“So does this happen often?” Stanford said in Japanese.
Fuchsia chuckled. “Fortunately, no.”
“I’m glad you are safe, my old friend,” Stanford replied, and the tension of the group eased slightly.
Fuchsia nodded, suddenly unable to reply.
“Perhaps we should arrange our interview for another time,” Stanford said, but Fuchsia shook his head. “Unthinkable,” he replied in English. “Let me shower, have a drink, and give the doctor a moment to poke around. My friend here, Lieutenant Masatake, will take you over to my quarters.”
Masatake came stiffly to attention and saluted, Stanford nodding.
Fuchsia suddenly realized his diplomatic mistake and prayed that Masatake would not reveal it. Masatake was one of the pilots who had machine-gunned and bombed the Panay.
CECIL STANFORD SAT UNCOMFORTABLY in the straight-back chair in Fuchida’s office. Flight Lieutenant Masatake sat across from him, saying little other than to answer with short yes and no answers so that after ten minutes or so there was silence. An enlisted man came in, bowing low to Cecil, offering tea and some hardtack-like linseed cakes with jam on them. They were actually quite good, and standing he took his teacup and slowly walked around the room, looking casually at the photographs lining one wall. Fuchsia from earlier days in a biplane, his infectious grin lighting the picture, of course a picture of the Emperor directly in the center of the room, the far wall lined with charts. He could sense Masatake’s gaze boring into him, and he steered clear of the charts, walking over to the window to look out at the airfield.
A small truck was towing Fuchida’s plane over to one of the hangars, the sides of the plane streaked black with oil.
“I saw the way you guided him in,” Cecil said, looking back to his temporary “host.” “Absolutely masterful flying, just superb.”
“Thank you, sir,” was the laconic reply.
“You took a risk there it seemed, coming down like that off the edge of the landing strip while guiding him in.”
“I knew what I was doing.”
“Of course. Lieutenant Masatake, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cecil looked away, acting casual, sipping his tea.
Masatake said nothing.
And both knew the game. Naval pilots had participated in the Panay attack, and he had heard the rumor that Fuchsia had been sent over to tighten discipline. Was this man one of the attackers?
He looked back but Masatake sat, impassive, that studied pose that Cecil was all so familiar with from his days teaching at Etajima. Calmness in the face of threat, absolute and utter control of all features and gestures.
The door into the office flung open and Masatake leapt to his feet, obviously relieved. Fuchsia came over to the lieutenant and slapped him affectionately on the shoulder.
“Thank you, my friend, and thank you for taking care of our guest.”
Masatake nodded, turned, offered a slight bow to Cecil, and left the room.
Fuchsia was dressed in loose-fitting flight overalls, hair still wet, streaks of oil still under his neck and caked under his closely trimmed fingernails. It was obvious he had rushed to clean up.
“Been to the infirmary yet?” Stanford asked.
Fuchsia chuckled and shook his head and for this moment the bond was there, that wonderful infectious grin, the open smile, the searching eyes.
“I’m dying for a cigarette,” Fuchsia said, motioning for Cecil to sit down. Fuchsia pulled his chair out from behind his desk to create a more comfortable setting and to be closer to his friend.
Cecil shook his head. ‘That medic was right. You breathed in a lot of gunk. You should be in the hospital now on oxygen for the next day or so.”
“Just one,” Fuchsia said, forcing a smile. “Since this war started, Dunhills are impossible to get here.”
Cecil hesitated, reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his silver cigarette case, and opened it, helping Fuchsia to light the smoke.
He inhaled slightly and then was hit with a terrible coughing jag, Cecil pulling out a handkerchief which Fuchsia grasped at and then, embarrassed, balled up in his hand; it was stained black.
“Told you,” Cecil said quietly, as Fuchsia stubbed out the cigarette and sighed. “If it had killed you, your comrades would claim I was an enemy provocateur and most likely shoot me.”
The humor fell flat but then again, Cecil knew it was not all humor now. The barely concealed hostility between the Japanese armed forces and the few Europeans left was palpable, and rumors were coming in of disappearances, of mission churches and hospitals flying American or British flags being shot up.
Fuchsia fell silent, poured a cup of tea for himself, and then offered to refill Cecil’s cup, which he gladly accepted.
“I’m slightly confused,” Fuchsia said. “I thought you were still in the navy. I was told a reporter from a British newspaper was being allowed onto the base to meet with me and my pilots and now you are here.”
“You’re correct on the latter point,” Cecil replied. “Retired from the navy, was going to write a book about my days at Etajima and other things about Japan, but the pension for a retired lieutenant commander is short rations at best. A newspaper offered me a correspondent’s job, so here I am.”
Fuchsia nodded, still smiling. He had been told that the correspondent was, as well, most likely a spy and to be cautious.
There was an awkward pause and Cecil finally broke it. “Tell me about what happened out there?” and he pointed to the plane now being backed into a hangar.
Fuchsia chuckled and gave a short account. “Just a damn lucky shot, or unlucky one could say, depending upon which side you are on,” as he finished up.
“Your target was Nationalist supplies.”
“I’m sorry, my friend, you know I can’t discuss that.”
“There have been numerous reports of the bombing of unarmed villages, strafing of innocent civilians working in the fields, terror tactics.”
Fuchsia stiffened slightly. “Whose reports?”
“Other Westerners here, missionaries; when I was still inside Nationalist lines I witnessed some of the air attacks.”
“Can you differentiate between Japanese army and naval aircraft?”
“Yes, of course. And yes, from what I’ve seen it was Japanese army aircraft doing the attacking.”
Fuchsia nodded. “There are strict orders with naval units to engage only against legitimate targets as defined by the rules of war.”
“The attack on the Panay was by naval aircraft; they were clearly identified.”
Fuchsia did not reply.
“Do you remember Lieutenant Commander Watson?” Cecil asked, voice calm.
“Of course I do.” Fushida grinned. “We corresponded for a while. Said when he retired he wanted to take up flying as a hobby, and I was his inspiration.”
“That might be a bit hard to do now with one hand.”
“What?”
“He was on the Panay,” Cecil replied bitterly, and Fuchsia visibly paled and lowered his head.
“Damn near died. Had to amputate his left hand, had pneumonia from nearly drowning. He’s been beached, retired out of the service as disabled.”
“I’m sorry, so terribly sorry. Perhaps I should write to him.”
“I doubt if he’d even open the letter now,” Cecil replied. “How would you feel if it had been you as a target?”
“I wish I had been out here before it happened,” Fuchsia 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.”
Fuchsia sighed and drew a bit closer.
“Are we talking as frien
ds, Professor Stanford, or as a reporter, Mr. Stanford?”
Cecil said nothing.
“We’ve known each other how long now, nearly ten years?” Fuchsia asked. “Can we make it as friends for a few minutes, off the record, nothing that will go into the newspaper?”
Fuchsia 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,” Fuchsia 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 modern 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?” Fuchsia snapped back.
“You believe in this campaign, don’t you?” Cecil asked.
Fuchsia 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,” Fuchsia 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,” Fuchsia 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.”
Fuchsia said nothing for a moment then sighed. “We are talking now as a reporter, are we not?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Commander Fuchsia.”
“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?”
Fuchsia shifted uncomfortably.
“And the same apologies and restitution have been made. I see no further use for an inquiry in this direction.”
Fuchsia 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?”
Fuchsia 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.
Fuchsia 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,” Fuchsia 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?” Fuchsia cried, voice rising.
“Come with me to Nanking today, walk the streets with me and see.”
Fuchsia 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.”
Fuchsia 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?” Fuchsia 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.”
Fuchsia looked at him coldly as Cecil folded his notebook and stood up, ready to leave.
“You do not see our side of it,” Fuchsia 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,” Fuchsia 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, Fuchsia 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.
Fuchsia 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.
Fuchsia 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.
Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th Page 14
