“My children are Christian,” Mae Su announced. It was the first word she had spoken.
Mae Su had watched the initial encounter between Father Boris and Milla with mingled suspicion and curiosity.
Father Boris looked at her. “How is that? You were educated by missionaries?”
“My man is a Catholic. He took them to a Catholic priest.”
Later that afternoon, Father Boris invited Gang-Cho, both as Mae Su’s uncle, and as the presiding elder of the village, to the christening of Edward Edwardovich Banning. He placed him in a position of honor beside the blue porcelain vessel he had put to God’s use as the baptismal font, and then very respectfully explained to Gang-Cho that the baby was now under the protection of God and Holy Mother Church. It was instantly clear to Milla that Mae Su’s uncle understood this to mean, in a temporal sense, that the child was now under the protection of the four large Chinese men who accompanied Father Boris, at least two of whom—including Edward Edwardovich’s new godfather, Lee Tsing—were carrying Mauser Broomhandle 9 mm machine pistols under their long black robes.
After his first visit, Father Boris visited Milla at Paotow-Zi regularly, at intervals of two or three weeks. On his second, and subsequent visits, he brought Mae Su’s uncle a bottle of the very best rice wine, as a gesture of respect between Wise Elders, always thanking him profusely for using his wisdom and influence to protect Milla and Mae Su and their children. Before long, Father Boris became known in the village as the Wise Foreigner.
And he brought news of the war.
Most of that was not good, at least at first. But Father Boris thought Milla especially should have the knowledge.
The Japanese struck the American Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, and sank most of America’s battleships; they took the British Colony at Hong Kong on Christmas Eve; Singapore surrendered; they invaded the Philippine Islands; and after a long battle, the Americans there had surrendered. The Japanese were all over the Pacific. They were on New Guinea, off the Australian continent, and for a while it looked as if they would invade Australia itself.
Meanwhile, the Japanese behavior in Shanghai was even worse than anyone expected. They had all been wise to leave Shanghai when they did, Father Boris explained to Milla.
The news was not all bad. The Japanese were a long way from winning the war. There was even a story that American bombing airplanes had struck Tokyo itself, and in August 1942—the month Edward Edwardovich was born—American Marines had invaded an island called Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands. The Japanese had promised to throw them back into the sea within days, but as there had been no announcement, Father Boris assumed that the Americans were still on Guadalcanal.
Milla had never heard of Guadalcanal, had no idea where it was, and it didn’t matter anyway. Ed’s—and Ernie Zimmerman’s—4th Marines had been sent to the Philippines, and the Philippines had surrendered. The best outcome for either of them was maybe they had managed to avoid being killed in the battles and were now prisoners. Which, in itself, was a false hope, considering how much the Japanese hated Americans, and how they treated prisoners.
She had to accept the fact that Ed was probably dead. What she had to do now was survive the war, pray the Americans and the English would somehow win, and then somehow establish contact with Ed’s mother and father, in Charlestown, South Carolina, USA, so that Edward Edwardovich could be taken to them and enjoy his heritage.
Once she accepted that hope and that responsibility, things somehow didn’t seem so terrible. She and Edward Edwardovich were safe in Paotow-Zi. There were more than enough precious stones still sewn into the seams of her mother’s girdle to last four, five years, maybe longer—as long as Mae Su’s uncle’s demands remained more or less “reasonable.”
Meanwhile, Father Boris was now handling the sale of the stones, and she had also made frequent “investments in business deals” with him. Milla wasn’t sure whether there were really business deals, or whether he had run low on the cash he used to gamble. But most of Father Boris’s deals had turned a profit. In fact, half a dozen times Mae Su had returned from Baotou with the stones Milla had given her to sell.
And she stayed busy in Paotow-Zi. There was Edward Edwardovich to care for, of course, which took more and more of her time as he got older.
Milla was tired when she went to sleep. She went to bed early and rose early.
It was not really a suitable life for the Countess Maria Catherine Ludmilla Zhivkov, she often told herself, or for Mrs. Edward J. Banning, wife of an officer of the U.S. Corps of Marines, but it was infinitely better than the life she would have had if Ed had not introduced her to Corporal McCoy, and if Corporal McCoy had not told Mae Su’s Ernie about her. Without them, she would now be either a Japanese officer’s mistress or a whore in a Japanese Army comfort station.
Now she had hope, if not for herself, then for Edward Edwardovich. All she had to do was be patient, and pray for God’s protection until the war was over.
Zi-Ko, as the former Countess Maria Catherine Ludmilla Zhivkov was known in Paotow-Zi, was supervising the making of sausage when Song, the elder of Mae Su’s boys, came into the kitchen and told her the Wise Foreigner was coming.
Milla was pleased. Paotow-Zi had few visitors. While this was desirable—or rather, the absence of visits by the authorities was desirable—Milla sometimes felt very alone.
The Wise Foreigner was an especially welcome visitor.
Milla picked Edward Edwardovich up from the floor, where he was happily rubbing pork fat on his face, wiped him as clean as she could, sniffed to make sure he didn’t need a fresh nappy, and carried him out of the smokehouse to greet Father Boris at the head of the path leading up from the Yellow River. (The Chinese baby-diapering technique was to allow the baby to go around naked, letting things fall where they might. Her refusal to follow it, as far as the other women in Paotow-Zi were concerned, was another proof that foreigners were indeed strange.)
Father Boris was accompanied by only Lee Tsing and one other of his usual Chinese escorts. He had referred to them, jokingly, as his altar boys.
She made a bobbing bow and kissed his ring, then waited until she and Edward Edwardovich had received his blessing before she spoke. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon again,” she said. “You’ll have to take potluck.”
Usually, she had a good idea when he was coming, and was thus able to prepare something like an elegant meal. He was especially fond of her chicken and chicken liver dumplings.
“We have to talk, my child,” he said.
It must be important, Milla thought. Usually there is nothing but Holy Mother Church more important to him than eating.
And then the truth of that set in. Something was wrong.
Gang-Cho appeared in order to receive his expected gift between wise elders. Lee Tsing opened his sheepskin coat and took a bottle of rice wine from a purse hanging across his chest. Milla saw his Mauser machine pistol under the coat.
Mae Su’s uncle repaid the gift with a live chicken. Father Boris took it and handed it to Lee Tsing.
“I must discuss, Wise Brother, some personal matters with my daughter,” Father Boris said.
Gang-Cho didn’t seem to mind.
Milla led Father Boris into the kitchen. They could talk in Russian, which the women making sausage did not understand.
Mae Su followed them into the kitchen.
“Is this personal?” she asked in Wu.
Milla looked at Father Boris.
“Of course not,” he said. “And it concerns you, Mae Su, and your children. But…”
Taking his meaning—that her in-laws would hear what he had to say if they spoke Wu—the three of them left the kitchen and stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking the Yellow River.
“The Japanese Kempeitai are rounding up all white people in Baotou,” Father Boris began. “It is no longer safe for me there. Sow Key and Yon Fu have already ‘left my service.’”
Milla recognized the names of the two missing “altar boys.”
“I will very much miss you, Father,” Milla thought out loud.
“It will come to the attention of the Kempeitai that the Nansen person businessman whom they cannot locate employed Sow Key and Yon Fu,” Father Boris said. “And they will look for them. Or they will go to the Kempeitai by themselves. Or the Kempeitai will inevitably learn there is a white woman—”
“And a Chinese woman with half-white children,” Mae Su interrupted, “living in Paotow-Zi.”
“Yes,” Father Boris said.
“But where will we go?” Milla asked, sick to her stomach.
“India,” Father Boris said.
“India?” Milla parroted.
“India will now permit holders of Nansen passports to enter,” Father Boris said.
Milla remembered Mae Su talking about India before they had left Shanghai.
“Through Kazakhstan?” Mae Su asked.
“Yes,” Father Boris replied, obviously surprised that Mae Su even knew the route to India.
“If you know the Kempeitai are in Baotou,” Mae Su said, “it will only be a matter of time before my uncle learns. If he doesn’t already know. We will have to leave as soon as possible.”
“Immediately,” Father Boris said. “I have arranged for two horses and a cart. They’re twenty kilometers downstream.”
“We will take chickens and sausage and a pig with us,” Mae Su said. “And tell my brother we are going to Baotou.”
“That probably would be best. But what do we do about Milla? How do we get her out of the village?”
“Tonight when it is dark, she will get in the cart. With Edwardovich and my children. We will leave at first light. It will be several hours before he learns we are all gone.”
“I will get him drunk tonight,” Father Boris said, practically.
“Yes,” Mae Su agreed.
Father Boris looked at Milla with sympathy. “We are in the hands of God, my child,” he said. “After we have something to eat, we will pray for His protection.”
Milla nodded.
“There is one other thing,” Father Boris said. “I don’t know if it is true or not, but from merchants who have come to Baotou from the Gobi Desert, I have heard that Americans are there….”
“Americans?” Milla asked incredulously.
“If there are, and I don’t really know, perhaps they are trying to reach India, too. In numbers, sometimes, there is strength. And if there are Americans, and if we can cross the desert, it would help to be with Americans when we reach the Kazakhstan border.”
Milla thought they had as much chance to find Americans in the Gobi Desert as to be taken bodily into heaven to serve as handmaiden to the Mother of God.
What were Americans doing in the Gobi Desert?
[THREE]
Supreme Headquarters
South West Pacific Ocean Area
Brisbane, Australia
0915 10 February 1943
Second Lieutenant George Hart, USMCR, pushed open the door to the office of Lieutenant Colonel Sidney Huff and held it open until Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, followed by Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis III, USN, and Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, had marched in. Everyone was far more formally dressed than they had been on Espíritu Santo. The Marines were in greens, with Sam Browne belts. The breast of Pickering’s superbly tailored Marine tunic was adorned with ribbons attesting to his valor in two world wars. The breast of McCoy’s equally finely tailored tunic and Hart’s off-the-officer’s-clothing-store-rack tunic were bare. Hart, however had the golden cords of an aide-de-camp hanging from his epaulet. Lewis was in high-collared whites, and also had the golden cords of an aide-de-camp hanging from his shoulder.
Captain McCoy’s fine tailoring was something of an accident. Officer Candidate McCoy had ordered his officer’s uniforms from the same place that Officer Candidate Pickering had ordered his, and at his suggestion, the Custom Department of Brooks Brothers in New York City. Officer Candidate McCoy had no idea at the time what the uniforms would cost, though he had been assured that Brooks Brothers would happily extend him credit.
Lieutenant Colonel Sidney Huff rose to his feet behind his desk.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said.
“How are you, Sid?” General Pickering replied, offering him his hand.
Huff took the hand, then nodded at the junior officers.
“I’ll tell the Supreme Commander you’re here, General,” Huff said. “I’m not sure the Supreme Commander is expecting these gentlemen….”
If that was a question, Pickering ignored it. “Thank you, Sid,” he replied.
Huff walked to the door to the inner office and opened it. “General Pickering is here, General,” he announced.
“Send him in,” MacArthur replied cheerfully.
“The Supreme Commander will see you, General,” Lieutenant Colonel Huff announced formally.
“Thank you,” Pickering replied with what could have been a smile of amused contempt. He had heard MacArthur’s voice as clearly as Huff had. Pickering made a quick gesture telling the others to stand fast, then walked through the door and past Huff. He stopped halfway to MacArthur’s desk and saluted.
There was a question about whether the salute was actually proper, under the circumstances. Navy protocol decreed that salutes were not exchanged indoors unless under arms. But Douglas MacArthur was a soldier, and Army protocol stated that juniors saluted seniors. Fleming Pickering had enormous respect for Douglas MacArthur. For that reason he decided that saluting MacArthur was the proper thing to do.
MacArthur returned the salute with a casual gesture in the general vicinity of his forehead, then came smiling from behind his desk with his hand extended.
“My dear Fleming,” he said, “I was wondering when I was going to see you.”
MacArthur’s use of Pickering’s first name was yet one more of the many reasons Colonel Sid Huff did not like General Fleming Pickering. It indicated Pickering’s special position in the pecking order surrounding the Supreme Commander.
In the vast majority of instances, when MacArthur addressed one of his officers directly, it was by rank. A privileged few close to the throne were addressed by their last names. And on some rare occasions, a very, very few officers—for example, Generals Sutherland and Willoughby, and Lieutenant Colonel Sidney Huff, all of whom had escaped with MacArthur from the Philippines—would be honored to be addressed by the Supreme Commander by their Christian names.
General MacArthur rarely addressed General Pickering by anything but his first name.
“Thank you for receiving me on such short notice, sir,” Pickering said.
“Nonsense, Fleming,” MacArthur said with a wave of his hand. “You know my door is always open to you.” Then a smile crossed his face. “I mean, after all, Fleming, once the camel’s nose is inside the tent, there’s not much sense in closing the flap, is there?”
Pickering was surprised to see that MacArthur was responding to his appointment as Deputy Director of the Office of Strategic Services for Pacific Operations as something like a harmless joke. He had imagined that MacArthur would be as furious and frustrated as he himself was.
“General,” Pickering said, “before we get into that, I thought you might wish to talk to the officers who went onto Mindanao to meet with General Fertig. They’re outside.”
“And then we can discuss this new development?” MacArthur asked, smiling.
“Yes, sir. Whenever you wish to, of course.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Fleming. It probably would be best if we discussed the OSS privately, unofficially, between friends. Are you free for cocktails and dinner tomorrow? Unfortunately, Mrs. MacArthur and I are dining with the Prime Minister tonight. Can’t get out of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then that’s the way we’ll talk about it,” MacArthur said. He turned to Colonel Huff. “Sid, would you ask General Picke
ring’s officers to come in, please? And then telephone Mrs. MacArthur and tell her General Pickering will be joining us for cocktails and dinner tomorrow?”
Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, and Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis III, USN, marched into the Supreme Commander’s office and came to attention before his desk. They did not salute. They were officers of the Naval Service.
“Stand at ease, please, gentlemen,” MacArthur said.
“General, Captain McCoy and Lieutenant Lewis,” Pickering said.
MacArthur offered both officers his hand, then took a closer look at Lewis.
“Haven’t I previously had the pleasure, Lieutenant?”
“I’m flattered the Supreme Commander remembers,” Lewis said.
“And where was that?” MacArthur asked.
“Corregidor, sir,” Lewis said. “I was aboard the Remora.”
MacArthur’s suddenly increased interest in Lieutenant Lewis was visible on his face.
“Frankly, I had been searching my memory to recall the name of your admiral,” he said, gesturing toward Lewis’s aide-de-camp’s cord. “But now I remember! Of course. It really is good to see you again, Lieutenant.”
He turned to Pickering.
“The submarine service did not share the belief of the rest of the Navy, Fleming, that it was too hazardous to attempt breaking through the Japanese fleet to reach us.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” Pickering said.
“They came, again and again,” MacArthur continued emotionally. “Until the very end. They couldn’t bring us much, but at least they tried!” He returned his attention to Lewis. “You made more than one voyage to Corregidor, didn’t you, Mr. Lewis?”
“Three trips, sir.”
“And, more recently, if I correctly understand the situation, you left your sinecure as aide-de-camp to…?”
“Admiral Wagam, General,” Pickering furnished.
“…Admiral Wagam,” MacArthur went on, “to undertake the infiltration of Mindanao, a mission posing great hazards! Your courage is inspirational!”
Lewis, visibly embarrassed, did not reply for a moment, but then blurted: “Sir, that was my first rubber-boat mission. It was Captain McCoy’s third!”
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