Nightfall Over Shanghai

by Daniel Kalla

  II

  CHAPTER 20

  July 15, 1944

  Franz swallowed more saliva as the truck lurched again on the twisty dirt road, dipping up and down over another massive pothole. He wondered whether they would be forced to stop to repair a tire, as they had done twice already in the past three or four hours.

  His seemingly endless journey from Shanghai had included every conceivable means of transportation. He had been in transit for over a month, without knowing his final destination until only recently. It had begun with such urgency, when the soldiers whisked him from his home to a transport plane at an airstrip on the outskirts of the city. He had flown inside the fuselage of the freight craft, forced to sit on a wooden crate that might have contained anything from food to live ammunition. After the plane had landed hundreds of miles inland on a runway in the middle of nowhere, he had been carried by a rickety old barge along the Yangtze to Wuchang.

  Franz had languished for over two weeks in the war-ravaged city, ordered to stay in a tiny, featureless room. Franz’s only consistent contact in Wuchang had come in the form of a sullen Japanese private who spoke in broken English and was no more comprehensible than the pidgin-speaking peddlers in Shanghai. The private brought him meals twice a day, usually rice with some kind of dried fish smothered in a foul-smelling sauce. Franz had little appetite, and the salty taste turned his stomach, but he forced himself to choke down the food just so its smell wouldn’t linger in the oppressively stuffy room, where sleep was next to impossible even without the stench.

  From Wuchang, Franz had been taken southwest by train in a boxcar crammed with Chinese men, most dressed like the farmers Franz had seen in guidebook photographs of China’s countryside. Franz was forced to disembark the train a few miles outside the devastated city of Changsha, which the Japanese had recently captured. He spent another few days hunkered down in a tent pitched among the extensive rubble of flattened houses and buildings. He couldn’t help wondering how many civilians had been inside their homes when the bombs had fallen.

  While in Changsha, Franz took his orders from a Japanese lieutenant who had been schooled in Cambridge before the war. He spoke highbrow English that made him sound like one of the elite pre-war Shanghailanders. Franz had no interest in talking to the man, but the officer seemed pleased to have someone to impress with his command of the King’s English. The lieutenant explained that Operation Ichi-Go meant, in English, Operation Number One. He took great pride in informing Franz that it was the largest operation to date in the Pacific war, and how, with its “inevitable success,” it would not only unite the Japanese empire from Manchuria to Indochina but also rid it of the airbases from which American bombers had been harassing the Japanese homeland.

  On Franz’s final day in Changsha, the lieutenant announced that he was being dispatched to a field hospital somewhere near Hengyang. Franz had never heard of the city, but according to the lieutenant, its capture was one of the key objectives in Operation Ichi-Go, somehow related to a vital railway intersection and the “gateway to Southern China.” Franz wasn’t interested in the lieutenant’s jingoistic chatter, and it only depressed him further to learn that the offensive was gaining ground and the Japanese were apparently on the verge of conquering Eastern China.

  The lieutenant drove Franz out of the city to a waiting convoy of trucks and other military vehicles. Without a word of goodbye, Franz climbed into the back of a troop transport. None of the other young infantrymen aboard appeared to understand English, or German. Their response to Franz—a round-eyed stranger in an ill-fitting khaki uniform, devoid of any insignia—was similar to that of the other soldiers he had encountered along the way. At first, they regarded him with curiosity or hostility or a combination of both. Inevitably, they lost interest and treated him as if he didn’t exist. Franz noticed that they hardly even spoke among themselves. Eventually, he began to feel pity for some of them. Several looked to still be teenagers and seemed as miserable as he was to be heading to the front lines. He realized that, regardless of the colour of the uniform, these young soldiers were pawns in the war as much as he was, potentially sacrificing everything to try to sate the ambitions and greed of their masters.

  They inched along the road for two agonizing days, though Franz considered road to be a generous description for the windy, bombed-out route that abruptly alternated from paved to dirt and back. They often had to stop for the soldiers to clear debris or to assemble makeshift wooden plank-bridges to cover the most gaping of the artillery craters. Franz’s constant loneliness was punctuated only by the moments of terror when the truck traversed one of the rickety, mortar-damaged bridges that dotted the road.

  Franz had trouble remembering how many days had passed since he had been torn from his family, but his memory of the final minutes with them was as acute as ever and, at times, he wished he could forget. Hannah had not stopped crying. He hadn’t seen her as tearful since she had been eight years old, trembling in his arms in the electrified darkness of Kristallnacht. Esther was so upset that Jakob had to throw a tantrum just to get her attention. But Sunny’s response had devastated him the most. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she whispered hollow words of encouragement and promises of a speedy reunion. All the while, she cradled Joey almost protectively in her arms. Franz didn’t even mention their earlier dispute as he kissed her goodbye, tasting the salt of her tears. What could he have possibly said to make it all right again?

  The rumble of an explosion somewhere in the distance jerked Franz out of the memory. Over the growl of the truck’s engine, he heard a few more booms echoing. When the truck crunched to a halt, he knew they had reached their destination even before he looked out back and spotted the tents.

  Franz followed the soldiers as they climbed out of the truck. The sun was still high in the sky, but the weather lacked the ferocity of a Shanghai summer. He stood in a clearing cut out of the dense bushes and low-lying surrounding trees. Tents were laid out in organized rows that could have covered two or three square city blocks. The soldiers dispersed in various directions, leaving Franz alone on a dirt path. Two men trotted noisily past him carrying a stretcher draped with a sheet bearing a sizable blood stain.

  “You were supposed to be here last week,” a familiar voice snapped.

  Franz turned to see Captain Suzuki standing across from him in a waist-length lab coat, his arms crossed in annoyance. Franz bowed his head respectfully. “Good day, Captain Suzuki.”

  “They promised me you would be here last week,” Suzuki grumbled without returning the bow, “when the wounded were piling up as high as sandbags during a flood.”

  Franz motioned to the troop transport behind him. “I only just arrived.”

  Suzuki eyed him coldly. “There is no rest here.” He turned and headed down the path. “Ever!”

  Franz hurried after him. They passed more orderlies shuttling patients in and out of tents on stretchers. The dirt roads between tents were too narrow for trucks or troop transports to navigate, but the occasional open-air military vehicle—the “Japanese jeeps,” as the boxy cars were known in Shanghai—would rattle past occasionally, forcing them to stand off to the side. Every so often, Franz heard the rumbles of distant explosions coming from somewhere beyond the treeline.

  As they walked past A-shaped and square tents of various sizes, Suzuki grunted descriptions such as “supplies,” “mess hall,” “convalescence tent” and “barracks.” Then he turned abruptly off the path and strode toward the largest of the square tents. Franz followed him through the flap opening into what appeared to be a mobile operating theatre. White-clad men bustled about, shuttling patients and moving equipment. Three stretchers loaded with wounded men were lined up in front of an area separated by canvas walls, which Franz assumed was the operating room.

  Suzuki walked over to a sink in the corner, where a rubber pipe snaked up to a tank mounted high above it. He hung his lab coat on a nail, donned a surgical mask and cap and then scrubbed at the
sink. Before he had even turned around, a male nurse was waiting with a sterile gown and gloves at the ready. The nurse offered Franz a cap and mask and showed him to the sink.

  Once gowned, Franz followed Suzuki into the walled-off operating room. The wooden floorboards creaked with each step he took toward the operating table, where a patient was waiting. Franz couldn’t help but be impressed by the mobile setup, better equipped as it was than the operating room at the refugee hospital. It was bright with overhead light from two operating lamps positioned above the gurney. A full surgical tray stood by the table. Four other men were present, all of them masked and gowned. Despite the buzz of activity, no one spoke, and the room was as quiet as a monastery.

  The scrub nurse faced away from Franz, sorting surgical utensils on the tray. It wasn’t until she turned and he saw the red curls poking out from beneath her cap that he recognized her for Helen Thompson. She said nothing, but her eyes softened with a welcoming smile. For a fleeting moment, Franz experienced a sense of relief.

  Suzuki snapped a few orders in Japanese to the man at the head of the bed, who held the anesthesia mask and ether. Franz viewed the patient. The young man’s expression was taut with pain and fear as the anesthetic mask was lowered over his face. His exposed right arm was swollen, deformed at the forearm and missing its hand altogether, ending instead in a bloody stump of bandages. The only question in Franz’s mind was how far above the elbow they would have to amputate. Suzuki solved that mystery by painting the patient’s shoulder with iodine. Once it was cleaned and draped, Suzuki brought scalpel to skin and, without even testing if the patient was still responsive, sliced fluidly through the flesh across the curve of the shoulder.

  They worked in silence for several minutes. After the major blood vessels and nerves had been tied off and Suzuki had removed the upper arm from the shoulder socket, he remarked, “Sometimes we see as many injuries from weaponry malfunction as we do from enemy fire.”

  “How so, Captain?” Franz asked.

  Suzuki nodded to the patient. “I am told a grenade detonated in his hand just as he was throwing it.”

  Franz cringed at the thought. “What horrible luck.”

  “On the contrary.” Suzuki sliced through the centre of the last tendon that was holding the arm attached. “He is a very fortunate man.”

  “This man?” Franz blurted as he pulled the arm free of the man’s body.

  “He gets to go home,” Suzuki said.

  “Without his arm.”

  “To parents who will see their son again. Maybe to a wife who has cried herself to sleep most nights since he left.” Suzuki ran a suture through the exposed muscle. “So few of them will,” he said almost under his breath.

  Helen eyed Franz quizzically as she handed him a pair of scissors, but neither commented. Suzuki’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he cleared his throat. “You will finish this case, Dr. Adler. And the others to follow.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Franz said.

  “This is not the Country Hospital.” Suzuki dropped the needle driver holding the stitch onto the tray. “Stop the bleeding. Remove as much shrapnel as possible. Amputate when limbs are beyond simple salvage.” He shook his finger at him. “But no heroic surgeries, Dr. Adler. You will not be doing anyone—least of all yourself—any favours. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Suzuki nodded to Helen. “If you have any doubts, Mrs. Thompson can advise.” With that, he turned and walked out of the operating room.

  Franz finished suturing the wound, leaving the shoulder so smoothly contoured that it resembled the armless torso of an ancient Grecian statue. By the time he had scrubbed at the sink again and changed into fresh gloves, the next patient was already on the table and the anesthetist was dripping ether onto the facemask.

  Helen acted as Franz’s translator. Franz was desperate to ask Helen more about the field hospital and the battles raging around it, but he kept the questions to himself, unsure if any of the other assistants understood English.

  The patients kept coming. Franz removed three legs, plucked out pounds of bullets and shrapnel and tied so many stitches that he lost count. He allowed two patients—one of whom was missing a fist-sized section of his skull, and another whose lung had been compressed by a chest full of blood—to die while still under anesthesia. He bleakly wondered how many of the young men who had ridden with him in the troop transport would end up on this table with comparable wounds, if they even made it to the hospital.

  All day long, the operating table kept filling with new casualties. Franz was almost surprised when, late in the evening, the orderlies removed a patient from the table without replacing him with another. His neck and shoulders ached. He had fought off three or four bouts of dizziness. But he walked out of the operating room feeling slightly more alive than he had when he had entered.

  He stood with Helen outside the tent in the warm evening, her silhouette illuminated only by the glow from the light inside. She extracted a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and, after he waved off her offer, lit one for herself. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon, Franz,” she said. “Or, to be honest, ever again.”

  “Likewise. But, I must say, you are a welcome sight.” He cleared his throat. “How long have you been here?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “And how are you coping?”

  She looked at him and chuckled, answering only with an exhalation of smoke.

  A series of booms rang out louder than any previous ones. Startled, Helen tensed for a moment before her shoulders relaxed. Franz glanced in the direction of the sound. The trees glowed and then vanished back into darkness.

  “We’re near the front, are we?” Franz asked.

  “Not that near.” Helen shrugged. “You get used to it. Besides, those are Japanese bombers. It’s not them you need to fear.”

  “What, then?”

  “The Chinese and American planes.”

  “They would bomb a hospital?”

  “If they get the chance.” She took another long drag on her cigarette. “Hard to blame them, all things considered.”

  Ahead of them in the distance, the dirt was lit by the jiggling headlamps of an approaching truck. Franz saw other sets of lights following behind the first. Helen sighed. “It’s going be another long night.”

  “More wounded?”

  “It’s non-stop.”

  Another, closer, set of headlights lit the road from the opposite direction. Helen and Franz took a step back off the road, but the approaching jeep slowed to a stop in front of them. Helen stiffened and dropped her cigarette, stamping it out surreptitiously.

  The driver hopped out and opened the vehicle’s back door. Captain Suzuki stepped down, followed by another man. The latter was dressed in an officer’s uniform and walked with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily on the cane in his right hand.

  Helen bowed deeply at the waist and remained bent over as the men approached. Sensing her anxiety, Franz mimicked her pose. Suzuki said something to her in Japanese and, as soon as she straightened, Franz did so too.

  The ranking officer stared at Franz for a penetrating moment. His lean face was cast in shadow, but Franz sensed that he was younger than Suzuki. When the officer finally opened his mouth, he was surprisingly soft-spoken. Suzuki translated his words into English. “Major Okada—our unit’s commandant—wishes to welcome you. And to thank you for your efforts to mend our brave casualties.”

  Franz bowed again.

  This time, Okada nodded very slightly in return. He spoke again to Suzuki in a conversational tone before turning and limping back to the car without so much as a glance at the others. Suzuki’s eyes drifted from Franz to Helen, and then he turned and followed after Okada without translating his last few remarks.

  The jeep drove off, leaving them in the near darkness. Franz turned to Helen. “What did Major Okada say just now?”

  Helen shook her head, her gaze on the departing taillights. “Major Okada
said that he expects you to work very hard and perform well while here.”

  Franz eyed her, but she didn’t meet his stare. “And if I don’t?”

  “The major.” She paused. Fear crept into her tone. “Franz, you must be so careful around that one.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The midday sun’s pounding heat and blinding glare were so relentless that Sunny was regretting her decision to venture out. She steered the rusted pram’s stiff wheels toward Broadway, hoping to catch a breeze coming off the Whangpoo. Despite having drawn the canopy over the pram, she worried that Jakob and Joey would overheat inside it. She stopped to check on them again. They were still both fast asleep, so she picked up her pace and hurried along the dockside.

  The port was as busy as ever. Japanese naval craft competed with merchant ships and even junks and sampans for berths and harbour space. One ship towered above the others, though. Sunny identified the craft as the cruiser Idzumo from its three smokestacks. She hadn’t seen the ship in port for at least a year. She thought back to how, only hours after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Idzumo had chased down and mercilessly sunk the British gunship HMS Peterel. This had marked the beginning of the Pacific War in Asia. The graphic accounts of the Idzumo’s machine gunners mowing down British sailors as they bobbed helplessly in the water ran through the Shanghailander community like an electric current, setting a terrifying precedent for what the previously protected Europeans could expect from the invaders. The brutality came as no surprise to Sunny. She had witnessed so much worse, including the rape of children and the murder of her own father. The Japanese had taken everyone who had meant the most to her: her father, her amah and now her husband.

  Oh, Franz, what have they done with you? A month had passed since she had last laid eyes on him. The memory of their inadequate goodbye plagued her. There were so many things she wished she had told him.

  Sunny had been to every hospital in the city, hoping against reason that she would find him. Her first stop had been the Country Hospital. It had taken three attempts just to get through the doors of her former workplace. In the end, she and Jia-Li had had to pose as flower girls delivering bouquets to the wounded soldiers. But they hadn’t found Franz or anyone who fit the description of a Japanese-speaking Canadian nurse or an American-trained Japanese surgeon. Their next stops, the Shanghai General and two naval hospitals, proved equally fruitless. Franz wasn’t in Shanghai.