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Book: Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich
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Authors: William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich
Tags: alternate history
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bloom. They had shared the joy of the moment and in that found yet more common ground. The diving attack on the Oklahoma had changed things back.
James looked at him and felt he had to be honest with this man.
Fuchida formally saluted him and James returned the salute, then they shook hands.
“I’ll pray you never have to do for real what we did out in the harbor, my friend,” was all he could say and then he got into the car and went back to his ship, there to write a report of all that he had observed, a report he knew would just be simply filed away and forgotten as he slipped into retirement and was forgotten as well.
TWO
Chartwell, England 4 March 1936
“Cecil, Glad you could come!”
Cecil Stanford approached Winston Churchill, hand extended, the two shaking warmly, Winston patting him on the shoulder and directing him over to sit by the fire in his study. It was a typical English late-winter day outside, dark, blustery, chilled rain coming down. Shed of his umbrella, hat, and overcoat at the entry, Cecil was glad to settle down into the heavy red leather chair, Winston personally pouring a good two fingers of scotch into an ornate cut glass tumbler for his guest and nearly twice as much for himself. He motioned to the half-open ice bucket, and Cecil shook his head.
“Good man, can’t see why anyone would water down a proper single malt.”
The room was typical “Winston,” overstuffed leather chairs, all four walls lined with bookshelves, in some places the books neatly arranged, the proper leather-bound editions any gentleman might have up for display, in other places books stacked up sideways, slips of notepaper sticking out from between pages, half a dozen volumes piled up on the floor near his chair.
The small table between them held all the “essentials”: a heavy cut-class decanter, the leather-clad bucket of ice, a humidor for the cigars, and two ashtrays, both of them overflowing. Over the fireplace was a typical painting of battle, something from his illustrious ancestor’s time, the Duke of Marlborough, lines of cavalry charging forward against the French. The air was rich with the scent of cigar smoke, well-seasoned oak from the fireplace, and that slightly old and musty smell that all such homes of the landed English gentry always seemed to have ... in short the remembered scent of home. He had just returned the week before, after eight years in Japan, and it was a blessing.
Of course he had loved his posting to Etajima, at least up until the final semester. His young charges, almost to a man, had proven to be a delight to work with. Once he got past their rigid external barriers, so many had opened up. His “tradition” of a Sunday afternoon English tea, his English club he had called it, was often met with an overflow crowd, the boys laughing as they forced themselves to speak only in English, peppering him with questions about everything from cricket, to the king, to Shakespeare. His advanced students would try to tackle Macbeth, and it seemed to resonate with them, they exclaiming that it was like many of their own tales.
A bit of a chilling thought for him was whenever he compared their eagerness, dedication, and toughness to his old school chums back home, or the current crop of ensigns being turned out by England and America; it was a frightful comparison.
Among many of his peers, Japanese professors of other subjects, friendships had developed as well. He had been invited, during summer breaks, to all parts of the islands, had climbed Fuji, an experience that he thought would kill him, and even enjoyed a two-week cruise aboard their battleship Hiei, amazed with how “English” it felt, except for the cuisine, typically rice balls, and some kind of fish which he often suspected was not cooked, or barely cooked at all. Though as a joke, on the final night aboard, the officer’s mess had presented him with a proper serving of fish and chips, complete to it
James looked at him and felt he had to be honest with this man.
Fuchida formally saluted him and James returned the salute, then they shook hands.
“I’ll pray you never have to do for real what we did out in the harbor, my friend,” was all he could say and then he got into the car and went back to his ship, there to write a report of all that he had observed, a report he knew would just be simply filed away and forgotten as he slipped into retirement and was forgotten as well.
TWO
Chartwell, England 4 March 1936
“Cecil, Glad you could come!”
Cecil Stanford approached Winston Churchill, hand extended, the two shaking warmly, Winston patting him on the shoulder and directing him over to sit by the fire in his study. It was a typical English late-winter day outside, dark, blustery, chilled rain coming down. Shed of his umbrella, hat, and overcoat at the entry, Cecil was glad to settle down into the heavy red leather chair, Winston personally pouring a good two fingers of scotch into an ornate cut glass tumbler for his guest and nearly twice as much for himself. He motioned to the half-open ice bucket, and Cecil shook his head.
“Good man, can’t see why anyone would water down a proper single malt.”
The room was typical “Winston,” overstuffed leather chairs, all four walls lined with bookshelves, in some places the books neatly arranged, the proper leather-bound editions any gentleman might have up for display, in other places books stacked up sideways, slips of notepaper sticking out from between pages, half a dozen volumes piled up on the floor near his chair.
The small table between them held all the “essentials”: a heavy cut-class decanter, the leather-clad bucket of ice, a humidor for the cigars, and two ashtrays, both of them overflowing. Over the fireplace was a typical painting of battle, something from his illustrious ancestor’s time, the Duke of Marlborough, lines of cavalry charging forward against the French. The air was rich with the scent of cigar smoke, well-seasoned oak from the fireplace, and that slightly old and musty smell that all such homes of the landed English gentry always seemed to have ... in short the remembered scent of home. He had just returned the week before, after eight years in Japan, and it was a blessing.
Of course he had loved his posting to Etajima, at least up until the final semester. His young charges, almost to a man, had proven to be a delight to work with. Once he got past their rigid external barriers, so many had opened up. His “tradition” of a Sunday afternoon English tea, his English club he had called it, was often met with an overflow crowd, the boys laughing as they forced themselves to speak only in English, peppering him with questions about everything from cricket, to the king, to Shakespeare. His advanced students would try to tackle Macbeth, and it seemed to resonate with them, they exclaiming that it was like many of their own tales.
A bit of a chilling thought for him was whenever he compared their eagerness, dedication, and toughness to his old school chums back home, or the current crop of ensigns being turned out by England and America; it was a frightful comparison.
Among many of his peers, Japanese professors of other subjects, friendships had developed as well. He had been invited, during summer breaks, to all parts of the islands, had climbed Fuji, an experience that he thought would kill him, and even enjoyed a two-week cruise aboard their battleship Hiei, amazed with how “English” it felt, except for the cuisine, typically rice balls, and some kind of fish which he often suspected was not cooked, or barely cooked at all. Though as a joke, on the final night aboard, the officer’s mess had presented him with a proper serving of fish and chips, complete to it
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