“Captain Tatehiko no speaks English,” the shichokan informed me. “Please to sit. I will speak to him of what we have said.”
Chief Suzuki and I returned to our teakwood chairs while Captain Tatehiko—who was apparently the liaison officer between the Navy and the colonial government—stood with crossed arms, like a sentry, listening to the shichokan, who had remained standing. Then the shichokan handed the letters to Captain Tatehiko and stood beside him, pointing at words as he read/translated.
Tatehiko listened to all this expressionlessly, then nodded curtly and took the third chair, beside Suzuki, as the relieved shichokan took his seat behind the desk, again.
“Father O’Leary,” the shichokan said, leaning forward, hands flat on his desk. “Why do you honor us with visit?”
I stood, to lend some weight to my words. “The I.R.A. has since January of last year been waging a bombing campaign against Britain. Unfortunately our resources are limited. The quality of our explosives, homemade or stolen, has not always been the best.”
“Forgive please,” the shichokan said, holding up his palm again. “I must translate as we go.”
And he translated for Tatehiko. Then he nodded to me to continue.
I did: “We have been discussing an alliance with Germany for many months. Arrangements are being made for Sean Russell to go to Berlin. He seeks aid to fight the common British enemy.”
I paused, to allow the shichokan to translate for Captain Tatehiko, which he did.
Then I went on: “I am acting as a courier in hopes that Mr. Russell, or some other I.R.A. envoy, can go to Tokyo to build a similar alliance with your imperial government. Britain bedevils you by aiding China; they hold island territories in these waters that are rightfully yours. With funding and supplies, the I.R.A. can mount a sabotage campaign aimed at key British war industries.”
Again I paused, and again the shichokan translated.
“The I.R.A. can damage the British transportation structure,” I said, ticking off a list on my fingers. “It can demoralize the British public. And it can cripple the British aircraft industry. But we need funds, arms, and supplies. That is the substance of the message I have been asked to convey.”
And the shichokan translated.
And I sat.
Captain Tatehiko mulled all of this over, briefly, then spoke in Japanese, at some length, while the shichokan listened intently.
Then the governor said to me, “Captain Tatehiko thanks you for your message, and your friendship. Your message will be conveyed.”
“That’s all I ask,” I said. I looked at the Captain, said, “Arigato,” and nodded.
He nodded back.
The shichokan said, “Some time may pass before we have a reply to your message. Captain Tatehiko will speak to Rear Admiral who will speak to Naval Ministry. I will do same with chokunin of Nan’yo chokan.”
“I understand,” I said. “However, I have arranged passage on a German trading ship due to dock at Tanapag Harbor two days from now. Back to the American territory, Guam.”
Captain Tatehiko spoke to the shichokan, apparently asking for a translation, which the shichokan seemed to provide. Tatehiko spoke again, and now it was the governor’s turn to translate for me.
“Captain Tatehiko say that if you stay longer, we will arrange safe passage to Guam at a later date.” The shichokan held his open palms out in a gesture of welcome. “Will you be our guest until that time?”
“I would be honored.”
The shichokan beamed. “You honor us, Father.”
Both Chief Suzuki and Captain Tatehiko excused themselves to pursue their official duties, but I remained behind, at the shichokan’s insistence, for luncheon, with the promise of an island tour thereafter.
My pudgy host and I sat in another room, on woven straw mats in the usual cross-legged Nipponese style, with a sliding door drawn back on a view of green hills rising into the mist. Two lovely young women in colorful kimonos attended our every whim, keeping first our teacups filled, then later serving tiny warm cups of sake, which I sipped guardedly. Lacquered trays with small dishes of food—seaweed, rice, pickles, miso paste—were set before us. The stuff was lousy.
It wasn’t like I didn’t know or appreciate Japanese cuisine. There was a place back home, on Lake Park Avenue, called Mrs. Shintani’s where they cooked sukiyaki on a little gas stove right at your table, thin slices of beef, crisp fresh vegetables, the warm aromas rising to your nostrils like undulating dancing girls. Take a young lady to Mrs. Shintani’s for an intimate evening of heavenly dining, and I dare you not to get lucky.
This tasteless goo wouldn’t get you to first base.
“I hope you enjoy meal,” the shichokan said. “We eat only finest imported food. Sent from home in can, jar, sack.”
“Aren’t there farms here?” I asked, my chopsticks finding a pinch of flavorless seaweed. “I know there’s fishing.”
The shichokan made a sour face. “Island food. We do not eat the harvest of primitive people.”
On a tropical paradise, surrounded by waters teeming with fish, where coconuts and bananas and pineapples flourished, where native farmers raised chickens, cattle, and hogs, these proud people ate canned seafood and seaweed out of jars. This was my first real indication that they were nuts.
The roly-poly shichokan’s tour of the island was fairly brief—an hour and a half or so—but illuminating. Riding in back of another black sedan, with a white-uniformed driver, our route was at first scenic, following hard dirt roads south through lush foliage, stopping to take in a small bay, a tidal pool, a blowhole, and several craters. Then, apparently to demonstrate to his new I.R.A. friend the capabilities of the Japanese, the shichokan paused to allow me to take in the panorama that was Aslito Heneda airfield.
Two vast crushed-coral runways, two service sheds with spacious crushed-coral aprons, five dark-green wood-frame hangars, and a similarly constructed terminal, Aslito Heneda was a modern airfield in the shadow of an ancient mountain. The facility had an unmistakable military look, but as we coasted by, I caught sight of no fighter planes, no bombers—the only planes on the apron were a pair of airliners—and a few parked automobiles, with some civilian activity around the terminal building, a small ground crew on the field.
“Great Japan Airways,” the shichokan explained. “People come to work Saipan. Some come for vacation from Tokyo.”
Later, the shichokan pointed out a flat stretch of land, which looked to have been recently cleared, and said, “Marpi Point. We begin clear second airfield soon.”
Saipan didn’t seem to be in dire need of another commercial airport; in fact, Aslito Heneda was barely used for that purpose. In his sly way, the shichokan was letting his I.R.A. ally know that, though military aircraft and combat units were not yet in place, the island was undergoing heavy-duty fortification.
He was less coy back in Garapan, when we rolled past the chain-link-fenced-off Chico Naval Base with its sprawl of barracks skirting the seaplane base with its ramps and repair shed, and modest population of two flying boats. Within that fenced-off area, there was no sign of any military personnel.
“Those buildings full by next year,” the governor bragged. “With konkyochitai…” Noticing my confusion, he thought about that and came up with a translation: “Battalion. Also, a bobitai, defense force. Five hundred men. And keibitai…guard force. Eight hundred navy troop.”