Cecil went into the house, James following, drink in hand, trying to act casual, though on reflection he realized that their conversation had been completely innocent, just mere speculation, no secrets exchanged or actions agreed upon that might offend their hosts.
The house was a curious anomaly, actually a touch of England in a way. The school had been laid out with advice from the British navy; and as a result several of the buildings, those used by Western instructors and visitors, were European in design, complete to a print over the fireplace of a naval action from the Napoleonic Wars.
With the houseboy off for the evening, Cecil opened the door himself and a smile creased his face.
“Lieutenant Fuchida! A delight to see you!”
Standing behind Cecil, James caught a glimpse of the visitor. He was a naval lieutenant, trim, sporting a narrow, dapper-looking mustache, body lean, and like nearly every naval officer he had met here, obviously in excellent condition. He was a bit tall for a Japanese, and at the sight of James he came stiffly to attention and saluted.
Custom was, James being indoors and with hat off, a salute was not necessary, but he returned it anyway.
“Lieutenant Mitsuo Fuchida, may I present Lieutenant Commander James Watson of the United States Navy.”
James stepped forward to the doorway, and Fuchida, stiffly formal, bowed slightly, hesitated, then shook James’s extended hand. His grasp was warm and firm. Cecil guided their visitor in and held up his glass as a signal.
“If it is your Scottish whiskey, a pleasure,” Fuchida said, with a smile.
Again an uncomfortable moment of silence as Cecil filled the glasses again and held his up.
“To the Emperor,” Cecil said formally, and Fuchida, smiling, held his glass up and turned to the north, facing toward the Imperial Palace as he sipped his drink, then turned back.
“And the honor of your visit?” Cecil asked. “I didn’t even know you were here.”
“I came down from the Koyshu Naval Station to talk with the final-year cadets about choosing aviation,” Fuchida said. “When I heard Commander Watson was here, I decided to come a bit early to hear his talk. And, of course, to see you as well, my old friend. I was a student here in 1921, and any time I can come back to Etajima I love visiting. The world seemed so young and innocent back then.”
“And what did you think of my talk?” Watson asked.
Fuchida smiled and motioned to one of the chairs on the veranda, and the three sat down.
“What I expected,” Fuchida said. “Of course you have to follow your orders on such things as I would.”
“So, as we Americans would say, it did not scour with you.”
“Scour?”
“American slang,” James said, “it means that the dirt sticks to the plow rather than dig a good furrow.”
“Scour,” Fuchida said with a smile. “I’ll try and remember that. No, it did not scour, as you say.”
“Why?”
Fuchida chuckled, and the manner of his soft laughter made James warm to him.
“The treaty, on all sides, was by and about politicians. I think if they had left it to us naval people, a fair accommodation would have been made. Realize that we Japanese are proud. That treaty says we are not of the same class as you on the world stage.”
James said nothing. For the truth was, they were not, though they wished to be. Beyond that, if their aspirations of imperialism were landward, Manchuria and anyone could guess that sooner or later they would turn to that trouble-wracked insane asylum of China. So why the need for a deep ocean navy equal to that of the West? And yet he could see the issue of national pride.
“So, still flying?” Cecil asked, changing the subject.
Fuchida nodded excitedly. “I was training some of the new pilots for Akagi. A beautiful ship, but at the moment I’m land-bound, helping to train new pilots on shore,” and he shrugged and sighed, “keep your nose down in the turn, go around, let’s do it again.”
And then he chuckled, the other two joining in at the lieutenant’s obvious frustration with breaking in new trainees. No matter what the field, it could be frustrating in the extreme.
“I heard your carrier pilot program is the toughest in the world,” James said quietly. “I’d be curious to compare some of your young men with those on our Saratoga or Lexington.”
“An interesting challenge,” Fuchida replied eagerly. “I’d like to try my hand at your new Devastator monoplane.”
“I can see what I can arrange,” James said, knowing it was a lie. The fact that Fuchida even mentioned the new torpedo bomber meant he was current with American naval development. No one would ever clear a Japanese pilot to “try his hand” on it.
“I flew down here,” Fuchida replied with a grin. “I can give you a flight back up to Tokyo tomorrow if you wish, save you the train trip.”
Absolutely startled, James could not reply for a moment. He hated to admit that he had never flown and frankly the prospect terrified him.
“Capital idea!” Cecil exclaimed. “By God, my friend, how come you never offered a flight to me?”
“Because you never asked!” Fuchida laughed.
Though scared to death at the prospect, how could he keep face and refuse, James now realized.
“You can stay to hear my talk. We can enjoy a lunch together, and I’ll have you back to your ship on time.”
James could only nod in agreement, and Fuchida smiled with open delight. “A deal then, as you Americans say.”
James did not even bother to ask Cecil for a refill of his drink; he poured a few more ounces for himself.
“Your question about our training program,” Fuchida continued. “Yes, our program is tough but fair. I wash out three quarters of my students before they have even finished primary training. Better to frustrate them at the start and keep them on the ground then have them wind up killing themselves and destroying one of our precious frontline planes in the process. Three quarters more are grounded or transferred to be bombardiers and navigators, while in advanced training. To fly and land off the pitching deck of a carrier, I believe you have to be born with the instinct, and my job is to find those with that instinct and spare the lives of the rest.”
“So you only graduate a hundred or so a year,” James replied.
“You have been studying us, haven’t you?” Fuchida replied, now a bit wary.
“It’s just that everyone’s carriers seem to be terribly expensive. By the time you are done, the pilots are literally worth their weight in gold. And as of yet, these new ships have yet to prove themselves in battle. My captain on board the Oklahoma says he can swat down carrier planes like flies as he closes in, and one salvo of fourteen-inch guns will end it, with the enemy carrier going straight to the bottom.”
“Do you believe that?” Fuchida asked, a bit of a defensive note in his voice.
“Just what my captain says,” James replied noncommittally.
“Give us another five to seven years,” Fuchida announced proudly, and his voice was now eager, “you and us. The crates we fly now are not much better than what we all used in the last war. But your Devastator is a step forward. When a plane can lift off with a ton of weaponry, fly at two hundred miles an hour, and strike a target three hundred miles away, then your battleship admirals, and mine, will have to sing a different song.”
“That American chap, Mitchell,” Cecil interjected. “That’s what he said after his planes sank that captured German battleship, and look what happened to him.”
“That was stupidity. A shame how you Americans treated him,” Fuchida replied. “He should have been decorated, not dismissed.”
James did not reply to that one. The Billy Mitchell incident was still a bit too hot to talk about. It was evident that the destruction his planes had wrought had been something of a setup, sinking a captured and condemned German battleship that was anchored in place and not maneuvering. Mitchell had gone outside the reservation with his outspoken o
pinions to the newspapers; but then again, maybe this eager pilot was right and progress would overtake the beloved ships of his navy. It was hard to imagine, though, that the old Oklahoma could ever be threatened by a crate made of canvas and wood, puttering along at a hundred miles an hour.
“I’m curious as to how you two now see naval aviation and what your admirals are doing with it,” Fuchida asked, as he motioned for a refill of his drink, which Cecil quickly complied with.
Cecil and James looked at each other. If this was an attempt to pump information it was done poorly.
Fuchida laughed softly. “I’m not spying on two who more than a few have said are themselves spies. It’s just that I knew Commander Watson here witnessed the use of Saratoga and Lexington in your war games. In a way they are sister ships of Akagi and Kaga, since all were converted from being battle cruisers after the treaty was signed. Just wanted to catch up with you, Cecil, and hear what Commander Watson has to say.”
James could sense a genuineness in this man. He was blunt, direct, and obviously filled with professional curiosity. And it was indeed curious, this relationship between sailors of what might be opposing nations. Between hostilities they would often openly talk about doctrine, publish articles each other had read in their respective journals, chat at conferences, and do as the three of them were now doing.
“Oh, I guess I could say the usual,” James replied. “Though I am not up to speed on such things. That Panama war game was several years back. You undoubtedly have read the journal reports on it. The red team carrier slipped through at a flank-speed run, launched before dawn, and claimed they had blown the locks of the canal by dropping flour bags on them. The judges ruled otherwise. I was onboard Maryland at the time and didn’t see it. So there is no way I can claim to be an expert.”
“But do you think the attack was valid.”
James hesitated. But there was something about Fuchida that was so damn disarming, his open, almost boyish enthusiasm about the subject.
“On our side it is the usual debate,” Fuchida said. “The battleship admirals claim that their ships were, are, and will always be the deciders of battle. Those who were at Tsushima think the carrier was nothing but a scout ship, to locate the enemy fleet, then to serve as fire-direction control for the battleships once they’d closed to firing range.”
Watson chuckled. “Same here. Though remember, I’m signals, not a flyer.”
“And are you trying our codes?” Fuchida asked good-naturedly. “You delivered your speech in Japanese, and I must say it was fairly good.”
“Just have a knack for language,” James said noncommittally. “The Japanese is just sort of a hobby. My wife is half-Japanese, by the way. Her mother was born in Japan, so let’s just say it’s to get on the good side of my mother-in-law.
“How do you two know each other?” James asked, changing the topic.
“Oh, my friend Mitsuo here and I go back a bit. He comes by on a regular basis to talk to the cadets about aviation and then to practice his English on me.”
“And steal some of his scotch,” Fuchida replied. “I will say that any talk you might hear about conflict between us and you, our navies I mean, push it aside. We see our descent from the traditions of His Majesty’s Navy. Remember, the founder of our Imperial Navy, the Great Togo,” and as he said the name he bowed ever so slightly, “long ago trained in England. So there is a brotherhood there.”
“And as for us?” James asked quietly.
Fuchida turned to look at him.
“The Pacific is a vast ocean, my friend. There is room enough for both in their proper spheres of influence.”
“Which are?”
Fuchida chuckled and looked down at his nearly empty drink, making a motion, and Cecil poured out a few more ounces. The bottle was now well more than two thirds empty, and James wondered just how many his friend still had in reserve out here.
“The Philippines, I can see what was almost the accidental placing of it in your hands after your defeat of the Spanish. I actually do believe your American idealistic claim that you wish to decolonize as soon as practical, though your big businesses might object.
“But realize, if Japan is to survive in this modern world it needs the same resources your nations already have at your fingertips… steel, coal, rubber, various metals, and now, increasingly, oil for both ships and airplanes.
“Let me ask you, Cecil, would your government willingly give up its oil holdings in the Middle East?”
Cecil chuckled. In the old days of Admiral Fisher and the naval reforms prior to the war, seizing and holding secured oil, infinitely more efficient than coal to power a battleship, had been a cornerstone of his policy and, by extension, the British government’s.
“We make it fair enough for the locals, and we did bring some semblance of order to the region,” Cecil replied.
“Fair enough for you,” and he now turned to James, “but it is no question, you Americans are swimming in oil. For Japan, there are a few small wells in the far northern islands, barely a trickle of a few thousand barrels leaking out of them. So there alone we are vulnerable. Nearly every drop of oil that powers our ships we must purchase and at a premium from one or the other of you or the Dutch in the East Indies.”
“So you would like to secure these resources?” James asked.
Fuchida smiled. “Trade is better of course,” he replied. “And, dear friends, don’t quote me, I’m just a naval lieutenant trying to get those above me interested in flying.”
“But of course,” Cecil replied smoothly.
“I cannot speak for policy,” Fuchida continued, “but I think it fair to say that if wiser heads prevail, on both sides, the three of us can find far more in common than what might divide us. There are, of course, the Soviets to contend with; and remember, they are not at your back door, but they are most certainly at ours.
“Though Stalin has backed away from the more radical talk of the International and Trotsky has fallen, still they export their disease into China with this new revolutionary leader there, this Mao. Imagine China as Communist, and you and I might find ourselves side by side trying to block them.”
“I would think that the Nationalists have him well in hand,” James said.
Fuchida shook his head.
“Give it five years,” he replied. “You Westerners do not understand the Chinese as we do. Remember, we have had two thousand years of dealing with them; you have not. Oh, you have your sentimental visions of them from your missionaries; but China can only be ruled by one central authority, and for now, the thought of any democratic rule, the line that the Nationalists parrot to you in order to receive aid, flies in the face of their history.”
“So you will go into China?” James asked.
“I did not say that,” Fuchida said forcefully. “And besides, even if that did happen, it would not be a naval affair, it would be the army, and they are a different breed.”
He fell silent and James registered something in his manner and speech. A hint of disdain in his reference to the army.
“Another?” Cecil asked, holding up what was left of the bottle.
Fuchida hesitated, making as if to stand up to leave.
“Come on, my friend,” Cecil said. “I don’t have to teach tomorrow. I look forward to hearing your talk, then seeing the two of you off in your plane. Besides, I want to hear about your insanity with this flying. Bad enough getting off the ground, but from the deck of a ship?”
Fuchida smiled and held his glass back up, and there was something in the gesture that made James smile.
Within a minute, loosened up a bit by a few more sips of scotch, the Japanese pilot was talking animatedly about the future of naval aviation, dreams of new designs, of planes that could cruise at four hundred kilometers per hour, how the battleship was obsolete, as proven by the now disgraced Billy Mitchell, and all three were soon sharing the usual complaints about the hidebound nature of battleship admirals lost in the pas
t.
And as the hours slipped by James found, at first, an admiration for this young man, so dedicated, so intellectual and visionary. Perhaps it was fueled by the scotch, perhaps by sentiment, but it was not all that long ago that he and Cecil had been like him, though their passion was code breaking.
With the coming of dawn another bottle had been consumed, and the three were trading songs, at first traditional ballads of their respective branches, and from there descending into bawdy chanties that seemed to be amazingly universal in their plots and themes, no matter what the language.
Near Tokyo
11 April 1934
2:30 p.m.
“Hung over or not, my friend, I think it’s time you saw what we can do!”
James, strapped down in the backseat of the open cockpit American-made Stearman biplane, wanted to beg for mercy.
The flight, well so far, had been relatively uneventful, even though he did vomit within five minutes after they had lifted off from the grass strip, leaving behind Cecil and several dozen cadets who had attended Fuchida’s animated lecture about the future of naval aviation.
He tried to conceal what was happening in the backseat of the plane as he clutched the paper bag, losing his breakfast and the very, very light lunch he had all but avoided in anticipation of the flight.
But Fuchida had heard the wretching noises, in spite of the howling of the wind around them, and chuckled through the voice tube… “still hung over?”
James could only groan. He was indeed hung over, and when finished vomiting, embarrassed, he didn’t know what to do until Fuchida told him to just simply toss the bag over the side.
He had leveled out at seven thousand feet, flying by dead reckoning along the east coast of Japan, and James, after a few more queasy moments, found that with the higher altitude, the cool, actually cold air, and the steadiness of the pilot’s hand, his stomach had settled down. After a half hour he was no longer clutching the sides of the cockpit with a death grip, and after forty-five minutes, had even at last taken up Fuchida’s offer for him to handle the stick and rudder.
Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th Page 5
