A Twist in the Tale Read online

  Colonel Moore rose from his place and without offering an opinion left the room.

  He ran down the steps of the courthouse and instructed his driver to take him to British HQ in the center of the city as quickly as possible. The short journey took them some time because of the melee of displaced refugees that were always thronging the streets night and day. Once the Colonel arrived at his office he asked his secretary to place a call through to England. While she was carrying out his order Moore went to his green cabinet and thumbed through several files until he reached the one marked “Personal.” He opened it and fished out the letter. He wanted to be certain that he had remembered the sentence accurately …

  “If for any reason you should require my help in your deliberations, do not hesitate to contact me personally.”

  “He’s coming to the phone, sir,” the secretary said nervously. The Colonel walked over to the phone and waited. He found himself standing to attention when he heard the gentle, cultivated voice ask, “Is that you, Colonel?” It took Richard Moore less than ten minutes to explain the problem he faced and obtain the authority he needed.

  Immediately he had completed his conversation he returned to the tribunal headquarters. He marched straight back into the conference room just as General Tomkins was settling down in his chair to start the afternoon proceedings.

  The Colonel was the first to rise from his place when the General declared the tribunal to be in session. “I wonder if I might be allowed to open with a statement?” he requested.

  “Be my guest,” said Tomkins. “But make it brief. We’ve got a lot more of these Japs to get through yet.”

  Colonel Moore looked around the table at the other eleven men.

  “Gentlemen,” he began. “I hereby resign my position as the British representative on this commission.”

  General Tomkins was unable to stifle a smile.

  “I do it,” the Colonel continued, “reluctantly, but with the backing of my Prime Minister, to whom I spoke only a few moments ago.” At this piece of information Tomkins’ smile was replaced by a frown. “I shall be returning to England in order to make a full report to Mr. Attlee and the British Cabinet on the manner in which this tribunal is being conducted.”

  “Now look here, sonny,” began the General. “You can’t—”

  “I can, sir, and I will. Unlike you, I am unwilling to have the blood of innocent soldiers on my hands for the rest of my life.”

  “Now look here, sonny,” the General repeated. “Let’s at least talk this through before you do anything you might regret.”

  There was no break for the rest of the day, and by late afternoon Major Sakata, Sergeant Akida and Corporal Sushi had had their sentences commuted to life imprisonment.

  Within a month, General Tomkins had been recalled by the Pentagon to be replaced by a distinguished American marine who had been decorated in combat during the First World War.

  In the weeks that followed the new appointment the death sentences of two hundred and twenty-nine Japanese prisoners of war were commuted.

  Colonel Moore returned to Lincolnshire on November 11, 1948, having had enough of the realities of war and the hypocrisies of peace.

  * * *

  Just under four years later Richard Moore took holy orders and became a parish priest in the sleepy hamlet of Weddlebeach, in Suffolk. He enjoyed his calling and he rarely mentioned his wartime experiences to his parishioners, although his thoughts often returned to his days in Japan.

  “Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall…” the vicar began his sermon from the pulpit one Palm Sunday morning in the early 1960s, but he failed to complete the sentence.

  His parishioners looked up anxiously only to see that a broad smile had spread across the vicar’s face as he gazed down at someone seated in the third row.

  The man he was staring at bowed his head in embarrassment and the vicar quickly continued with his sermon.

  When the service was over Richard Moore waited by the east door to be sure his eyes had not deceived him. When they met face to face for the first time in fifteen years both men bowed and then shook hands.

  The priest was delighted to learn over lunch that day back at the vicarage that Chopsticks Sakata had been released from prison after only five years, following the Allies’ agreement with the newly installed Japanese government to release all prisoners who had not committed capital crimes. When the Colonel inquired after “Sweet and Sour Pork” the Major admitted that he had lost touch with Sergeant Akida (Sweet) but that Corporal Sushi (Sour) and he were working for the same electronics company. “And whenever we meet,” he assured the priest, “we talk of the honorable man who saved our lives, ‘the British Bullfrog.’”

  * * *

  Over the years, the priest and his Japanese friend progressed in their chosen professions and regularly corresponded with each other. In 1971 Ari Sakata was put in charge of a large electronics factory in Osaka while eighteen months later Richard Moore became the Very Reverend Richard Moore, Dean of Lincoln Cathedral.

  “I read in the London Times that your cathedral is appealing for a new roof,” wrote Sakata from his homeland in 1975.

  “Nothing unusual about that,” the Dean explained in his letter of reply. “There isn’t a cathedral in England that doesn’t suffer from dry rot or bomb damage. The former I fear is terminal; the latter at least now has the chance of a cure.”

  A few weeks later the Dean received a check for ten thousand pounds from a not-unknown Japanese electronics company.

  When in 1979 the Very Reverend Richard Moore was appointed to the bishopric of Taunton, the new managing director of the largest electronics company in Japan flew over to attend his enthronement.

  “I see you have another roof problem,” commented Ari Sakata as he gazed up at the scaffolding surrounding the pulpit “How much will it cost this time?”

  “At least twenty-five thousand pounds a year,” replied the Bishop without thought. “Just to make sure the roof doesn’t fall in on the congregation during my sterner sermons.” He sighed as he passed the evidence of reconstruction all around him. “As soon as I’ve settled into my new job I intend to launch a proper appeal to ensure my successor doesn’t have to worry about the roof ever again.”

  The managing director nodded his understanding. A week later a check for twenty-five thousand pounds arrived on the churchman’s desk.

  The Bishop tried hard to express his grateful thanks. He knew he must never allow Chopsticks to feel that by his generosity he might have done the wrong thing as this would only insult his friend and undoubtedly end their relationship. Rewrite after rewrite was drafted to ensure that the final version of the long handwritten letter would have passed muster with the Foreign Office mandarin in charge of the Japanese desk. Finally the letter of thanks was posted.

  As the years passed Richard Moore became fearful of writing to his old friend more than once a year as each letter elicited an even larger check. And, when toward the end of 1986 he did write, he made no reference to the Dean and Chapter’s decision to designate 1988 as the cathedral’s appeal year. Nor did he mention his own failing health, lest the old Japanese gentleman should feel in some way responsible, as his doctor had warned him that he could never expect to fully recover from the experiences of Tonchan.

  The Bishop set about forming his appeal committee in January 1987. The Prince of Wales became the patron and the Lord Lieutenant of the county its chairman. In his opening address to the members of the appeal committee the Bishop instructed them that it was their duty to raise not less than three million pounds during 1988. Some apprehensive looks appeared on the faces of the faithful around the table.

  It was on August 11, 1987, when the Bishop of Taunton was umpiring a village cricket match that he suddenly collapsed from a heart attack. “See that the appeal brochures are printed in time for the next meeting,” were his final words to the captain of the local team.

  Bishop Moore’s memorial service
was held in Taunton Cathedral and conducted by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Not a seat could be found in the cathedral that day, and so many crowded into every pew that the west door had to be left open. Those who arrived late listened to the Archbishop’s address relayed over loudspeakers placed around the market square.

  Casual onlookers must have been puzzled by the presence of several elderly Japanese gentlemen dotted around the congregation.

  When the service came to an end the Archbishop held a private meeting in the vestry of the cathedral with the chairman of the largest electronics company in the world.

  “You must be Mr. Sakata,” said the Archbishop, warmly shaking the hand of a man who stepped forward from the small cluster of Japanese who were in attendance. “Thank you for taking the trouble to write and let me know that you would be coming. I am delighted to meet you at last. The Bishop always spoke of you with great affection and as a close friend—‘Chopsticks,’ if I remember.”

  Mr. Sakata bowed low.

  “And I also know that he always considered himself in your personal debt for such generosity over so many years.”

  “No, no, not me,” replied the former Major. “I, like my dear friend the late Bishop, am representative of higher authority.”

  The Archbishop looked puzzled.

  “You see, sir,” continued Mr. Sakata, “I am only the chairman of the company. May I have the honor of introducing my President?”

  Mr. Sakata took a pace backward to allow an even smaller figure, whom the Archbishop had originally assumed to be part of Mr. Sakata’s entourage, to step forward.

  The President bowed low and, still without speaking, passed an envelope to the Archbishop.

  “May I be allowed to open it?” the church leader asked, unaware of the Japanese custom of waiting until the giver has departed.

  The little man bowed again.

  The Archbishop slit open the envelope and removed a check for three million pounds.

  “The late Bishop must have been a very close friend,” was all he could think of saying.

  “No, sir,” the President replied. “I did not have that privilege.”

  “Then he must have done something incredible to be deserving of such a munificent gesture.”

  “He performed an act of honor over forty years ago and now I try inadequately to repay it.”

  “Then he would surely have remembered you,” said the Archbishop.

  “Is possible he would remember me but, if so, only as the sour half of ‘Sweet and Sour Pork.’”

  * * *

  There is one cathedral in England that has never found it necessary to launch a national appeal.

  CHECKMATE

  AS SHE ENTERED the room every eye turned toward her.

  When admiring a woman some men start with her head and work down. I start with the ankles and work up.

  She wore black high-heeled velvet shoes and a tight-fitting black dress that stopped high enough above the knees to reveal the most perfectly tapering legs. As my eyes continued on their upward sweep they paused to take in her narrow waist and slim athletic figure. But it was the oval face that I found completely captivating, slightly pouting lips and the largest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, crowned with a head of thick, black, short-cut hair that literally shone with luster. Her entrance was all the more breathtaking because of the surroundings she had chosen. Heads would have turned at a diplomatic reception, a society cocktail party, even a charity ball, but at a chess tournament …

  I followed her every movement, patronizingly unable to accept she could be a player. She walked slowly over to the club secretary’s table and signed in to prove me wrong. She was handed a number to indicate her challenger for the opening match. Anyone who had not yet been allocated an opponent waited to see if she would take her place opposite their side of the board.

  The player checked the number she had been given and made her way toward an elderly man who was seated in the far corner of the room, a former captain of the club now past his best.

  As the club’s new captain I had been responsible for instigating these round-robin matches. We meet on the last Friday of the month in a large clublike room on top of the Mason’s Arms on High Street. The landlord sees to it that thirty tables are set out for us and that food and drink are readily available. Three or four other clubs in the district send half a dozen opponents to play a couple of blitz games, giving us a chance to face rivals we would not normally play. The rules for the matches are simple enough—one minute on the clock is the maximum allowed for each move, so a game rarely lasts for more than an hour, and if a pawn hasn’t been captured in thirty moves the game is automatically declared a draw. A short break for a drink between games, paid for by the loser, ensures that everyone has the chance to challenge two opponents during the evening.

  A thin man wearing half-moon spectacles and a dark blue three-piece suit made his way over toward my board. We smiled and shook hands. My guess would have been a solicitor, but I was wrong as he turned out to be an accountant working for a stationery supplier in Woking.

  I found it hard to concentrate on my opponent’s well-rehearsed Moscow opening as my eyes kept leaving the board and wandering over to the girl in the black dress. On the one occasion our eyes did meet she gave me an enigmatic smile, but although I tried again I was unable to elicit the same response a second time. Despite being preoccupied I still managed to defeat the accountant, who seemed unaware that there were several ways out of a seven-pawn attack.

  At the halftime break three other members of the club had offered her a drink before I even reached the bar. I knew I could not hope to play my second match against the girl as I would be expected to challenge one of the visiting team captains. In fact she ended up playing the accountant.

  I defeated my new opponent in a little over forty minutes and, as a solicitous host, began to take an interest in the other matches that were still being played. I set out on a circuitous route that ensured I ended up at her table. I could see that the accountant already had the better of her and within moments of my arrival she had lost both her queen and the game.

  I introduced myself and found that just shaking hands with her was a sexual experience. Weaving our way through the tables we strolled over to the bar together. Her name, she told me, was Amanda Curzon. I ordered Amanda the glass of red wine she requested and a half-pint of beer for myself. I began by commiserating with her over the defeat.

  “How did you get on against him?” she asked.

  “Just managed to beat him,” I said. “But it was very close. How did your first game with our old captain turn out?”

  “Stalemate,” said Amanda. “But I think he was just being courteous.”

  “Last time I played him it ended up in stalemate,” I told her.

  She smiled. “Perhaps we ought to have a game sometime?”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” I said, as she finished her drink.

  “Well, I must be off,” she announced suddenly. “Have to catch the last train to Hounslow.”

  “Allow me to drive you,” I said gallantly. “It’s the least the host captain can be expected to do.”

  “But surely it’s miles out of your way?”

  “Not at all,” I lied, Hounslow being about twenty minutes beyond my flat. I gulped down the last drop of my beer and helped Amanda on with her coat. Before leaving I thanked the landlord for the efficient organization of the evening.

  We then strolled into the car park. I opened the passenger door of my Scirocco to allow Amanda to climb in.

  “A slight improvement on London Transport,” she said as I slid into my side of the car. I smiled and headed out on the road northward. That black dress that I described earlier goes even higher up the legs when a girl sits back in a Scirocco. It didn’t seem to embarrass her.

  “It’s still very early,” I ventured after a few inconsequential remarks about the club evening. “Have you time to drop in for a drink?”

  “It woul
d have to be a quick one,” she replied, looking at her watch. “I’ve a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” I said, chatting on, hoping she wouldn’t notice a detour that could hardly be described as on the way to Hounslow.

  “Do you work in town?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’m a receptionist for a firm of estate agents in Berkeley Square.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not a model.”

  “I used to be,” she replied without further explanation. She seemed quite oblivious to the route I was taking as she chatted on about her holiday plans for Ibiza. Once we had arrived at my place I parked the car and led Amanda through my front gate and up to the flat. In the hall I helped her off with her coat before taking her through to the front room.

  “What would you like to drink?” I asked.

  “I’ll stick to wine, if you’ve a bottle already open,” she replied, as she walked slowly round, taking in the unusually tidy room. My mother must have dropped by during the morning, I thought gratefully.

  “It’s only a bachelor pad,” I said, emphasizing the word “bachelor” before going into the kitchen. To my relief I found there was an unopened bottle of wine in the larder. I joined Amanda with two glasses a few moments later to find her studying my chessboard and fingering the delicate ivory pieces that were set out for a game I was playing by post.

  “What a beautiful set,” she volunteered as I handed her a glass of wine. “Where did you find it?”

  “Mexico,” I told her, not explaining that I had won it in a tournament while on holiday there. “I was only sorry we didn’t find the time to have a game ourselves.”