course, but I suppose a great deal of tatemae is not ever honne. I must say, too, that at the time of the invasion I was off the Allied Control Council in Japan. In point of fact I was on leave, since my wife was recovering from her first operation.”
Wells stopped talking, waited for comments or questions. But there was a typical silence in the lecture room. To cover Wells said, “Beyond all this laudable historical analysis I feel it incumbent to say something about the real world we live in today in 1979. For the present the U.S. is still terribly committed to the defense of South Korea and should the attack come in the form it took in June, 1950 surely the U.S. would intervene to defend its ally. Somebody ought to say that publicly and unequivocally.”
This pledge of support by a retired official seemed, Moran noted, to inspire the audience. There followed a series of elaborate statements in Japanese from the floor. Invariably each ended with the justifying question: “Would you comment on that?” Clearly there was no sentiment for question and answer, only the mutual airing of variant positions in the endless quest for further information.
Wells smiled through all these briefings avuncularly. Apparently he followed the Japanese discussion directly for he had conspicuously left his ear phone on the table top. The responses he made were soothing and appropriate, agreeing with several points, omitting controversial ones and after each juncture of evaluation introducing an appealing anecdote.
After forty minutes of such one-way colloquy, Moran decided it was time to shatter the immense saturninity. He was the first foreigner with a question. When his arm went up, Guade instantly designated him the next speaker, and the ICA attendant rushed to give him the hand microphone. Moran watched as Guade leaned in on the table to study Wells’ answer.
“Mr. Undersecretary,” Moran started, “can you tell us why the Air Force requested all of George Atcheson’s personal and diplomatic correspondence when it investigated his plane accident?”
“A very specific question,” Wells said, smiling, “unlike some of the more cosmic efforts heretofore. Atcheson? Atcheson? Do you mean Dean Acheson, whose plane so far as I knew never had an accident?”
“No sir, I mean George Atcheson, with a ‘T’ who was a senior member of the Control Commission here in Tokyo, as well as a former China hand, and Ambassador to Japan, I’m sure you remember. He was lost in a plane accident in August, 1947.”
“1947,” Wells said, “A long time ago, and your question is?”
“Why did the Air Force want to see all his files, just to investigate the plane crash, the ditching of the B-17 he was taking back to the states?”
“I’m not sure I could answer that. Have you asked the Air Force?”
“No, sir. Is it routine to send out the total file of a Foreign Service officer lost in the field.”
“Are you sure it happened?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, it surprises me. There must have been good reason. Perhaps you should contact the Air Force. George Atcheson? George, did you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, there was nothing special about that flight that I can remember.”
“Except, of course, it was special for Atcheson,” Moran said.
“Indeed. Indeed. I’m at a loss, I’m sorry. Someone at State should be able to help you.
“Thank you,” Moran sat down. Guade had been jotting notes the whole time.
Very skillful, Moran thought. It was impossible to tell whether Wells was only feigning or was truly bewildered. Moran did notice that Wells could not stop glancing at him even while fielding other Japanese comments. Bewildered then, or upset, or both—Moran couldn’t decide.
In fifteen more minutes, however, something of a decision formed, for Wells, having dutifully commented on a rambling speech about the impact economically of the Korean War, suddenly returned to Atcheson. “It occurs to me concerning a previous question from the gentleman over there, that I do remember George Atcheson and his tragedy, now that you remind me of it. And he was highly respected in Japan, and it was a stupid accident. And I believe he was—I mean his body was never found, isn’t that correct?”
“Yes,” Moran said, “but I was asking about the transfer of his files to Norton Air Force base in California.”
“Yes, yes, I quite remember your question,” Wells said, evidently warming to the task. “And about such a transfer, it did occur, didn’t it? You might ask in the State Department, Garret Weaver, if he’s still there. I remember he handled the files at about that time. When was it again?”
“August, 1947.”
“Yes, in the summer of 1947, in the late summer. And you say all the files were shipped to where?”
“Norton Air Force base in California.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Well, well, you should try Weaver on that one. Yes, I would try Weaver. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
In five more minutes Guade ended the discussion and as the hall emptied, joined Moran near the simultaneous translation booth in the back. At first Moran thought he should immediately apologize for losing whatever had been in the envelope, but as Guade approached him a certain wariness took hold. To his own amazement, either out of guilt or perhaps fear, he held back and let Guade direct the conversation.
Guade merely motioned him away from the booth toward the metal stacks of the library proper adjacent to the lecture room.
“Thanks,” Guade said. “He wasn’t exactly forthcoming, was he?”
“Well, you have Weaver’s name to pursue.”
“Hmmn,” Guade said, “Didn’t it strike you a bit odd he pretended not to remember Atcheson. But Atcheson reported to him.”
“He recovered on that.”
“Precisely. Deliberate recovery. You go through that stuff I gave you?”
“No. Not yet. To tell the truth I nearly passed out on the subway. When I got back to the hotel I simply folded up.”
“Okay. Okay. No rush, I suppose. He signed the transfer order, Weaver didn’t.”
“Who is Weaver?”
“Never heard of him,” Guade suddenly looked around. There was a youngish Japanese fellow in a lightly billowy suit nearby. He seemed to be examining some of the oversize books. “Look, I’ve got to go to lunch. Why don’t you call me tonight, or we could get together later, after you’ve gone through the stuff. You will get to it, won’t you?”
“I’m not sure it’s worth my time. I started you out on this, and it’s turned out to be a little more than the lark, the joke, I intended.”
“It’s no joke, not yet anyway,” Guade said. He rocked back, adjusted something in his hearing aid. “Where’s the stuff now?”
“In
