was a change in tone and a bit of a chill. Was this man an agent of their secret police?

  Mikawa nodded as if reading his mind.

  “Yes, I am with our security police, but do not worry, my assignment is to ensure your safety, not to interrogate you, and you will safely board your plane tomorrow back to Hong Kong.”

  “My visa allows me to stay a week,” Cecil replied sharply.

  Mikawa finished his drink, refilled his glass with ice, and then poured some more bourbon, offering to do the same for Cecil, who refused.

  “I’ll explain that in a minute, but let us not waste time on game-playing and fencing,” Mikawa said. “Our purpose for allowing you to visit here, on what is technically the territory of an enemy of Great Britain, is for you to return with a message.”

  “For whom, my readers?”

  Mikawa smiled. ”No, for the prime minister.”

  Cecil kept his best bridge player gaze locked on Mikawa as if the words had not even registered.

  “Go on, then,” Cecil said noncommittally.

  “The mere fact that you are here is an interesting paradox that Great Britain should take note of.”

  “How so?”

  “Until our movement here into northern Indochina, this was territory that you were technically at war with, a government that had gone over to Hitler.”

  “With whom you have an alliance as well,” Cecil replied.

  Mikawa nodded and then waved his hand dismissively. ”If we were truly allied with that madman you are fighting, we would have attacked the Soviet Union last month. Stalin is now putting up more of a fight than many though
t those first few weeks, when some analysts were claiming that the Nazi columns would be in Moscow by now. But we did not enter that war, though I can assure you, there were some who wished to do so.”

  “I agree,” Cecil replied, “but there could be some who might say that Japan stayed its hand against a crumbling Soviet Union because it is casting its gaze elsewhere.”

  Mikawa again nodded.

  “Yes, that is obvious here and will be even more obvious in a few more hours.”

  Cecil stiffened at that, “a few more hours.” What did he mean?

  Mikawa smiled.

  “Ah, now I really have your interest. Perhaps you really are a newspaperman and think you have, as the Americans call it, ‘a scoop.’ “

  “What is it?” Cecil asked, not able to contain himself.

  “Ah, give me my moment for fun,” Mikawa said, “but first, a genuine question for you.”

  Cecil tried not to let his frustration show.

  “Of course, go on.”

  “You filed a report from Thailand back in January, that you had witnessed the brief war fought between that country and France. Were those your true impressions?”

  Cecil nodded, surprised at how good a dossier this agent had on him.

  The short undeclared war between Vichy France and Thailand had all but been lost in the background at a time when war raged across Europe and China. A border dispute had developed in a remote comer of Southeast Asia and flared into a brief but bitter conflict of several weeks’ duration. The Siamese thoroughly trounced the French. It was stunning, an Oriental nation that most Westerners dismissed as quaint with a certain storybook quality to it, taking on the French and shoving them back in a humiliating rout. “The Siamese proved to be tough. After all, it is their land, their environment. I did not directly witness any of the fighting but could see where the French were completely out of their league against the guerilla tactics of their opponents.”