Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th (13 page)

A small committee of Westerners, a few missionaries with the guts to stay on, a couple of consulate officials who had stayed on either by choice or by being simply trapped, and a half-dozen correspondents like himself had formed what they called the “International Committee.” It was all a bluff. A few dozen Westerners roping off an area, putting up their flags, standing guard at each intersection, and declaring that to cross the line would trigger a war with their respective countries.

It was a bluff, born of madness, and it had united together Brits, Italians, Americans, Portuguese, and all of those led by a German business executive from the Siemens Corporation, John Rabe, a member of the Nazi Party. It seemed that the display of the swastika, hand-painted onto strips of cloth and tied to rope blocking off the streets, was more of a deterrent than anything else.

Rabe had been everywhere since the madness started, sending demands to the Japanese commanders, organizing the cordon around a section of the city where Westerners lived, cajoling and rallying the few exhausted Europeans and Americans to redouble their efforts as tens of thousands died, literally right in front of them.

What had driven Cecil outside the barrier line was the sight of half a dozen Chinese schoolgirls and a nun, Chinese as well, being dragged off just a block outside the cordon. Grabbing his makeshift flag he had run out into the street in pursuit.

In a far saner world he would have stood riveted, waiting for someone else to act. But within that small cordon of several dozen blocks, hundreds of thousands of terrified civilians had now sought refuge from the rampaging Japanese troops. In that terrible instant, he knew there was no one but himself.

He had stepped forward, running down the street, turning the comer, pushing past a terrified family running in the opposite direction, running blindly. Several buildings were burning, agonized screams coming from within; two drunken Japanese soldiers staggered out of the inferno, one of them pointing at Cecil and shouting an insult about English dogs.

The small procession of horror turned a comer and he raced after them, following, closing in. And horrified, he slowed at the sight he now beheld. The nun had tried to fight back even as two of the soldiers started to push the girls through a shattered storefront window, a small furniture store, the beds and sofas within obvious for what was to be done. The nun had clawed at the face of their leader, a lieutenant, and Cecil, horrified, saw the sword come out and, in one blow, the nun decapitated.

The girls, her charges, were screaming, shrieking wildly. The lieutenant looked at the corpse lying on the sidewalk, head having rolled into the gutter, the lieutenant swaying slightly on his feet.

Cecil slowed, trying to still the pounding of his heart.

He thought of all the fine young men he had taught at Etajima. Boys who would ask for help translating a Shakespeare sonnet to send to a hoped-for beloved back home, or a letter to a mother or father in English to demonstrate their skills, knowing that the proud parents would parade from neighbor to neighbor, showing off the skills of their honored son.

Were these one and the same? Could the boys he had taught ever do this, ever condone this? Where was the honor of Japan this day?

He slowed, drawing in his breath.

“Lieutenant!”

He drew himself up, trying to remember the housemaster at Harrow who, at not much more than five feet, could strike terror into the heart of any boy. He stepped closer, letting the bamboo pole with the crudely drawn British flag atop it come to a rest position.

“Lieutenant! Face me and come to attention before a superior.”

The lieutenant was obviously drunk, not much more than a boy, twenty-two or -three at most. The sharp command, given in Japanese, had caused him to instinctively turn and come to attention. The half-dozen soldiers, the rapists with him, paused, the schoolgirls still shrieking hysterically; and he wished that for the moment they would shut up.

“I am a duly appointed representative of the government of Great Britain,” he lied. “Those girls are students from a school sponsored by my government, and they are now in my charge.”

He did not ask; he knew enough of what he faced not to do that. He ordered. Orders for the Japanese, whether legitimate or from someone who appeared legitimate, were to be obeyed without hesitation.

The lieutenant gazed at him, suddenly unsure. One of the soldiers started to pull a girl in closer and muttered, “This one is mine, round eyes.”

Cecil turned and faced the soldier.

“Let go of her now or face a firing squad come morning. Obey me now!”

His command so sharp and in such perfect Japanese caused the soldier to release the girl.

As if the man no longer existed Cecil turned back to the lieutenant. “Your name?”

“Hashima Mitsushi,” there was a pause, “sir.”

“Return your men to order immediately,” Cecil roared. “I shall personally report you, come tomorrow morning, to your superiors.”

He gestured at the dead nun, suddenly struggling to suppress a gag as blood slowly continued to pour out of her body.

Without looking over at the enlisted men, he snapped his fingers. “Release the girls.”

“White devil, who is he...,” one of the enlisted men growled, but the lieutenant turned and barked out a command. “Release them!” Cecil commanded.

He kept his gaze fixed on Hashima, then ever so slowly turned to the six terrified girls.

“Walk toward me,” he said, speaking slowly, still not sure of his Chinese after almost a year in this country. “Stop crying and come to my side.”

They did as ordered.

He wondered if the Japanese could see that he was actually trembling, his entire body shaking, his knees near to jelly.

It was one thing to play the white knight on the mad impulse of the moment, to cross over the protection of the barrier line and go racing off. Now it was all literally balanced on the edge of a razor blade. If Hashima should come to his senses, realize there were no witnesses, a flick of his wrist and Cecil knew he would be dead, the girls alive a bit longer, but then, hopefully, mercifully, dead as well.

He felt the girls crowd in around him, and kept his gaze locked on Hashima.

And then he knew he had him. Hashima dropped his gaze, looking sidelong at the body of the nun, and then lowered his head farther. He felt almost a touch of pity for the young man. Would what was happening here eventually inure him to suffering, to agony? Or, perhaps just maybe, he might realize the madness that he had given himself over to and spend a lifetime of regret.

“Stay close to me,” Cecil whispered to the girls, but he did not need to tell them. They clung to him in desperation. He turned away and without a backward glance tried to retrace his way back to the safety zone set up by the German.

Right up to the street comer he more than expected that the lieutenant might rouse himself or his men rebel.

“There are plenty of other bitches,” he heard one of them say as he turned the comer. He dared to look back and saw Hashima still standing in the street, blade drawn, gaze lowered, fixed on the body of the nun.

For a moment he feared he was lost. The street was choked with smoke, fires spreading, a panic-stricken crowd of several dozen running past him, pursued by several laughing Japanese soldiers armed only with bayonets, rifles slung, waving the blood-soaked blades high. But with each step people fell in by his side, racing out of hiding places; the tragic woman with the two small children emerging from an alleyway and then staggering back to collapse.

He turned the comer ahead and never in his life did he ever dream that he would be glad to see a swastika; but there it was, tied off to a telephone pole, a silken rope blocking the street beyond it, a sea of humanity packed together, huddled back.

Safety was but fifty yards away, and then from a smoke- filled alleyway, six Japanese soldiers emerged, laughing, one of them carrying, of all things, a large clock, another a pile of silk robes slung over his shoulder, no officer present.

At the sight of Cecil and his pathetic knot of refugees they slowed, pointing, laughing. And then one of them boldly stepped forward with a swagger. “You there, stop!”

Cecil did not slow, pushing his group on.

The soldier unslung his rifle and pointed it straight at Cecil and looked up at the roughly made flag. “English dog, stop!”

“Stand aside, soldier,” Cecil snapped back in Japanese. “These people are under the protection of the British government.”

His command of Japanese caused the soldier to pause, and Cecil moved to shoulder him aside. Just thirty yards more and they would be through the barrier.

“A toll then!” someone shouted, and an instant later a loud scream caused Cecil to turn. The Japanese soldier had stepped around the edge of the group and even now was dragging off one of the schoolgirls Cecil had just rescued. His comrades closed in, laughing.

“Merciful God,” Cecil whispered, as he started to turn to try and intervene.

“Mr. Stanford!”

He looked to the barrier rope. It was the German, John Rabe, Nazi armband prominently displayed on his right arm.

“For God’s sake, man!” Rabe shouted in English, “run for it now! Or you’ll lose them all!”

Torn, horrified, Cecil looked back at the schoolgirl being dragged away. One of the other girls was starting to break from the group, to try and help, others grabbing her, holding her back.

“Save my sister!” the girl being dragged away screamed, even as the Japanese soldiers circled around her and pulled her back into the alleyway like spiders engulfing their prey.

From farther up the street Cecil could see more soldiers approaching, pointing in his direction.

It was a moment of horror he had never dreamed he would ever face, a slowing of time, the look of resignation and despair on the one girl’s face, the screams of her younger sister, the screams of the two toddlers in his arms, the weight of an old woman, near collapse, clinging to his belt.

He had to make his choice.

“Run!” he screamed.

The small pitiful circle about him staggered forward, several of the Japanese soldiers from farther up the street laughing, moving to block them off; but Cecil and his group were ahead, John Rabe holding up the rope, the group collapsing underneath it. John stopped at the edge of the rope, looking up at the tattered Union Jack.

“Get in!” Rabe shouted, and reaching over he pulled Cecil over the rope to safety.

The Japanese in pursuit slowed, one of them making a show of saluting the German flag but then spitting on the ground in front of Cecil, who stood just a few feet away.

Cecil fixed him with an icy gaze.

“By God, someday all of you will pay for this, you bastard,” Cecil snapped.

The Japanese soldier, having just endured the worst of insults, an attack on his lineage, the honor of his mother and his father, leveled his rifle and worked the bolt.

Rabe stepped between them and pushed Cecil back into the swarming crowd. And at that moment, all Cecil’s self-control began to crack and break apart.

He had loved these people, he had taught their sons for eight years and seen in so many of them the son that God had taken away from him in one tragic instant. Boys who he would always call “his boys,” who were now in the navy of this country. He did not want to believe that “his boys,” of what he almost considered to be his adopted navy, would ever have allowed this, tolerated this.

Rabe grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him farther back into the crowd.

“Why did you step over the barrier line?” he shouted, trying to be heard above the bedlam, the terrified screaming and sobbing of those around him, the rattle of gunfire, the crackling roar of the fire spreading across the city.

Cecil couldn’t speak, the two toddlers still clinging to his arms.

Rabe looked around, shouted something in German, and a woman, Chinese, came up in a soiled, blood-soaked nurse’s uniform and pried the screaming children out of his arms. She looked at Cecil.

“Namen?”

He looked at her and could only shake his head.

She nodded, her features implacable, the tragedy of two orphans, now nameless, but another fragment of anguish blowing in a maelstrom of agony.

He watched as they disappeared, and his control began to break. The memory of the nun, the girl being dragged off ... he bent his head, shaking. “Goddamn all this!” he cried, “Goddamn all of them.” He began to sob, unbelieving that soldiers of Japan could actually have sunk to this level of brutality, of sheer raw bestiality.

He felt strong hands on his shoulders and he looked up. It was Rabe, who then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a flask, uncorking it.

“American whiskey,” he said, trying to smile.

Cecil nodded. Hands trembling, he took the flask and drained nearly half of it in two strong gulps, the drink hitting him hard; within seconds he felt as if he were about to collapse.

“You are a madman for stepping out there,” Rabe said in English. “I thought you were dead. You English!” And he smiled.

Cecil nodded, handing the flask back, and Rabe drained the rest, the two gazing at each other, holding an island of refugees in the middle of Nanking, where three hundred thousand were being slaughtered; hundreds of thousands more terrorized, tortured, raped by an army that had gone out of control in a frenzy of drunken killing, pillage, and hatred; an army that claimed to have come as liberators, the bringers of justice, of a new order.

Cecil looked into Rabe’s eyes and could see the man’s anguish. They had known each other casually, crossing paths several times since his own arrival here in China back in the spring.

He suddenly felt weak-kneed, about to collapse, and Rabe braced him up.

“Go back to my quarters, take my bed,” Rabe said. “You’ve done enough saving for one day; try and get some sleep and something to eat.”

Cecil grabbed hold of Rabe by his forearms and again noticed the swastika armband, which Cecil knew his friend now wore in order to intimidate the Japanese and to save the lives of what would ultimately be a quarter of a million Chinese. He sighed. “I wish the world was different, my friend,” Cecil whispered.