The Collected Short Stories Read online

  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 two 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 although he rarely mentioned his wartime experiences to his parishioners he often thought of 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 west 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 enquired 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 honourable 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 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 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 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 recover fully from those experiences at 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 around the table.

  On August 11, 1987, the bishop of Taunton was umpiring a village cricket match when 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 was left open. Those who arrived late had to listen 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.

  DO NOT PASS GO

  MAY 1986

  Hamid Zebari smiled at the thought of his wife, Shereen, driving him to the airport. Neither of them would have believed it possible five years before, when the