At this stage, the small worker stepped forward and took the Samurai sword. But rather than swinging the sword as we had done, he took three very large steps backward away from his block of ice. He held his sword in both hands and raised it above his head. He stood motionless, standing like a statue for almost a minute. Then, suddenly, with a shout, ran at the block bringing the sword down with such speed the steel became a blur. Just as suddenly he retraced his three steps and held the sword above his head, as if preparing to strike again.
As he resumed his statue-like pose, the two halves of the block of ice hit the concrete floor. Uncontrollably, my mouth hung open. Mr. Horikoshi smiled, and said, “Galland-san please inspect the matting.”
I did so and was shocked to see that the cotton mat had itself was deeply cut, cut so much that the bamboo padding was exposed.
I said to Mr. Horikoshi, “I said before that I have seen the most amazing engineering. I was wrong. This is even more amazing, and this technology is over 600 years old.”
Mr. Horikoshi, bowed deeply and said, “With deepest respect, Galland-san, this Japanese technology is older than the Christian Jesus. This particular sword is over 500 years old.”
I simply shook my head in disbelief. Had I been asked before the display, I would have been completely confident in predicting the outcome, and I would have been completely wrong.
But there was still one more shock left for me that day.
I thanked Mr. Horikoshi, and said, “your factory deeply impresses me, and I am amazed at the design on your new fighter. The designer is a man of extra-ordinary talent and foresight.”
Mr. Horikoshi said in a very quiet voice, “Galland-san, I am the designer.”
Roosevelt looked up and said, “so, we’re in a fight.”
Hopkins nodded, and said,
“And remember, Mr. President, the Japanese are a people who plan in terms of decades, not days. And they have such a love of country that they will bear any burden, or meet any hardship to preserve the honor of their country.”
These words would ring in the President’s ears in December.
But then, just as suddenly, the momentary thoughtfulness evaporated, and the demagogue returned,
“Well, I have provoked them as much as possible. Why, if I had been provoked half as much, I would have started a war. These fucking people have the patience of a fucking saint. I started the oil embargo; I’ve stopped them from using our Canal. You know, I’ve played all the cards.”
Hopkins knew this would happen, so he plowed on,
“Well, we need to do a number of things, according to Dulles: put our war industry on a crash rebuilding course; build up the West Coast now, not next year, but now; we need a war and we need a war we can win. The Alaska Territory is our ace in the hole—the Hawaiian Islands to Japan is 4,110 miles, but Dutch Harbor to Japan is 3,583 miles and we have a land bridge—no huge Pacific Ocean to cross. By building up Alaska we have a strong, stable northern base that we can completely control. We build a rail link from Seattle and we can run express trains up there. It would be a dagger pointing at the heart of Japan. Especially if we cut a deal with Stalin. With Stalin on board, we could even lease some bases in eastern Russia like we did in Cuba in ’03. And, keep in mind, the Soviets still remember 1905, so there is no love lost between the Russians and the Japanese.”
Hopkins paused for effect.
“And, if we promised Stalin war materiel, he could use his railroads in western Russia to bring it east, safe from the Germans.”
“Hmm,” Roosevelt could see the reasonableness of the approach.
“Of course, Winston would not be happy.”
“Yes, but the British are finished; why even the Irish have defeated them and they’re not exactly the smartest race on the planet. So it’s only a matter of time before the colored countries of their so-called Empire do the same as the Paddies have done.”
“Well, that’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps, but look at what the Japanese are doing to the Europeans in Asia and the last time I looked they were not white.”
“Mr. President, here is the problem with Asia: with the defeat by the Germans of the Dutch and the French, their colonies in Asia are ‘fragile,’ and fragile is putting it mildly. Our possession of the Hawaiian Islands is stuck out in the middle of nowhere; Australia is the other side of the world; we have no friends—not that we want any—in South America. While not a state, Alaska is ours and with it a land bridge—no subs to sink convoys. We need to plan on attacking and destroying Japan now, not tomorrow. And we don’t know how long Stalin can hold out. According to our intelligence, the Germans have moved over 700 miles into Russia in the past month. And frankly, Stalin is very weak at the moment. Now is the time to cut a deal—he’s desperate for help.”
Then Hopkins unsheathed the knife, “and what is the current unemployment percentage?”
Roosevelt flushed with anger and was about to speak.
Hopkins, in a move unprecedented in the history of the Oval Office, put his hand up to signal the President to stop.
“Excuse me, Mr. President, but as of last month, the number was 10.4% and it is not going down. A crash rail building program to Alaska when combined with similar effort for war industries out West could drop this to three or even two percent, now, today. Ridiculous though it sounds, we could build a special high-speed line. Last night, Dulles reminded me of an English engineer from last century who actually built a railroad with a seven-foot gauge. By using a gauge of seven- or even eight-foot, large sub-assemblies could be shipped from the Boeing aircraft plants in Seattle and from California.”
11: The Seasoned Campaigner
AS THE OWNER WAS BUSY INSPECTING the new complex recently completed for him in Poland, the mountain house had been closed down for July and August—ever the Austrian penny pincher from Braunau am Inn, the owner saw no reason in wasting a pfennig. From the pile of reports Bormann had gotten from his obsequious and terrified informants and sycophants, the new Polish complex was a horror—hot, damp, fetid, and mosquito-infested; at night the air conditioning was so noisy that it left everyone tired and listless the next morning; the mosquitos were amazing in size and their ability to raise painful bites—Bormann’s Chief had bored everyone by going on and on with boring jokes about how the Luftwaffe was at fault for these obnoxious airborne interlopers.
Bormann expected the owner to return, by Auntie Ju, to the mountain house in early September after attending to party business in Berlin; Bormann did not for a minute believe any of the malicious gossip about a new busty peroxide blonde that the hated little poison dwarf of a propaganda minister had introduced to Bormann’s boss.
As far as Paul himself went, he was always a joke to Bormann. The amazing combination of Paul’s stunted right leg and his breathtaking intellect—he was a Doctorate of Philosophy after all—made for the oddest man Bormann had ever encountered. Once Paul had confided to Bormann the approach he took to dalliance: “First, I have the lady over for a nice meal at my house by the lake, then I play my piano for three hours (I favor Chopin), and then I ask how she feels about the music and does she find it ethereally soothing” Bormann, the former farm laborer on a pig farm, smiled at Paul and asked, “Why don’t you do as I do?” Paul fell into the trap and politely asked what that was. Bormann laughed, “Tell the bitch to sit on the couch; sit next to her; command her to open her legs; tell her to start sucking, and that the sucking better be good.” Bormann laughed at the combination of shock and horror on little Paul’s face.