Peace Is Better

“Oh, yes. That is true.” Fujita’s smile seemed embarrassed, even rueful. “It was thirty-seven years ago this month: September 9, 1942. I was warrant flying officer in Japanese Navy. The submarine I-25 surfaces off coast of Jefferson at six in morning, just as it gets light. We have in watertight container on deck a Yokosuka E14Y1 — a small floatplane. We assemble pieces from container. We fuel. We put on two 77-kilo incendiaries — big load on small plane. I am pilot. I get in with Petty Officer Shoji Okuda. We take off, fly east to America.”

“And you came to Port Orford,” Bill said.

Nobuo Fujita nodded, looking back across the years. “I came to Port Orford, yes,” he said. “I saw harbor. I saw town. I dropped my bombs. I flew away as fast as I could. Antiaircraft guns started shooting. I was lucky. Only one small hole in left wing before I am out of range. I flew back to submarine. It picked up Okuda and me and plane and got away.”

“I remember that. I was seven or eight then,” the Governor said. “You set a ship on fire and burned down a warehouse. Everybody started hopping around like fleas on a hot griddle.”

“It was small thing, nuisance thing,” Fujita answered with a shrug. “On twenty-ninth of September, I-25 came back. We took off again with more incendiaries. This time, orders were to start forest fire. I dropped bombs in Siskiyou National Forest, flew back, and escaped again.”

“It must have been wet. No fires that time,” Bill said. “No one here even knew about the second raid till you told us.”

The old Japanese man shrugged once more. “It was war. You try what you can. But after war was over, I felt sad — Port Orford beautiful town. In 1962, I ask American embassy in Tokyo if I could see it in peace without being treated as war criminal. They graciously say yes.”

“I should hope so!” Bill exclaimed. “Plenty of Americans who bombed Japan and Germany have visited those places.” He thought of Hyman Apfelbaum, the Attorney General of Jefferson. He’d flown thirty-one missions over Europe in 1944. After the war, he toured Germany, getting by with his Yiddish. He got by so well, a local asked him if he’d been there before. He told the man no, that seeming preferable to Only in a B-17.

Nobuo Fujita shrugged yet again. “You won. We lost,” he said bleakly. But then his smile returned. “When I came, everyone was so kind.” He hefted the samurai sword. While the reporters scribbled shorthand in their notebooks, the TV cameraman swung in for a closeup. Fujita went on, “This was in my family four hundred years. I gave it to mayor of Port Orford to show I was sorry to attack town.”

“But now you have it back again,” Bill said.

“Now I have it back again, yes,” Fujita said. “I worked for Nissan — parent company of Datsun cars. I learned English. When they told me they wanted dealership in Port Orford, I remembered friendly people and lovely country. I came in 1969. When I got here, kind mayor returned sword to me. I will be here for rest of my life. I am U.S. citizen since year before last.”

“That’s wonderful, Mr. Fujita. That’s an American story. That’s a Jefferson

story,” Bill said, looking into the TV camera. “You bombed Port Orford a long time ago, but now everybody here’s glad to have you for a neighbor. A month ago, the Yeti Lama told me he wanted to see Jefferson because this is where everyone gets along, regardless of race or size.”

“Yeti Lama very holy personage,” Nobuo Fujita murmured.

“He was right,” Bill said. “I’m nine feet-something, you’re five feet-something, but so what? Once our countries were at war, but so what? Now we’re at peace. And we’ll stay that way, too, because peace is better.”

“Peace is better,” Fujita agreed. Bill Williamson draped a large, companionable arm over his shoulder. The still photographers snapped away.