Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  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 in perfect English. “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 Citro–n. 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 Citro–n 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 noncommittal.

  “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 thought 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 impress
ions?”

  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 corner 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.”

  “And as a Westerner, who were you cheering for?” Mikawa asked.

  Cecil smiled. “I prefer underdogs.”

  “The way England now is against Hitler?”

  Cecil did not reply and looked out the window.

  They were now pushing into the center of Hanoi, encountering a confusing myriad of traffic, the cooling breeze of earlier in their drive, and conversation, replaced now with boiling heat. Mikawa refilled his cut-glass tumbler with ice, a splash of bourbon, and the rest Vichy water, Cecil doing the same. He wished he could scoop out more of the ice and rub his neck and forehead with it, an absurd thought, but he did wonder how anyone could stand this place for long in midsummer; it felt worse than India. He looked ahead, to the confusion of traffic, the ox carts, the shops closed now during the midday heat, and yes, the beautiful young women on bicycles slowly weaving their way past the car, which had been reduced to a crawl.

  “This big event you mentioned,” Cecil asked, breaking the silence.

  “Oh yes, you did answer my question, so now it is my turn,” Mikawa replied.

  Cecil looked back at him.

  “Starting at midnight tonight Japan will occupy all of French Indochina.” Stunned, Cecil could not reply for a moment, his mind racing. Their move of earlier this year forcing the French to allow air bases in the north of Indochina to prosecute Japan’s war in China proper had triggered a firestorm of protest from Roosevelt. America had notched up its stance, now openly sending supplies to the Nationalists through Burma, and contrary to accepted international law, was allowing its military officers to take “leaves of absence” without loss of seniority or benefits, to volunteer as pilots and advisors to the Nationalists.

  It had angered him as well, for it showed how craven the Vichy government truly was, to cave in to Japanese demands without a fight. For all practical purposes it meant that here, in the Pacific, France was now openly allied with Japan.

  But the blowback from such a move, he did not understand.

  “Our transport ships are already approaching the harbors at Hue, Haiphong, and Saigon. There will be no conflict. By this time tomorrow naval units will be in the harbor, troops occupying key positions and aircraft moving down from China and launched from carriers to establish bases. The French administration will stay in place but will now be assisted by us in an advisory role.”

  Cecil could hear the touch of mocking disdain in Mikawa’s voice when he said “advisory role”; it meant that Europeans were now puppets answering to their new master in the East.

  “Why?” Cecil finally asked. “You and I both know that Roosevelt has already made it clear that such a move would provoke the harshest of economic embargoes on your country. Is the trade-off really worth it?”

  Mikawa stiffened slightly.

  “Always it is Roosevelt. What right does America have to meddle in our affairs and relations with France here in the Orient? A colony is always more advantageous when it comes to such things,” Matawa replied. “Would you want your India as a colony or an independent nation making far more difficult trade agreements? We are at war and we need Indochina, it is that simple. Why this should upset America is beyond us.”

  “Because America sees it as yet another step in your Imperialism and will wonder what next. It is the same question we had to ask ourselves three years ago when Hitler kept making one demand, and then another, and another and each time Chamberlain backed down, until finally there were no more corners to back into.”

  Their car, which felt like the inside of an oven, finally crawled up to the jammed intersection at the center of the city, a mad swirling kaleidoscope of carts, cycles, autos, the occasional rickshaw, and a lone French gendarme signaling and waving his baton like an orchestra conductor. He saw their car, the flag on the fender, and like the previous policeman, turned away and made them wait.

  “Damn French,” Mikawa muttered, and though he did not say it, Cecil felt the same, even more so now with the news just given. Their caving in of the previous year had left England alone, to survive by the narrowest of margins; their actions here now in the Pacific might very well be the domino falling that would truly trigger total war in the Pacific. The gendarme finally turned back to them and with a dismissive wave, gestured for them to cross the crowded intersection. A few blocks ahead Cecil could see the flag of the Japanese Consulate Office.

  “What about my hotel?” he asked.

  “Oh, given the sentiment in the streets these days by the French, we thought it safer if you would be our guest for the evening before your return flight tomorrow.”

  He paused for a moment, smile still the same. “And besides, it would be tiresome for all concerned. You’ll be tempted to somehow try and make a phone call or get a message out regarding the secret I just shared with you, and I’d have to place a dozen agents to watch you, when I prefer to see them used elsewhere today.”

  “You mean I flew all the way down here to be your guest, and tomorrow will be sent packing?”

  “Please don’t see it that way, sir,” Mikawa replied softly. “You will have your byline of reporting from Hanoi on the day we occupy this country, which will make your newspaper happy with your scoop, and as first alluded to, we would like your message to your friend to move as swiftly as possible.”

  “With your occupation of Indochina,” Cecil said sharply, “my government can but see one thing clearly. The bases you now have will be seen as a direct threat within striking range of our interests in Malaya and Singapore. I think you will hear a very sharp reaction from Parliament the moment this becomes public.”

  “And that is precisely why our government was more than happy to allow you this visit here at this time. We want a message conveyed back personally from a Western observer to his trusted friend.” Cecil did not respond for a moment. Of course they knew, they most likely knew ever since Nanking, that he was in the employ of Churchill. First privately when Churchill was out of office, and since May of 1940, officially part of British intelligence in the Far East, still maintaining the guise of a correspondent while having the unique portfolio of reporting only to, and directly to, the prime minister.

  “Go on,” he finally said.

  “Our move into Indochina should in no way be construed as a buildup to a threat against your holdings in the south. The last thing we desire is a conflict with England. Our primary concern is to finish this war in China. The economic burden it has created for us is crippling, and unless soon brought to a successful conclusion will bankrupt us.

  “That is revealing much to you and showing even our weakness. We ask that if the prime minister can use his influence to stay Roosevelt and his threats the situation can be resolved to the benefit of all.”

  “And if not?” Cecil asked, “assuming somehow that I actually can convey this message of yours.”

  “We prefer the message be a positive one; speculations about ‘if not,’ as you put it, are fruitless.”

  Mikawa acted as if he were hesitating but then continued.

  “Sir, the performance of your air force in defending your home island was superb. The entire world watched with awe. But as to your army and navy on distant fronts? Dare I mention the complete deba
cle of but little more than two months ago in Greece, Crete, the current rout in North Africa? Does England really wish to engage in yet another war, a war against a modern navy and not just a motley collection of ships that the Germans have, and to do so on a front ten thousand miles away? I daresay your government must realize that peril, and I daresay as well that your public would wish to avoid such a conflict at all cost, given that you are still fighting for your life with an enemy but twenty-five miles off your coast.

  “Please think on that and please convey our desire for your government’s understanding regarding the action to take place tomorrow, and the consequences if they do not, and please convey our strongest wish that your government move to bridle in Roosevelt.”

  Cecil bristled at what was now an open threat but said nothing. There was nothing he could or should say now. The message was what should concern him. But the term “bridle”—he wondered if that was deliberate, with the insult fully intended.

  “After all, for both you and America, the real enemy is Germany, not us. Let us fulfill what we must and then perhaps a warmer understanding between us can be achieved.”

  Cecil looked at the agent sitting beside him and could sense the cynicism behind the offer. There was but one reason for Japan to occupy all of Indochina and to ignore the threat, which Roosevelt would fully carry out, regardless of what Churchill might say… to impose an oil embargo, which most certainly would trigger a war.

  The bastards no longer care, he realized, and they actually think they can beat us. And there was a moment of fear in Cecil’s heart. If their full fury was turned against Singapore, the East Indies, and any sortie offered by the Americans, at this moment, they most likely would beat us here. It means war is inevitable, Cecil thought to himself as the car finally lurched to a halt and he was shown in, with great ceremony, to the Consulate Office, his prison for the night, before being sent back the following day as messenger boy, bearing a useless message which he knew with utter certainty was a lie.

  Aboard the USS Augusta

  Argentina Bay, Newfoundland

  12 August 1941