Hirota, a bit surprised, looked at him. “Sir?”
“Just that, sir,” Grew pressed. “I cannot speak officially at this moment, but unofficially I believe my government will ultimately accept this letter with the spirit intended, that what occurred was a terrible mistake. But frankly, sir, we both know it was not a mistake, as far as some in your military are concerned. Already we are receiving reports from American missionaries that the display of our flag over churches, hospital compounds, schools, and refugee centers, rather than deterring attacks, is triggering them.”
Hirota reddened. “Sir, in the confusion of war, tragedies happen.”
“And that is precisely what I am addressing. You know me, sir. You know my desire from the day I first set foot on your shores was to work with all my powers to ensure peace between our nations. How do we move from here to ensure peace?” Hirota shifted uncomfortably, and Grew studied him carefully, very carefully.
Grew stood up and returned to his desk, picked up a file folder and, returning, handed it to Hirota.
“Sir, please examine the contents. Those were transmitted from Singapore, having just been delivered there from a British citizen returning from Nanking. They are wire service photographs that at this moment are going around the world.” Hirota opened the folder and visibly paled as he turned the sheets of paper.
Though grainy as typical of wire service photographic transfers, the contents were clear enough. A pile of corpses being thrown into the river by Chinese civilians while Japanese guards stood about; another of two Japanese officers grinning, holding their samurai swords, the caption accompanying the photo explaining that the two were in a competition to see who could decapitate the most victims in Nanking; the winner so far was claiming 105. At their feet were half a dozen heads. Most horrific, a sequence of half a dozen photographs of a Chinese male, naked, not tied but instead tethered to a pole, and then being used for bayonet practice by several laughing soldiers, the last photograph the corpse of the man curled up in a fetal position, his “victors” standing around him holding bloody bayonet-tipped rifles high in the air.
Sighing, Hirota closed the folder.
“Oh, do take it with you,” Grew said coldly. “Believe me, everyone in the world will see those. I have additional copies already. Magazines in America in a few weeks will publish them, Life, Time, Look. Think of how that will impact American public opinion, compounded by this Panay incident,”
He was bluffing again. If the Panay incident resulted in the majority of Americans saying it was best to simply cut and run, get every American out of China so there could be no more “mistakes,” he knew the sight of Chinese civilians being decapitated, being used for bayonet practice, and reports of children as young as six being raped, might cause moral outrage, but within a day it would be pushed off center stage to be replaced by some frivolous news about the latest goings-on in Hollywood or society affairs in New York.
He wondered if there was anything, after this, that would finally cause the country to awaken and realize their collective inaction would only serve to embolden the radicals in Japan to take the next step, and then the next, misinterpreting just how angered America really would become if pushed too far, and believing instead that we would always cut and run. The result, in the end, would be tragic, for both sides, and come at a far bloodier cost.
He felt he had to push the bluff as far as he could, to try and give some kind of warning with the hope that it would strike to the core. “I can assure you, though some view my people as uncaring about the situation beyond their borders, this will generate, at some level, a reaction that will imprint and stay with my people for a generation to come. And thus my question, How do we stop this? How do we stop this from devolving into a war between America and Japan?”
Grew looked over at his interpreter, realizing he had been speaking so rapidly that something might have been lost, but the young man spoke quickly, and the interpreter sitting by Hirota nodded, indicating that the translation had been accurate.
Hirota raised his gaze from the closed folder. “I am shamed.”
Grew knew enough not to press the issue, but Hirota said no more.
“How do we step back from this, sir? We are at the brink. You know my love of your nation. You know I wish to view that,” and he cast a disparaging wave of disgust at the folder filled with images of atrocities, “as an aberration. You know that since my arrival here five years ago I have sought better understanding. And you know the deep love I have developed for your country, its people, its culture, its remarkable history.” In spite of himself there was a husky tone to his voice as he spoke the last words.
“If we cannot reach accord,” Grew said, “I fear for the future. You and I must rebuild that accord, sir, otherwise there will be a cataclysm.”
“I fear the same,” Hirota replied.
Grew sat back and exhaled noisily. It was a remarkable reply on Hirota’s part. “I think the core of the issue is this. Your military, with its increasing political power, believes that it has the right to act as it pleases in China. That your government, in turn, does not respond to rein this in, out of concern for another coup attempt like last year or because it actually wishes this imperialistic act to continue.”
Hirota stiffened. “Sir. I do not recall any American objections when the English were carving out their Empire in India, nor English objections when you so aggressively seized your control of an entire continent, rich in all the resources you coveted.”
Grew nodded. “Yes, that is true. But, sir, that was the nineteenth century. This is the twentieth. Imperialism in this modem age is not as it was. The reaction of the global community is not as it was.”
“Is it not?” Hirota replied. “It is easy for you to say now. But there are no photographs of England’s Opium War against China, where it was nothing less than, how do you say, a drug dealer. Nor are there photos of your treatment of your native population, nor of your brutal occupation of the Philippines back in 1900. Are they not the same?”
“No sir, they are not,” Grew replied sharply. “All nations have done wrong. I want to think my nation has the courage to admit that. Your government has shown courage in admitting that it did not plan the attack on the Panay but is willing to make amends. I commend you for that. But sir, the past is dead; the mistakes of the past are dead. I fear for our mutual futures. We are heading on a path, sir, that could annihilate hundreds of thousands of our young men, perhaps millions, if we do not tread carefully.”
“I came here to seek your nation’s forgiveness for the terrible tragedy regarding your ship Panay, which I must say was in Chinese waters in the middle of a war zone,” Hirota replied.
Grew was silent, hoping for more, far more than this response. He felt if only he could get through to this man, bring him into personal alliance, the growing control of the army over their government could still be reined in.
“Sir, may I speak frankly before you leave?”
“By all means, Mr. Ambassador.”
“We have our differences. I have read every word of your public utterances since you took office and in them your support of your army’s occupation of China. And yet, I suspect it is your military far more than your civilian government that has so ordered things.”
Hirota did not reply.
“You and I must continue to talk. We both know how some military men, once set on a course, will follow it without regard to the consequences that can echo for generations. You and I must be frank with each other. There is far more that can bind us, than separate us. We can form an understanding that will ensure peace in the Pacific and prosperity for both nations.”
“If that is based upon our withdrawal from China, which your president has demanded,” Hirota said stiffly, “those talks will be difficult indeed.”
So saying, Hirota stood up as if to leave, and Grew came to his feet as well.
“Sir. Those photographs,” and he pointed to the folder containing the images fr
om Nanking that Hirota had left on the sofa, “will strike hard, both with the citizens of my nation and with my president. I beg you, rein your army in. You must convey to the world that what happened at Nanking was an aberration to the code of honor of the Japanese army, which in previous conflicts, such as the war with Russia, gained a reputation for fair play and honorable treatment both of civilians and captured military personnel. Though it is beyond my authority to even suggest to you how you manage your internal affairs, I beg you: a public display of discipline for all officers involved with Nanking would serve you well. That and a public apology as you have now done regarding the Panay. Do that and you will serve your country and, yes, mine as well, making it easier to assure peace. If not,” and his voice took on a harder edge, “such honors will turn the world against you.” Hirota looked at him coldly.
“We shall clean our own house,” he finally replied, “but we do not need the advice of others, no matter how well meaning, to bring us to that action.”
Grew nodded, unable to reply.
Hirota bowed formally, signaling that the meeting was at an end.
Grew, grasping at straws, retrieved the letter from his aide and held it up.
“This, at least,” he said, “I think will be greeted with the spirit of understanding conveyed.”
“Thank you,” Hirota replied, and with his interpreter in tow, he left the room.
Grew exhaled noisily and looked over at his own interpreter.
“Did I miss anything?” he asked,
“Sir, that is difficult to answer.”
“How so?”
“He was shamed. That is certain. I think the Panay situation was a shock to him and to his government and the Emperor. Yet again, some hotheads fired up with the anti-Western nationalism and racism that some of their press and leaders keep spouting. In a way it was tacit permission for them to strafe our ship, and now they are scrambling to cover themselves.”
Grew listened carefully and nodded in agreement. “I could sense that in his careful choice of language,” Grew replied, “but the overall intent?”
The interpreter fell silent.
“Go on.”
“Frankly, sir, I think the message is, we can go to hell. They will conquer China whether we like it or not. Their army is now running the show. The nuance of words chosen. He never once said that the Emperor himself was outraged, that there would be swift punishment. It was, instead, just an apology, a standard procedure here as you know.”
“Yes, I do know,” Grew replied.
Damn all, he thought to himself. Both of us are beginning to box each other in. There will be less and less room to maneuver diplomatically. The situation was getting out of control.
FIVE
Nanking, China: 30 March 1938
Since he was chief flight officer to the Thirteenth Naval Air Corps, currently stationed at a captured Nationalist airstrip just outside the city of Nanking, Lieutenant Commander Fuchida’s participation in this raid was not really necessary.
But he was up anyhow this morning, dawn just breaking the eastern sky, the air smooth, no turbulence, like sliding on an icy pond, his Type-96 Mitsubishi responding to the lightest touch of stick and rudder as he went into a sharp, banking turn a thousand meters above the burning target below.
His job was to help plan operations, train his pilots, and see to the overall operations of his squadron; in private he had been sent over from the staff college to make sure that another ‘‘Panay Incident” did not happen.
Several days after that attack, Rear Admiral Zenshiro Hoshina, chief administrator of the Naval Air Corps, had summoned him personally. “We cannot afford another such,” Hoshina started, hesitating, “incident with Westerners. It was utter rashness for it to happen. One would expect it of the army, but not of our own pilots, whose discipline is higher.” Fuchida said nothing, for after all, every navy pilot held their counterparts in the army in disdain. Let them try and land on a pitching carrier deck in a force-five blow, or for that matter carry out a disciplined attack and actually hit their targets with precision.
“So I am sending you over to ride herd on those men for a while,” Hoshina had continued, and Fuchida’s heart sank. It meant he was being taken out of his class at the War College, a definite step backward in his career.
Hoshina had sensed his dismay and smiled. “Don’t worry. You’ll still be on the rolls as part of the training here. Clear up any problems with discipline in China, and you’ll be back here in six months and finish your studies by the end of the year.”
He had sighed with relief and actually bowed in thanks.
“I’ve watched you, Fuchida. You have judgment, discipline. I want someone out there to watch things directly, to make sure there are no more such,” and again he hesitated, “ ‘mistakes’ and besides, the combat experience will do you good.”
So now he circled over the blazing village in his Type-96 Mitsubishi, fuming with anger.
The bombing had been poor. No excuse. He had already marked the crews of three of the bombers for a solid chewing out. They had obviously dropped early, their loads simply cratering paddies and an orchard.
As to the target, whoever had designated it was a fool, or, as he suspected, the enemy had been forewarned. It was obvious there was nothing down there but yet another burning village, now most likely littered with a couple of hundred dead, and not a single uniform in sight, not a single secondary explosion. If Nationalist forces had been hiding ammunition and supplies there, as Army Intelligence had informed them yesterday, requesting the strike, someone had either had second sight or found out about the raid and moved the supplies out.
Security around the base, on the outskirts of Nanking, was still far too lax. Chinese laborers working to keep the runway operational with the onset of the spring mud, coolies delivering food, even those working in the kitchen. He had tried to push them all out, to have everything done by Japanese troops, but the base commander said it was impossible. So he was willing to bet that word had leaked out, yet again.
The last of the bombers turned back to the south-southeast, ten minutes to cross the Yangtze, and ten minutes beyond to their base. As the bombers started for home, he decided to drop down for a closer look, his wingman, Lieutenant Masatake Okumiya, closing in on his starboard wing. As a squadron leader he had a radio, but Masatake did not, so it was still communication by wing wags and hand signals. Yet another thing that he felt had to be modernized at once.
Fuchida nodded, pointed to his eyes and then up, Masatake saluted in reply, pulling back up to keep high cover and a lookout in case an enemy fighter actually did appear.
There had been several tangles over the last few months with Nationalist fighters, old Curtiss Hawks flown by Chinese pilots, and reportedly there were even some Soviet “volunteers” flying I-16s for the Communist forces. He had yet to tangle with either, and this morning’s raid was as uneventful as the dozen others he had flown on so far. The few Chinese fighters that were encountered now either fled or were shot down, the 96s far superior in all respects. The enemy pilots usually kept their distance, especially when it was Japanese naval planes doing the job.
He rolled from a sharp banking turn into a split S, inverting, going over on his back, pulling the stick back sharply, easing back on the throttle slightly.
The plane was a joy, fast with a maximum speed of nearly four hundred kilometers per hour, able to go through a 360- degree roll in just seconds. As he pulled the stick back into his stomach, the horizon disappeared, and several Gs pressed him into his seat; he was coming straight down on the burning village. He could see people scattering. He continued to hold the stick back, then eased off slightly. If a student pilot had pulled this stunt with him at this altitude there would have been hell to pay, but he knew what he was doing, knew his plane, and didn’t pull out from the inverted dive until he was less than fifty meters from the ground, racing at near the VNE for the plane, “velocity do not exceed.” The moment felt
good, plane stable, no tremor, the stick solid in his hand. He was now just above the road leading out of the village, heading up toward the front lines. He caught glimpses of peasants scattering in fear. He tried not to think about that. All too often the army pilots, when coming back from a mission, would empty their remaining ammunition on the terrified peasants. He had forbidden that practice and was amazed when several had questioned him one night at evening mess about the order and he found that he had to justify it, not morally, but rather as a “waste of expensive ordnance.”
There were tracks on the muddy road, the early morning light sparkling off the water that filled the ruts. And in an instant he knew. Damn, next time, from now on, someone would fly in first on these damn raids against a target that wasn’t fixed in place and check before a single bomb was dropped.
A couple of kilometers ahead was a bamboo grove, to either side the ground open, all of it farmed. He raced toward the grove and then caught a reflected glint of light. He banked 45 degrees as he thundered over the grove, and there he saw them--four trucks, crews already jumping out of the vehicles that had obviously come from the village, cut bamboo piled atop them in a vain effort at concealment, but the ruts a beacon straight to the target.
He banked up sharply, circling, gaining a hundred meters so when he went into his strafing run and nosed over, he’d still have plenty of ground room on the run in. Too many pilots had been killed on strafing missions when, so intent on their target, they forgot that to keep the target in their sights it meant they had to be in a shallow dive and not pull out too late.
He lined up on the east side of the road half a kilometer away and raced in, cover on the trigger flipped up, finger poised, ready to brush against the hard metal; just the slightest touch and the machine guns would ignite, the cold morning wind whipping past to either side of the open cockpit.
Pearl Harbour and Days of Infamy Page 12
