The Passion and the Glory

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘You are Mrs Joan Grimmett?’ he asked.

  Joan raised her head. He was not a young man; indeed, he was old enough to be her father. But there was something vaguely familiar about his face.

  ‘Speak,’ snapped the soldier beside her.

  She gasped with fear that he would hit her again. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am Joan Grimmett.’

  The admiral smiled. ‘I have been searching for you. Do you not remember me? I am Hashimoto Kurita.’

  Joan blinked at him. Captain Kurita, he had been when she had known him. Father’s friend, in Japan. Before that, indeed; he and Father had served together during the First World War. But she had met him also, in Japan. She had been at an Embassy cocktail party, sipped champagne, and smiled at him. Only four years ago. She licked her lips. He had not appeared to look at her body. But he must have done.

  Admiral Kurita snapped orders at the soldiers, and Joan’s wrists were released. She hugged them across her breasts, less for protection than because of the pins and needles which drilled into her flesh as the blood returned.

  Then she discovered a cloak was being thrown round her shoulders, and she could hold this across her chest as well, to conceal her nakedness. Women continued to file past her, both British and Chinese. They stared at her, without comprehension. Soon they would begin to hate her. Because she had found a friend. She might even have been rescued.

  Had she been rescued? She gazed at Hashimoto Kurita, and he smiled at her. ‘There is a vehicle coming,’ he said. And a moment later an open car drew up beside them, sending a cloud of dust over the women. Hashimoto Kurita opened the back door for her. She hesitated, gazing at the spectacled soldier behind the wheel. ‘You may get in,’ Hashimoto said.

  Joan sat down. The cushion had never felt so good. Hashimoto sat beside her, and the car moved away, driving up the hill, away from Victoria, from the smoke and the stench and the beaten men and women. Away from the soldiers. Joan inhaled clean air, and began to weep again, silently.

  ‘I am sorry I took so long to find you,’ Hashimoto said. ‘I knew that you were in Hong Kong, of course. But it was very confused, immediately after the surrender.’ He frowned at her. ‘Can you not speak?’

  Joan licked her lips again. ‘I am very thirsty.’ Her voice was a rusty croak.

  ‘Forgive me.’ Hashimoto spoke in Japanese, and the driver passed back a water bottle. The water was warm, and no doubt his lips had been last on the neck, but to Joan it tasted like nectar, even if her hands were shaking so much a lot of it dribbled down her chin. ‘You will feel better for a bath and some lunch,’ Hashimoto assured her. ‘And perhaps a proper drink.’

  Joan gave him the water bottle, and he corked it and threw it on to the front seat. Now she felt able to look at him for the first time. His uniform was immaculate. He had certainly not taken part in the fighting, or in what had happened afterwards. And he was Father’s friend.

  ‘Do you know what happened, this morning?’ she asked, in a low voice.

  ‘Yes. It took some time to get our men under control.’

  ‘I was raped,’ Joan said, staring at the back of the driver’s head. ‘By … several men. So were all the other nurses. Wounded men were bayoneted in their beds. So were the doctors who tried to help them. It … it was medieval.’

  ‘It was war,’ Hashimoto pointed out. ‘It is war. Your soldiers fought too long and too well. They would not surrender when they were beaten. They did not surrender until they were on the point of being wiped out. Our men were filled with battle anger, and they had seen too many of their comrades killed. In these circumstances the loser cannot simply wave a white flag and say, I wish to stop fighting. As I have said, it took some time to bring our people under control.’

  ‘You mean you don’t condemn those men?’

  ‘I mean, I understand the true nature of warfare,’ Hashimoto said. ‘As perhaps the British do not. We have arrived.’

  The car was turning off the road and into a driveway. She recognised it; she had been here often enough.

  ‘I have appropriated this house as my headquarters,’ Hashimoto explained. ‘Do you know to whom it belonged?’

  ‘The colonial secretary,’ Joan muttered. She should hate him, for condoning the sack of the hospital. But perhaps he was right. And he was Father’s friend. She had to keep reminding herself of that. Thus he would be her friend as well. It was terribly selfish of her, she knew — but she was so grateful to have found a friend.

  ‘Ah.’ Hashimoto was pleased. ‘It has also not been harmed, very much.’

  Apart from a shell crater in the garden, and several shattered windows, the house was indeed undamaged. Even the servants were still there. Oh, if only she had been allowed to return home; she might have escaped the horror of the hospital.

  Hashimoto held the door for her, and she stepped down. ‘Is the … ‘ she bit her lip.

  ‘No,’ Hashimoto said. ‘The colonial secretary and his wife have both been taken into custody. Go up.’

  Joan climbed the front steps, gazed at the Chinese butler, who gazed back at her. He had often enough poured her after dinner brandy, but today his eyes were hostile: whether he disapproved of her survival or because he was now siding with the Japanese was impossible to tell.

  ‘You will prepare a bath for Mrs Grimmett,’ Hashimoto commanded him. ‘And then lunch for us both.’

  The butler bowed. ‘There is no water, your excellency,’ he said. ‘The taps are dry.’

  ‘Then go and get some water,’ Hashimoto told him. ‘My driver will take you. Use buckets. But fetch water. Now.’ The butler bowed again, glanced at Joan with even more hostility, and then hurried off. Hashimoto preceded her into the house, went to the bar. ‘Black Label whisky,’ he said, and

  filled two glasses. ‘Drink it. It will do you good.’

  Joan sipped, and felt the warmth seeping down her chest. And up into her brain. There were so many thoughts jostling together up there she could hardly extract a coherent question. But the whisky helped. The most important thing was that this man seemed to have immense authority. ‘Are you the commander of the Japanese forces?’ she asked.

  Hashimoto smiled. ‘No, no. I am in the Navy, and this is an army matter. But I command the Intelligence Service for the armed forces.’ His smile widened. ‘I am here to seek out subversive elements in your population.’

  ‘The kempei-tai,’ Joan said.

  ‘Ah, you remember some things about Japan.’ Hashimoto sat in an easy chair, crossed his knees. ‘Sit down.’

  Joan sank into a chair, kept her knees pressed together as the cloak fell away, looked down at her stockinged feet; the stockings were worn where she had been forced to walk, and her toes, bruised and dusty, were exposed.

  ‘We will find you clothes after your bath,’ Hashimoto said. ‘Those other ladies … ‘

  ‘Are being sent to the mainland, to a camp,’ he told her. ‘Why?’

  ‘They are prisoners of war.’

  ‘They are civilians,’ she protested, and drank some more whisky.

  ‘There are no civilians, in modern warfare,’ he said.

  Joan swallowed. ‘My husband … ‘

  ‘I will find out about him,’ Hashimoto said.

  ‘But he will be sent to the mainland too.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Will I go with him?’

  ‘Why should you wish to do that?’

  She sat straight. ‘He is my husband.’

  ‘Who will be imprisoned until Great Britain surrenders. You cannot be with him. We do not imprison men and women together. Besides, prison camps are unpleasant places. You would not enjoy it.’

  Joan frowned at him. ‘Then what is going to happen to me?’ Hashimoto had finished his drink. He got up and poured another, glanced at her half empty glass. ‘That I shall have to consider. Your water has arrived.’

  Various yard boys were carrying buckets of water up the side staircase and emptying them into one of the upstai
rs tubs. Hashimoto gestured Joan to the inner stairs, and followed her up. She stood in the bathroom of the master bedroom and watched the tub being filled. ‘It is not hot,’ Hashimoto snapped. ‘I ordered hot.’

  The butler, who was overseeing operations, looked at Joan.

  ‘I would prefer it cold,’ she said. ‘It is a very hot day.’

  ‘As you wish. Out,’ Hashimoto commanded, and the Chinese filed out. ‘I have to say that I find your western baths, and methods of bathing, very primitive and uncomfortable. We shall have to make many changes here.’

  Joan gazed at him. Surely he was not intending to stay?

  He smiled at her. ‘I would like your word that you will do nothing foolish, Mrs Grimmett.’

  ‘I give you my word,’ Joan said. Because a thought that was slowly taking over from all the others was that she was, miraculously, going to survive.

  ‘Nevertheless, I will leave the door open, and I will be in the next room,’ he said.

  She waited for him to step outside, wondered if he could see her in a mirror. But she could find no evidence of that, and besides, he was old enough to be her father, and he was Father’s friend. It was terribly important to keep reminding herself of those facts.

  She threw off the cloak, stripped away the last of her tattered garments, and lowered herself into the water. She shivered, and her buttocks pained where she had been whipped as her side ached where she had been struck by the rifle butt, but it felt so good. She soaped, luxuriously and slowly, again and again and again, as if she could wash away every touch, every drop of semen that had been forced into her body. She saw a bottle of shampoo and washed her hair as well, again and again, then sat, exhausted, chin resting on her drawn up knee, wishing now she hadn’t drunk the whisky on an empty stomach, because there was so much to be thought about, so much to be understood.

  She heard movement, raised her head, and drew up her knees some more, clasping her arms round them. Hashimoto stood in the doorway, looking at her. ‘You were too quiet,’ he said.

  ‘I am sorry. I am very tired.’

  ‘Then after luncheon, you will sleep.’ He took a large towel from behind the door, held it out.

  Joan hesitated. The hours of nakedness might never have been, and she was again a modest young woman. But he clearly wanted her to get up.

  She stood up, water draining down her body, and held out her hand. Instead, to her consternation, he came closer, and himself wrapped her body in the towel, giving her breasts a gentle rub. ‘You are very beautiful,’ he said. ‘I saw this, in Tokyo, when last we met. You are as beautiful as your mother was.’

  Joan stood absolutely still, unwilling to believe this was happening, that he, so well mannered and soft spoken, could be as bad as his men, that she was about to be raped again, after such a morning. But then he released her and moved away.

  ‘Dry yourself,’ he said.

  ‘If you will leave the room, Admiral Kurita,’ she said, holding the towel in front of herself.

  ‘But I wish to watch,’ Hashimoto said. ‘Come into the bedroom.’ He waited, and when she did not move, he said, ‘Come,’ his voice slightly harder than before.

  Joan stepped out of the bath and walked across the mat and into the bedroom, her feet leaving wet imprints. Hashimoto sat on the bed. Slowly she dried her torso, staring at him. Her brain seemed to have frozen.

  ‘I should explain to you,’ Hashimoto said, ‘that your father and I are no longer friends. He betrayed my friendship. Perhaps it was his duty to do so. Nonetheless, he is now my enemy, as our two peoples are at war. It is therefore very gratifying for me to have found you, his only daughter.’ He pointed. ‘Your legs are still wet.’

  Because Joan had stopped using the towel. Now she stooped, to dry her legs. She did not want to look at him.

  ‘I am sorry my men found you before I did,’ Hashimoto went on. She heard a rustling sound, but would not look up. ‘But I do not think you have been harmed. And as I say, you are a most beautiful woman. Japanese women are not so beautiful. Because they are not so large. It gratifies me to possess the daughter of my friend, who is now my enemy.’

  Joan saw his discarded boots hit the floor, and straightened. He was as naked as herself, standing, and smiling at her and as aroused as any of the men who had knelt between her legs that morning. ‘I am going to take you, now,’ he told her. ‘Afterwards, you will have to choose. I could keep you, as my servant, in which case you will prosper, and live, and remain healthy, or I can send you to a prison camp, where you will be beaten and starved, and perhaps become sick. You might even die. I could also arrange for your husband to be beaten, more often than usual. You will have to choose. But if you choose prosperity, Mrs Grimmett, then you should remember that I will not be betrayed. Should you ever try to escape me, I will have you flogged to death. Remember this.’

  She stared at him. Had she really supposed she had been rescued? How naive could one get. But she could still attempt to defy him. ‘Are you not afraid that my father and my brothers will avenge me, Admiral Kurita?’ she asked.

  He smiled. ‘Your father, and your brothers, are beaten men. Every day we drive deeper and deeper into their lands. Every day is crowned with another victory. We are the masters now, and you are the servants. You must remember this also, Mrs Grimmett. Now come, I will teach you how to submit to a Japanese. If you are wise, you will learn to enjoy it.’

  Oh, Father, oh, Walt, oh, Clive, Joan thought. You will avenge me, if it takes a thousand years. It was the only hope she had.

  *

  Clive McGann stared at the news sheet in horror, raised his head to gaze at Mark Bryson. ‘I am so terribly sorry,’ Bryson said. ‘Of course we’ll try to find out what happened to the Grimmetts. But … I don’t care much for these reports of atrocities. I know these things are more often than not exaggerated … but when you think of what the Japanese have done in China … ‘

  ‘Yes,’ Clive said. He got up and went to the window, looked out at the square beneath Raffles Hotel. They had been back here over a fortnight, at first just relieved to be alive, overjoyed each to discover that the other had survived, but then slowly succumbing to the morale sapping inertia of waiting for posting, waiting for news, waiting for anything. Anything good. But there was nothing good, anywhere. The Japanese appeared just unstoppable, on land, sea, and in the air. They had wiped the allied Navies off the Pacific map; they bombed Singapore as and when they chose — and news had just come in that they had bombed Manila, despite the American declaration that it was an open and undefended city; and they continued their advance down the Malayan Peninsular, driving all the defenders before them in constant flight.

  And now Joan, at best a prisoner, at worst dead. And as a prisoner, subject to all the horrors of the law of bushido, which declared that the defeated had no rights. Atrocities! He shivered. But that could soon be happening here, in this very hotel.

  ‘I do have some good news,’ Bryson told him.

  Clive turned.

  ‘I’ve got us postings, on Exeter. She’s due in port tomorrow, and she has reported some sickness in her crew.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Clive said. They had been told they would be shipped out to Australia at the first opportunity, with the other survivors of Admiral Phillips’ squadron. But he wanted to stay and fight. ‘And Exeter!’ Exeter was one of the ships which had fought the German pocket battleship, Admiral Graf Spee, to a standstill off the River Plate in December 1939. She had in fact been so badly damaged in that battle that she had only just completed her repairs.

  ‘We should actually have quite a little fleet in being soon,’ Bryson told him. ‘There are two American cruisers, some light cruisers, and a flotilla of destroyers.’

  ‘Who’s in command?’ Clive asked.

  ‘Oddly enough, the local Dutch C-in-C, Rear Admiral Doorman.’

  Clive frowned at him. ‘Are you sure? Are Holland and Japan at war?’

  ‘That’s what I meant. They’re
not, yet. But they soon will be.’

  He grinned. ‘Maybe we’ll have a Happy New Year, after all.’

  *

  HMS Exeter had been launched in 1929, and was therefore a fair representation of the restrictions imposed upon designers by the various naval treaties of the 1920s. She displaced about eleven thousand tons, deep loaded, and was nearly six hundred feet long. Like the bigger ships she was powered by Parsons four-shaft turbines, which could produce eighty thousand shaft horsepower and drive her at thirty-two knots. She had however little armour, and carried six eight-inch guns as well as four four-inch quickfirers, and some anti-aircraft protection. Her crew totalled six hundred and thirty.

  After Prince of Wales she left Clive with an enormous feeling of exposure, but she was a ship which was going to fight the Japanese, and he and Bryson were welcomed aboard the more warmly for having survived the earlier catastrophe. They bade farewell to their gunners, who like them were awaiting transport to Australia, and had meanwhile been formed into a small naval brigade to assist in the defence of Singapore, if need be. Clive was very sorry to abandon the men with whom he had served for so long, and with whom he had undergone so many experiences, but there were sufficient watch keeping officers who had survived the destruction of Prince of Wales to command the men ashore, and he wanted to serve where he could be of most use. Exeter was on her way to Batavia, where the rest of the squadron were awaiting her. Here, early in January, they were welcomed by Karel Doorman, their new commander, a bluff Dutchman who impressed them with his determination.

  By now, the entire allied South East Asia command had been unified under the uninspiring title of ABDA, or American, British, Dutch, Australian forces. It was reassuring, however, to know that the general officer commanding was Sir Archibald Wavell, who the previous year had defeated the Italians in North Africa, and although later losing to the Germans in Greece and being thrown back in the desert — due mainly to having to fight two wars with the same number of men with whom he had won the first campaign — was still the only British general who could actually claim a victory so far in this war.