The Passion and the Glory

by Christopher Nicole

  He swung his glasses, saw the third carrier burst into flames.

  ‘Holy shitting cows!’ Waite observed. ‘They’ve got the lot.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Walt reminded him. The dive bombers were disappearing back into the clouds, having completed their mission, and visibility was lifting all the time. Now he could make out, several miles to the north, the shape of the fourth carrier, which had been, providentially for the Japanese, far enough away from her sisters to be hidden by cloud from the American airmen.

  ‘Three out of four ain’t bad,’ Waite said. ‘Take her down, Mr McGann, and we’ll move closer.’

  Walt gave the orders to dive, and Tecumsah sank beneath the waves, approaching the scene of destruction at periscope depths. ‘I reckon they’re all going,’ Waite said, and let Walt have a look. He agreed; the three Japanese ships were sinking, their surviving crews being taken off by the clustering destroyers, while their decks were a mass of exploding planes and fuel stores and ammunition, as they listed more and more.

  ‘If we were to loose a couple of torpedoes into those destroyers we’d do some damage,’ he said.

  ‘Naw.’ Waite shook his head. ‘They’re rescuing people, not shooting at us. And if we were to stir them up, they’d come after us, and then some.’

  It’s our business to stir them up, Walt wanted to point out, but he decided against it. ‘Well, sir, we should certainly see if we can close up on that other carrier. Three out of four may be good, but four out of four would be better.’

  ‘She’ll be high-tailing it for home,’ Waite said.

  ‘She isn’t, sir.’ Walt gave him back the periscope. ‘She’s sending off a flight.’

  Waite peered into the eyepiece, watched the planes rising from the deck of the distant carrier.

  ‘They’re looking for our ships,’ Walt said urgently.

  ‘Well, they’re airborne,’ Waite said. ‘We sure can’t do anything about them now.’

  ‘We can make sure they have nothing to come back to,’ Walt begged.

  ‘That’s a job for the planes. We’ll keep her under surveillance, and report her position if they don’t find her. What the hell, Walt, no matter what happens now, this is a victory. The biggest victory of the war so far. We’ve socked it to them, boy. We’ve socked it to them.’

  Chapter 7

  New Guinea, Pearl Harbour and The Solomons — 1942

  Clive McGann made his way through the palm trees which bordered the track leading to the van Gelderen plantation. It was just dawn, and he moved confidently; the Japanese had returned to Manokwari from all accounts, satisfied that there was no American agent in the Peg Tamrau vicinity — he had not transmitted for over six weeks — and were they to return, he had no doubt he would be warned by Stefanie’s people.

  In an odd way, he had become their leader, now, if not their employer. They came to him to be told what to do. As if he knew. He could only instruct them to continue living their lives as best they could, so that when the Japanese returned they would find nothing out of the ordinary.

  They might even find Frau van Gelderen again well, and superintending the gathering of the copra.

  Supposing they ever returned. The news he had picked up on his radio, some weeks ago now, had to be the most important of the war, so far; certainly it was the most exhilarating — Prince of Wales and Repulse, and Exeter, were at last avenged. This had made it easier for him to remain silent, and not feel he was failing in his job. For despite their stunning defeat at Midway, the Japanese were not yet ready to stop fighting: the traffic passing along the north shore of New Guinea had been heavier this last month than ever before, pointing to a continuous build-up in Rabaul. And he had reported none of it. After Captain Osawa’s visit he had been too afraid to do so — as much for the woman as for himself.

  He stood on the edge of the sadly overgrown tennis lawn, then crossed it quickly to reach the verandah. Here Bhutto waited for him. ‘She is sleeping,’ the butler said. ‘But yesterday she get up.’

  When Clive frowned he continued, ‘Is true. She get up, use the bathroom. And she call for tea.’

  ‘Did she eat anything?’

  ‘When she had the tea, she asked for food,’ Bhutto said. ‘She ate some.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  Bhutto shook his head. ‘Then she slept.’

  But she had got out of bed. Clive went up the stairs, quietly, opened the bedroom door, even more quietly. He was, he supposed, more uncertain than ever of his feelings for this woman. He knew more of her than of any other woman in the world, but he did not know if she understood that, or what her reaction would be when she found out.

  He gazed at the bed, and Stefanie, lying beneath a sheet, turned away from him. It was just a month since he had brought her in here, to undress her and bath her. It had been the first time he had ever seen a naked woman, save for his first day here, when he had watched her entering that very bathroom. Certainly it had been the first time he had ever touched one. He had known a strange mixture of desire, because she was so very desirable, embarrassment, because although he had made her drink the powdered aspirins first, she had not been quite asleep, and horror, at what had been done to her. The membranes of both vagina and anus had been torn and bleeding, from their savage assault by the gin bottle. It had never occurred to him that men could be so bestial, could wish to destroy beauty in such a manner.

  The following day, when he had come to change the dressings, she had been awake. She had screamed, and tried to fight him, apparently believing that he was about to assault her again, and he had had to give her another sedative. He had been back every day, for Bhutto was still afraid to touch her. But Bhutto, and the women, had yet been towers of strength, for it had been necessary to change the sheets every day, as well. He had held Stefanie in his arms while that had been done, as if she had been an incontinent baby, just as he had had to hold her in his arms to spoon soup down her throat to keep her alive. She had stopped fighting him by then, but she would still moan, ‘I know nothing of any American spy.’ Clearly she had not recognised him.

  But yesterday she had moved of her own accord.

  He tiptoed across the room, looked down at her. The sheet was pulled up beneath her armpits, but her shoulders and right arm were exposed. They were terribly thin, because he had with the greatest of difficulty managed to persuade her to accept even soup before yesterday. And there was grey in her hair. Had there been grey before? he wondered. It had always been so neatly brushed, before.

  Her eyes were open, as she stared out of the window on to the upper verandah. She knew there was someone in the room. Clive had picked up enough Dutch to understand her when she asked, ‘Is that you, Bhutto?’

  ‘It’s Clive,’ he said, quietly.

  Her head started to turn, then turned back again, abruptly. Her eyes closed. How much did she remember? There were pink spots in her cheeks.

  ‘Would you like me to leave?’ he asked.

  She made no reply.

  ‘If you are strong enough to get out of bed,’ he said. ‘Then you really have no further need of me. It is just a matter of keeping your mind under control, now. Of knowing that you have survived, and are going to be all right.’ He paused, but she made no response, nor did she open her eyes. ‘It might help,’ he said, ‘if I told you that last month there was a great battle between the American and Japanese fleets, up north, and the Japanese were utterly defeated. They lost four carriers, three in the initial assault, and one a few hours later when she was found by American planes. The Americans lost one carrier. I think that is the end of the Japanese myth of invincibility. I think we are going to win this war, now, Steffi. It is just a matter of time.’ He went to the door. ‘Send Bhutto if you want to see me.’

  He turned the handle, and she spoke, her voice so low he could hardly hear it. ‘Clive! Don’t go,’ she said.

  He closed the door again, and returned to the bedside.

  Stefanie rolled on her back
, the sheet held to her throat. ‘I owe you my life.’

  ‘Not really. You’re a toughie, Steffi.’

  Her lips moved in what might almost have been a smile, very

  briefly. ‘Well, my sanity, certainly. I’m sorry I fought you.’ He licked his lips. ‘Do you … ’

  ‘Yes, I can remember. It was like a nightmare, I suppose. I remember. You were very gentle.’

  ‘I only hope I did all the right things. I don’t know much about, well … ’

  ‘Looking after people? You looked after me very well.’ Her hand moved, and he touched her fingers.

  ‘I wanted to die,’ she said. ‘When they were … ’ she sighed. ‘And afterwards, too. But I’m glad I didn’t. Clive, have we really beaten them?’

  ‘Really and truly. I wish I could’ve been there.’

  ‘I’m glad you were here. Clive, when will the Americans and the British come?’

  ‘One battle doesn’t necessarily end a war, I’m afraid. It could be some time. But we will win, Steffi. We will win, now.’

  ‘And will that man be punished? Osawa?’

  ‘A lot of them will be punished, Steffi.’

  ‘Sometimes I think I don’t ever want to see him again,’ Stefanie said. ‘And then I do want to see him again, hanging. I want him to hang, Clive.’ Her tone was low, but bitter.

  ‘If he’s taken alive, he’ll hang,’ Clive promised. He could understand her hatred, even if he hoped she’d grow out of it. All peoples committed crimes in war, because war itself was the greatest crime of all. He could see no point in bearing grudges. Yet he had hated the Japanese when Prince of Wales had been sinking. Perhaps he still did.

  ‘Now you must eat,’ he told her, ‘and build up your strength. I’ll be back in a couple of days’ time.’

  Her fingers were tight. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Not very far. Just to the clifftop. There has been quite a lot of activity out there recently. I want to see if it’s building.’

  ‘You’re not going to transmit again?’

  ‘It’s my job, Steffi.’

  ‘Clive … if those men, Osawa, came back … I’d die.’ He hesitated, then stooped and kissed her on the forehead. ‘They won’t come back,’ he promised.

  It was a cheap lie, but he could think of nothing else. Of course they wouldn’t come back if he never transmitted again. But he had always known he would have to. Seeing her well again had merely made him into a man again, he supposed, instead of an uncertain boy. When he returned to the hut buried in the trees overlooking the sea, he gazed at a good dozen transports, escorted by both cruisers and destroyers, making their way to the east. To Rabaul, certainly. But where after that? This was by far the biggest troop movement since immediately before the attack on Port Moresby which had brought on the battle of the Coral Sea. The Japanese might have lost a major battle in the north, but they were apparently still determined to advance here in the south. It was his job to do something about that.

  He gazed at the radio for several seconds, before beginning to tap out his message.

  *

  ‘Osawa is an expert at this sort of thing,’ Hashimoto Kurita explained to Admiral Yamamoto. ‘He spent more than a fortnight in the jungles of New Guinea. I tell you, Isoroku, it is a terrible place.’

  ‘All jungles are terrible places,’ Yamamoto agreed. ‘And he found nothing?’

  ‘Nothing. There was a Dutch woman he suspected of being an enemy sympathiser, but he is certain that she had no information. He questioned her quite severely.’

  Yamamoto glanced at him. He preferred not to imagine what to be ‘severely questioned’ by the kempei-tai might involve.

  ‘He is quite sure she had nothing to tell him,’ Hashimoto repeated.

  ‘Is she in prison?’

  ‘No, no. He did not think that necessary. And Captain Tarawa, who is in military command of the area in which this woman lives, wished her to remain. Tarawa fears that the natives will not work unless she is there.’

  ‘That is nonsense,’ Yamamoto said, severely. ‘Anyone will work when driven to it. It may interest you to know that my people picked up a radio signal yesterday.’

  Hashimoto frowned. ‘From Peg Tamrau?’

  ‘They cannot be sure. It was garbled and faint. But it could be important.’ He pointed out of the window to the busy harbour of Rabaul, where a mass of transports and warships was being fuelled and loaded. ‘If an enemy observer saw these ships he would assume we were resuming our advance on Moresby.’

  ‘And aren’t we?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, Hashimoto. But this time we are going to let the army do some fighting. We shall land at Buna on the north coast and march across the mountains.’

  ‘That is a heavy task,’ Hashimoto observed.

  ‘We have no choice.’ Yamamoto gazed at him.

  Hashimoto gazed back. If, as head of the kempei-tai in the war zone, he had seen the confidential reports on the disaster at Midway — which had been represented as a victory to the Japanese people — this was the first time he had seen Yamamoto since. There had been considerable controversy over what had happened or rather, not happened. Diehards had wondered why an admiral who had suffered so comprehensive a defeat had not committed seppuku, like the heroes of previous generations: the public could have been told he had died of a heart attack, without disclosing the true nature of the catastrophe. Of course Hashimoto personally was glad Isoroku had not behaved in the traditional way; quite apart from being a personal friend he was very clearly the most talented man in the Navy, if not the country — Japan could not afford to lose him now. But this was the first time he had seen his friend in over two months; he was still interested in his reactions to the first major setback of his career.

  As Yamamoto recognised. ‘It was one of those freaks of fortune which overtake all men from time to time,’ he said. ‘Our first strike on Midway was not sufficiently successful, and a second strike was deemed necessary by Admiral Nagumo. This involved refuelling the bombers, and while this was happening the American torpedo planes found us. We shot them all down, but that in turn involved using our fighter defence, and they also had to be refuelled. It was pure bad luck that the dive bombers came upon us at that moment. All four aircraft carriers lost, for one of theirs. It is difficult to criticise Nagumo. He was in command of the carrier strike force, and he acted as he thought best. Believe me, I will carry that scar on my heart to my grave, Hashimoto.’

  ‘We can build other aircraft carriers,’ Hashimoto said.

  ‘Not as quickly as the Americans. And even more disastrous is the loss in aircrews. Two hundred and fifty pilots, Hashimoto. Men who have trained for this war for the past ten years. They are truly irreplaceable, unless I am allowed another ten year period to train their successors. That is why this southern perimeter must be stabilised and defended. We must buy time to recoup our losses.’

  ‘Of course. And I must tell you that I am concerned about the southern Solomons. My reports indicate a great deal of American activity down there. There are several reconnaissance planes a day.’

  ‘They are frightened we will expand there. Well, we will do so, just to keep them occupied. Buna, and then Moresby is our prime objective.’

  ‘And if the Americans attack in the Solomons?’

  ‘My dear Hashimoto, the Americans are not yet ready to attack anywhere, nor will they be for a good time yet. They may have won a fortuitous victory, but they still know our strength. We must not let the misfortune of Midway blind us to our very real achievements, or the enemy’s very real hesitancy. He is still afraid of us. We will keep him that way. Now tell me, have you still got that English girl with you?’

  ‘Of course. I would suppose she is behind that wall now, listening to what we say. It is her characteristic.’

  ‘Lend her to me for tonight.’

  Hashimoto raised his eyebrows.

  Yamamoto smiled. ‘Perhaps I feel as you did, when you took her for the first time. I am ang
ry, with my enemies. With the gods, perhaps, for failing me. And I am only in Rabaul for the one night. I wish to sate myself. You have no objection?’

  ‘None at all. Joan,’ Hashimoto said.

  Joan bowed to the two men. She had indeed been listening to their conversation, with joy as she had realised the extent of the Japanese defeat. She was sufficiently exhilarated to defy them. ‘I made a bargain with you, your excellency,’ she said. ‘You cannot make me into a prostitute.’

  ‘For that I will whip you,’ Hashimoto said. ‘How can you be a prostitute when I am lending you to the Commander in Chief?’

  ‘I see that she is still not yet a Japanese,’ Yamamoto observed, getting up. He thrust his fingers into Joan’s hair. ‘I will see what I can do.’

  ‘You have been defeated,’ Joan said defiantly. ‘And you will be defeated again. When you have lost this war, you will have to account for all of your crimes.’

  ‘We will whip her together,’ Hashimoto said. ‘We will make her scream so loudly they will hear her in London.’

  Yamamoto shook his head. ‘She has courage.’ He smiled. ‘And who knows, she may even be right. But I will still enjoy you tonight, Mrs Grimmett. I am afraid that, in the eyes of your countrymen and the Americans, I have already committed so many crimes one more will not matter. I would be disappointed if you made me take you by force.’ He went to the door, and beckoned her. She hesitated, then followed him; he could certainly not be worse than Hashimoto, and he might be a great deal better — he seemed to have the instincts of a gentleman.

  Yamamoto pointed at Hashimoto. ‘And find me that observer. Or those observers. Give that high priority.’

  *

  The band played ‘Anchors Aweigh’ as USS Florida entered Pearl Harbour. Lewis McGann supposed this was about the proudest moment of his life. He had known many previous successes: bringing his crippled destroyer in from the Atlantic in 1918; receiving the Congressional Medal of Honour for that feat; sailing as a youthful executive officer on a world cruise to show the American flag; and more recently, learning that his son was also to receive the nation’s highest award for valour, and for a feat almost identical with his own, save that Walter’s ship had been a submarine instead of a destroyer.