Maybe Harry Was Right

337.

Less than ten steps separate the sleek chrome aircraft from the boxy black SUV. We thank the crew for the ride and a toast to a safe return.

"Keys are always under the drivers seat, you drive," I say, making the point that my right side still not ready for California traffic or the local kamikaze driving style. "We used to call this place Pearl in reference to their similar bad intentions." I immediately consider that my innocent comment might have been unwittingly racist, insensitive or tone deaf at worst or sophomorically inappropriate at best, as judged by her silence and lack of response. I also consider that many topics of scorn, humor or satire - once considered macho by our 'boys club' - are now seen through the retrospective lens of having an old-school bias and a cold war brute mentality. I make a mental note to review my verbal rhetoric, recognizing the power of words and that old habits die hard, or in the case of many, not at all. I do not want to be seen as a 1950's relic of ignorance or an animal unable to adjust to societies heroic attempts at evolution. I wonder how long this has been going on without my recognition.

"It remains a date of infamy, to be sure, but for reasons far beyond those taught in school," she says as we exit the landing strip and set a course for the local FBI office. I look at her in bewilderment wondering what magical power allows her to read my mind. Just as I finish my self-inflicted penance of five Hail Mary's and five Our Father's for my verbal faux pas, dating myself as a victim of the post WWII baby boom, she adds another decade to the equation, now centered around Dec 7, 1941. Perhaps responding to the learning opportunity I keep my trap shut.

"What was our response to the surprise attack - assuming it WAS a surprise?" She continues, still trying to adjust the rear-view mirror to its optimum angle. "First there was outrage and then there was retaliation in the form of revenge. That revenge came almost four years later in the form of Fat Man and Little Boy, a pair of innocents brilliantly disguised as peace makers. The fact that the Doolittle Raids had devastated the Japanese mainland and that Emperor Hirohito had agreed to a non-conditional surrender - much to the chagrin of the majority of Japanese people - puts Harry Truman's non-decision in a much dimmer light."

At this I jump back in. "What do you mean 'non-decision?'"

"Your chess partner last night? One in the roomful of men - and all men mind you - on a mission code named the Manhattan Project with the singular objective of creating our species first atomic bomb and establish a new world order as a result of its military usage, he actually wrote a letter to President Truman expressing his dissatisfaction with the success of the mission. He felt he could not personally live with the estimated amount of blood soon to be, indirectly or not, on his hands, and went on to strongly suggested that we, and by we I mean us, find another way to achieve our goals." She is maneuvering through traffic with the deft aplomb of a fighter pilot in a dog fight, and continues, "It was a political given that once the brains in the room, and to be sure one could not toss a biscuit in that room without it hitting a genius, that the device would be used to end the war - and hence saving countless lives in addition to those already lost. The point being that it was a fait accompli, a foregone conclusion, that we would drop Fatty and Junior on Japan. It was a gamble upon which we wagered our entire fortune and a decision made more by the American people than by congress. Truman's non-decision being that he could have stopped it, but chose not to, intentionally or otherwise. And grant you he was in a tough spot politically, but when history cites his 'decision' to drop the bombs, that is a gross misrepresentation of reality."

"And I beg your pardon for my knee-jerk reaction and connection of, ahem, red dots, to your Pearl Harbor allegory. I know you meant no harm." She says.

"The connection is valid to this day," I begin, having a vague, general, idea of where I would like to steer the close of our conversation as we near the federal building in downtown Sacramento.

"Those pilots willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for their devotion to honor, homeland and their Emperor, are no different that the radical extremists who strap on a suicide vests and walk into a crowded marketplace with one intention."

"Difference being that in the former we are talking about war-time, fought by soldiers, and in the latter by civilians in otherwise peaceful circumstances," she adds.

"That being the main reason why terrorism, and in our case the homegrown variety, is so insidious."

We park in the reserved area and walk towards the imposing white marble building. Security seems heavy. We are met and escorted into the building by two agents. As we submit our weapons and badges at the security check-point, I wonder how things might have changed had Harry actually 'decided'.

What world would now exist? Where would we be? What meaningful work would the two of us be doing in service? What spin would Philip K. Dick take? Would we still be walking into the local FBI office to gauge the local terrorist threat level?

Maybe Harry was right.