The Astor House was a bit fancy for lunch, but Doug didn’t mind. It amused him that Pete suggested it, though. It was only a couple of blocks west of the Japanese Consulate, so in a way it made his afternoon easier.
“I’m glad you could get away for a bit,” Pete said after they’d been sat by the snooty maître’d, and ordered their food. “I want to ask you a few things, confidentially.”
Doug was a little surprised by the serious look on Pete’s face. “Of course.”
“I figure you know a lot more about what’s going on than what the rest of us get to read in the papers. I’m not asking you to reveal anything secret, I know you can’t, but I hope you can tell me if there’s any significant risk in what’s happening.”
Pete was not a worrier, so Doug was taken aback by his friend’s concern.
His surprise must have shown on his face, because Pete laughed and held up his hands. “No, I understand we’re safe here in the International Settlement. Julia and I were here the last time the Chinese and Japanese came to blows, back in ’32. Did you know that? We were new to Shanghai then, just arrived a few months before, in the fall of ’31. We were pretty green, and the higher-ups at the bank had to reassure us we were all safe in the Settlement. I know things got a little hairy in the neighborhoods up by the north boundary; but uptown where we live, or downtown where I work, we saw pretty quick there was no danger.
“What I’m asking about is the risk to commerce, to business investments. The last time this happened, it all stayed up in Chapei, and it wound down after two months. The only other fighting was all the way up in Manchuria, which might as well have been on Mars as far as anyone was concerned here. It feels bigger this time, now that the Japs have taken Peiping. If the battle spreads out from Chapei, it could mean trouble for us.”
Pete was an investment banker, so in his work at the HSBC he would have bought and sold shares of companies doing business in the greater Shanghai area, including the Chinese municipality.
Doug chose his words carefully. “It’s true that I know details about the opposing forces that haven’t been reported to the public...but that hasn’t given me any sort of crystal ball into future maneuvers. I can at most make an educated guess.”
Pete patted him on the arm in what felt like forced joviality, even though it was typical of Pete under normal circumstances. “Douggie, your educated guess is worth more than the uneducated guesses of a dozen men on our Board of Directors.”
Doug pictured a dozen old white-haired men sitting around a giant oval boardroom table, frowning, and he had no doubt that Pete’s assessment was correct. Still, he hesitated. “I could be wrong, though—so if you relied on my suppositions, and it turned out wrong...”
Pete forced a smile. “I understand, buddy. We’ll take full responsibility for our own decisions, don’t worry. But if you could do me a favor as a friend, and share some insights, that would be really valuable to me.”
The need in Pete’s voice sent a pang of sadness through Doug’s stomach. He hadn’t considered that a bunch of stuffy old men in the boardroom were probably barking orders to underlings, and causing no end of anxiety for his friend.
“I’ll be glad to,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “Like you said, this time feels bigger than what happened in ’32. The size of the Japanese operation in northern China, plus their bombing of port cities down the coast, all point to a bigger war on the horizon. I wish I could give you some insights about timing, but I’m as much in the dark as you are there.”
Pete nodded. “But in your expert opinion, it’s not going to stay confined to Chapei.”
Doug took a deep breath. “I don’t see how it can. At the very least, the Japanese will surely bombard the dockyards south of the French Concession, and the warehouses there along the Chinese Bund.” He saw Pete tense. “I take it you have a lot of investments in that area.”
Pete looked pained. “Quite a lot, actually.” Then he forced a grin, and put on a show of bravado. “Insurance would cover part of the losses. And it’s not my fault if a war breaks out, so it won’t cost me my job, at least. I won’t be completely broke, anyway.”
Doug got a clearer picture of Pete’s risk. Julia’s your biggest worry, if you lose a lot of money. Doug supposed he’d rather face a boardroom full of angry directors than to face down a hostile big-spending—and stubborn—wife who would resist cutting into her life-style.
“Fewer lunches like this one, though,” Doug said with a teasing jab at his friend’s arm.
“Are you kidding? I’m expensing this lunch as soon as I get back to the office.”
**
The rattle of gunfire filled the air shortly after Doug and his two U.S. Marine guards—a sergeant and a corporal—arrived at Japanese Marine headquarters under white flag. Doug wore his blue uniform instead of the usual whites, to avoid standing out. He and the two marines wore Brodie helmets, the steel combat helmet first worn by American “doughboys” during the Great War, commonly called a dishpan hat by USMC grunts. They weren’t very comfortable, and only limited protection, but they were better than nothing. And at least the chin straps had been elasticized last year.
The Japanese had maintained a marine garrison in this part of the Chinese municipality ever since 1932, as part of the agreement reached at the end of the last conflict. Their presence was a source of resentment to the local Chinese population, so it was no surprise this building had come under steady fire almost the moment hostilities began that morning.
The Chinese will need pretty heavy artillery to even crack this place, Doug thought, looking around in admiration at the fortress-like four-story structure. The commandant proudly informed them in slow, careful English that the building’s exterior walls and roof were double layers of reinforced concrete, impervious to bombardment.
“We are in good position to defend Japanese citizens in Shanghai.” The commandant beamed.
“It’s pretty far from Little Tokyo out here,” the American sergeant muttered under his breath to Doug and the corporal, using the term that was more popular among American military men than “Japantown,” which was favored by British and American Shanghailanders.
“Japanese citizens live in all parts of Shanghai,” the commandant said, obviously overhearing and understanding the sergeant’s aside. “Most live in Hongkou district, and we are in Hongkou district.”
But we’re in the part of Hongkou that’s outside the boundaries of the International Settlement. Doug didn’t want to insult their hosts, so he gave the American sergeant a warning look, and said to the commandant, “I’m sure your presence here is reassuring to them.”
The commandant bowed, and continued their tour of the facility, circling the large open courtyard.
As squads of marines left in quick march formations, he explained what was happening in a surprisingly frank manner. The Japanese military had an international reputation as one of the most closed-off and secretive organizations in the world, putting even the British to shame in that regard, and second perhaps only to the Soviets.
On the top floor, the commandant took them to an operations room that overlooked North Sichuan Road, the major north-south artery through the northern section of Hongkou that became Honan Road in the International Settlement portion of Hongkou—the main road that ran past Doug’s neighborhood. It was an important road, and the main path that Japanese troops took between this headquarters and the Japanese colony that occupied the eastern half of the Settlement’s North District.
Doug had an excellent view from up here, and through his binoculars he could see almost to the Honan Road gates of the International Settlement. Groups of Japanese marines rushed up and down the road, and in several places they exchanged fire with unseen Chinese troops. At regular intervals near the headquarters, marines were setting up mounds of dirt as mounts for machine guns, and surrounding these nests with double rows of barbed wire.
Japanese armored cars also patrolled the street, and wheneve
r a skirmish erupted along this corridor, the armored cars sped there to repel the Chinese attackers. Other Japanese troops would take positions in the shelter of the armored car, and place trench mortars on the pavement to launch grenades westward, toward Chapei. It was fascinating to watch, and Doug took mental notes, saving the images in his memory.
The commandant told them they could stay in that room, and he excused himself with a bow. He crossed the room to converse in rapid Japanese with support staff surrounding a table.
As soon as he’d gone, the two American marines stopped watching the fight, and turned to face the room. Doug smiled at the seriousness with which they took their guard duty.
Several minutes later, a loud burst of gunfire and explosions from the opposite direction caused Doug to turn and gaze to the northwest. A half-mile distant, pillars of smoke began to rise above the rooftops.
That’s along Hongkou Creek, judging from the break in the rooftops winding to their west and south.
The commandant kept an outward appearance of calm, but he moved around quickly, and the sound of his orders to underlings became harsher. Doug turned his binoculars toward the new disturbance, but without an unobstructed view he could only see the smoke rising.
Japanese military staff hurried in and out of the room, and scrambled to write down orders that the commandant barked out. Every telephone on the big round desk was suddenly in use, with staffers talking urgently into them.
Doug slipped away from the window, and went surreptitiously toward the door, where he could look down and see a corner of the courtyard. The two American marines kept on either side of him, a step behind.
The corridor was awash in activity, and judging by the sounds of voices and marching feet, so was the courtyard. Significant reinforcements were being ordered.
There was a loud boom from outside, followed by the whistle above them which was the tell-tale sound of artillery shells. But it was out of order. Doug hurried back toward the window, assuming his ears had deceived him. Big globs of black smoke billowed a half-mile to the northwest, close to where the fighting had started a little while before.
Then there was a flash, followed by a boom, followed by an overhead whistle. Rolls of flame rose between buildings to the left of the smaller smoke streams. Then there was another flash near the first, followed by a boom, again followed by an overhead whistle rather than preceded by.
The shelling had to have originated from the Japanese naval ships in the Huang Po, a little more than two miles to the south. And the sound of the shells passing overhead was definitely coming to him slower than the sound of the explosion itself—but that made no sense. Japanese ships don’t have supersonic guns.
Over the next half-hour, more shells landed on the area just to the west of the fight, always with the flash-boom-whistle pattern instead of the usual whistle-flash-boom.
**
Evening was coming, but the battle seemed to be intensifying. Doug couldn’t leave now, with the situation likely to change quickly, but he’d have to miss the show at Charlie and Bao’s theater.
He approached the Japanese major who had been assigned to them while the commandant was otherwise occupied. “Do you have a wireless telegraph I can use to send a dispatch? The commandant assured us we would be able to communicate with our service.”
“Yes, Commander, I can take you to it,” the major said with a bow. “Follow, please.”
Doug followed the Major down the corridor, trailed by his two USMC guards. He was shown to a door, but the American marines were ordered to stay outside. The sergeant looked to Doug, who nodded that it was alright.
The sergeant didn’t look pleased by this. “We’ll be right here, sir.”
The major took Doug into a room where several young men sat with headphones, tapping out messages in Morse code. There were a few empty stations near the door, and the major showed Doug to the nearest one, farthest from the Japanese telegraphers. He slid a screen across the room, hiding the Japanese telegraphers from view, and muting the sound of their tapping. The major gave Doug a headset, and told him that he must wear it at all times in the room.
So that I can’t hear what their tapping, as much as for tuning the dial.
Doug put on the headset, tuned to the USS Valparaiso’s frequency, tapped out the standard greeting, and identified himself.
Go ahead Commander, came the reply.
Doug tapped out that he had observed Japanese operations along North Sichuan Road and Hongkou Creek, and that he would file a full report later. He couldn’t be more detailed on a Japanese line.
Receipt acknowledged, the ship replied.
Doug added a request to send a telegram to Lucy’s address, to “inform Miss Kinzler that I will not join her tonight.” He closed with the word “Over.”
Message received, came the reply. Doug could only assume that meant the radioman on duty would do that for him.
*
The operation room was a scene of chaos when Doug and his USMC escorts returned. Doug asked the major what was happening.
“A few parties of Chinese troops have circled around to the Japanese Golf Club, east of our location, near Huang Po River.” The major’s tone was matter-of-fact, but he looked a touch embarrassed to admit the breach. “They have fired on civilian workers, and our troops are taking countermeasures.”
“Those workers are building an air field on the golf course, I believe,” Doug observed wryly. Civilian workers constructing military installations were recognized as fair game in times of war, as he was certain the major was aware.
“For defense of the Japanese people of Shanghai,” the major replied without missing a beat.
Doug had to hand it to these Japanese officers—their message was consistent.
The boom of artillery explosions now reached them from the east as well as the northwest.
**
Jonesy stood along the sidewalk on the Bund two blocks north of the Cathay Hotel, watching grim-faced as throngs of Chinese pedestrians pored south across the Garden Bridge in a wild stampede. More than once, Jonesy saw children or small women get knocked over and trampled by the panicked crowd. It made him feel ill.
An AP photographer stood next to him, snapping pictures of the chaos. Jonesy had grabbed him on the way out of the office, knowing a story like this needed a striking picture.
What made Jonesy even more sick to his stomach was the thought that all of this panic was unnecessary—the areas these people were fleeing were part of the International Settlement, for crying out loud. The southern parts of Hongkou and Yangtzepoo were the Settlement’s North District and East District respectively, and were legally untouchable by the combatants.
Sure, he remembered that in ’32 the fighting had come right up to the boundaries of the Settlement, within feet of the gates, and stray bullets had flown across the line and struck buildings within a block of the boundary—but for everyone else, there had been no danger. He couldn’t understand what was causing this flight, or why any of the thousands of parents in the crowd would endanger their children in this mad rush.
The boom of artillery guns from a Japanese destroyer a quarter mile to the east made the ground shake, and Jonesy could have kicked himself for being judgmental. For these families, the shells were literally flying over their heads on the way to the battle.
“Let’s see if we can get closer,” he shouted to the photographer, Emory Gordon, a young man of about twenty-two or twenty-three, with a swoop of brown hair over his forehead.
Inching along the front of the buildings, they managed to get all the way to the bend of Soochow Road South before the one-way surge of humanity wouldn’t permit further progress.
“We’ll have to go up,” Jonesy said with a shrug, determined to get a better view.
Inside the HBMS building, Jonesy talked the elderly Chinese elevator operator into taking them to the top, and letting them onto the roof.
Here, from a height of seven stories, they had a good
view onto the Garden Bridge, and the mass of humanity thundering across.
At the north end of the bridge, in the shadow of the nineteen-story Broadway Mansions Hotel, two Japanese sentries on either side of the road struggled to stop the civilians from crossing, but the river of humanity flowed right around them like two rocks. They swung their rifle butts like clubs, but everyone except the poor souls they struck ignored them in their rush to get south, across the creek, to downtown.
“Make sure you get a few shots of that,” Jonesy said to the young photographer. “When there are claims of Japanese brutality later, we can show photographic evidence of it.”
While they were watching the futile confrontations, one of the sentries argued with an elderly Chinese man who kept trying to get around him. After several fruitless shoves, the sentry took his bayonet and ran it through the old man’s gut, the point coming out the side.
“Murder!” Jonesy shouted, pointing, but his voice was lost in the noise.
The Japanese marine pulled his bloodied bayonet from the old man, who crumpled onto the ground at his feet. Then he picked up the thin body as if it were a sack of cotton, and heaved it over the railing into the filthy water of Soochow Creek.
Jonesy turned to the photographer next to him, gripped him by both shoulders and shook him. “Tell me you got that on film! Tell me we got all of it.”
The young man looked startled, but then he broke into a big grin and nodded. “I got a whole bunch. Just gotta see how they turned out, that’s all. But we got ‘em.”
“Hot dog, we got ‘em!” Jonesy shouted, doing a little dance. The photographer laughed, and Jonesy patted him on the cheek. “Good boy, Emory. I’m proud of you.”
10
Saturday, August 14
Doug was roused early, while it was still dark, by insistent knocking. The small clock on his bedside table said it was only quarter after three.
He scrambled out of bed and stepped into a pair of underwear before slipping on his bathrobe and hurrying toward his front door. “I’m coming!” he shouted.
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