You will furnish to Lieutenant Sessions such support as is within your capability. Disbursal of confidential funds in this connection is authorized. Although Lieutenant Sessions will be functioning as a staff officer of this headquarters, he will be under your orders while in China.
Why it was considered necessary for them to send an officer to China to see if any German artillery pieces were in Japanese hands was interesting. Finding out what equipment the Japanese had was something that Banning had been doing all along. So Sessions’s arrival meant one of two things: Either they didn’t like the way he was handling things, or Lieutenant Sessions had friends in high places, and a secret mission to China would look good on his record when the next promotion board sat.
When Lieutenant Sessions walked into the office, Captain Banning was not surprised to see on his finger the ring signifying graduation from the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis. The conclusion to be drawn was that Sessions indeed was well connected politically.
“Lieutenant Sessions, sir,” Sessions said, standing to attention.
Banning pushed himself off the windowsill and offered his hand.
“We met, I think, at Quantico in ’thirty-five,” he said. “Nice to see you again, Sessions. Nice voyage?”
“Yes, sir,” Sessions said, “I remember meeting the captain. And the trip was first class, long, but with first-class food and service to make it bearable.”
“I came out here on the Shaumont,” Banning said. “And I have good reason to believe that she’ll be back here just in time to take me home.”
Sessions was sure there was more to that statement than was on the surface. It was a dig at him for being ordered to China on a passenger ship rather than on the Shaumont, one of the two Navy Transports (the other was the Henderson) that cruised around the world, stopping at every Naval base or port with a sizable Navy or Marine detachment from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to Shanghai.
If I were in his shoes, Sessions thought, I would be more than a little pissed-off myself. If I were the S-2, and they sent a major to “help” do what I am supposed to, it would be insulting. And I’m a lieutenant.
“The President Madison was part of the plan, sir,” Sessions said, “so that no questions would be raised if I suddenly joined the Christian & Missionary Alliance people here.”
“I thought it might be something like that,” Banning said dryly.
“There are seven Christian & Missionary Alliance missions in China,” Sessions explained. “Six of them are located between here and Peking. They are regularly resupplied twice a year with both stores and personnel. That will be the cover for this operation. We will visit each of the six missions on the route. We’ll drop off supplies and replacement personnel and pick up some missionaries who are due for a vacation in the United States. It is believed that I can simply blend in with the other missionaries and not attract Japanese attention.”
“Well, you could pass for a missionary, I’ll say that,” Banning said.
“Sir, do I detect some sarcasm?”
The people in Washington who dreamed up this operation, Banning thought, have apparently spent a lot of time watching Humphrey Bogart and Robert Taylor spy movies.
“The people who dreamed up this idea, Sessions,” Banning said, “left one important factor out of the equation.”
“Sir?”
“With your passport and in civilian clothing, I have no doubt that the Japanese will indeed believe you are an American missionary,” Banning said. “The trouble with that is that so far as the Japanese are concerned, all Americans, including missionaries, are spies.”
“I don’t know what to say, sir,” Sessions said.
“In my judgment, Lieutenant Sessions,” Banning went on, “this brilliant Washington scheme is tantamount to hanging a sign from both sides of the missionaries’ trucks, ‘CAUTION!! SPIES AT WORK!’”
He gave Sessions a moment to let that sink in, and then went on.
“But you and I are Marine officers, Lieutenant,” he said. “And when we are given an order, we carry it out.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Sessions said, uncomfortably.
“There is one small loophole in the Japanese perception of Americans,” Banning said, “that I have had some success in exploiting. The Japanese believe—and I’m not sure if this is their code of Bushido or whether they picked it up from the British—that enlisted men come from the peasant class, and therefore can be presumed to be too stupid to have anything to do with intelligence.”
“I’m not sure I follow you, sir,” Sessions said.
“Bear with me,” Banning replied. “What I’m going to do is inform Major Akkaido, who is the Japanese liaison officer, that I have been directed by higher authority to provide an escort for the Christian & Missionary Alliance vehicles. I am going to try very hard to convince Major Akkaido, as one soldier to another, that I am annoyed by this, and that, whether or not it is convenient for the missionaries, I am going to send the missionaries along with one of our regular Peking truck convoys.”
“I think I’m beginning to see,” Sessions said.
“The regular supply convoy consists of four Studebaker trucks and a GMC pickup that we’ve rigged up as sort of a half-assed wrecker. It can drag a broken-down truck, presuming it hasn’t lost a wheel or broken an axle. If the motor officer can spare another Studebaker, we’ll send that too, empty, to take the load if one of the other trucks breaks down.”
“Presumably, there will be mechanics along?” Sessions asked.
“Each truck carries two people,” Banning said, “one of whom is allegedly a mechanic. They give the trucks a pretty good going-over before they leave. But most of the difficulty we experience is with tires. There’s nothing that can be done about them until they go flat or blow out. We carry spare tires and wheels, as well as an air pump, on the pickup and hope they will cover whatever trouble we have on the road.”
“You’re thinking the Japanese will pay less attention to the missionary vehicles and me, if we are part of a regular convoy?” Sessions asked.
“The picture I hope to paint for the Japanese,” Banning said, “one I devoutly hope they buy, is that the regular, routine, no-longer-very-auspicious supply convoy is carrying with it this time a handful of missionaries and their supplies.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Sessions said.
“The convoy is under the command of an officer. These we rotate, both to give them a chance to see the landscape between here and Peking and to keep the Japanese from becoming suspicious of any particular man.”
“I understand,” Sessions said. “And whoever this officer is, you intend to make him aware of the mission?”
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Banning said. “But I will tell him what I’m now going to tell you. There will be a Corporal McCoy along on the convoy. They call him ‘Killer.’ And Killer McCoy works for me. And when Killer McCoy makes a suggestion about what route the convoy is to take or not to take, or what the personnel on the convoy are or are not to do, that suggestion is to be interpreted as being an order from me.”
“‘Killer’ McCoy? Why do they call him ‘Killer’?”
“They call him ‘Killer,’” Banning said, matter-of-factly, “because four Italian marines attacked him. He killed two of them with a Baby Fairbairn.”
“Excuse me? With a what?”
“There’s a rather interesting Englishman, Captain Bruce Fairbairn, on the Shanghai Municipal Police,” Banning explained. “He knows more about hand-to-hand combat, jujitsu, and the other martial disciplines than anybody else. He invented a knife, a long, narrow, sharp-as-a-razor dagger—which incidentally General Butler tried to get the Corps to buy and issue. Anyway, there is a smaller, more concealable version. The big knife is called the ‘Fairbairn,’ and the smaller one the ‘Baby Fairbairn.’”
“And your noncom killed two people with it?”
“Two Italian marines,” Banning said.
&nbs
p; “And there was no court-martial?” Sessions asked. Banning shook his head no. “He knifed two people to death, and that’s it?”
“It was self-defense,” Banning said. “There were witnesses, two plainclothes Chinese policemen. That was the end of it. The Italians are still—this happened right after the New Year—pretty upset about it. And McCoy is something of a celebrity among the troops. Including the Japanese, who admire that sort of thing. The Japanese don’t know that he works for me, of course. Only a few people do. On paper, he’s assigned to the motor pool.”
“I can hardly wait to meet this man,” Sessions said.
“I think, Lieutenant Sessions, that you will find Corporal McCoy very interesting, and perhaps even educational,” Banning said. “He speaks Chinese and Japanese, and even reads a little bit of it. And he’s been making this run twice a month for six months. He’s a good man. He uncovered the whole motorization business; and he took the photographs I presume you’ve seen.”
“I’ve seen the photographs,” Sessions said.
“I’m a little worried about the reaction of the missionaries to Corporal McCoy,” Banning said.
“Why do you say that?”
“As a general rule of thumb, Lieutenant Sessions,” Banning said, “I have found that most missionaries consider the Marines the tools of Satan. Our enlisted men fornicate with Chinese women, and our officers support the sinful repression of the natives. Now the Japanese enlisted men rape the Chinese women, and Japanese officers order the heads sliced from Chinese they judge unenthusiastic about the Greater Japanese Co-Prosperity Sphere. But that doesn’t bother the missionaries, for the Japanese are heathens, and that sort of thing is to be expected of them.”
“The Reverend Feller does not quite fit that picture, Captain,” Lieutenant Sessions said. “He really hates the Japanese.”
“Oh?”
“During his previous service here, he saw enough of the Japanese to see them for what they are. He was present at the rape of Nanking, for example, and believes that the promise of China can only be realized after the Japanese are expelled. He recognizes that can only happen with our assistance.”
“I presume he knows that we’re neutral in this war?” Banning asked, dryly.
“Apparently, he believes we’re going to get in it sooner or later,” Sessions said. “And in the meantime is anxious to help, even when that means a personal sacrifice.”
“What does that mean?”
“It would have been far more convenient for him to remain in the United States and simply send for Mrs. Feller.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Banning said.
“The Reverend Feller was summoned home for conferences with his superiors. While he was there, his church decided that he would not be returning to China.”
“You mean he got fired?”
“No. He was given a bigger job. His wife remained in China when he went to the United States. She could have returned to the United States by herself, which would have been far more convenient for all concerned. But he elected instead to make the voyage over here ‘to settle his replacement in his job,’ to help me in my mission, and to take Mrs. Feller back with him. This was all really unnecessary, but he did it anyway.”
“A real self-sacrificing patriot, huh?” Banning said, wondering what the Reverend’s real purpose was. There were stories of missionaries accumulating chests of valuable Chinese antiques, so many stories that all of them could not be discounted. And what better way to carry valuable antiques out of China than under protection of the U.S. Marine Corps?
“I don’t think that’s quite fair, sir,” Sessions said.
Banning didn’t want to get into a discussion of missionary antiques, and changed the subject.
“Christ, I hope both the Reverend and you are wrong about us getting into a war with the Japs,” he said.
Sessions looked at him in surprise. It was not the sort of remark he expected from a Marine officer.
“Lieutenant,” Banning said, patiently, “certainly you can understand what a logistic horror it would be to attempt to field one division over here. This isn’t Nicaragua. China could swallow the entire World War I American Expeditionary Force without a burp.”
“I’ve thought about that, sir,” Sessions said.
Banning looked at Sessions with annoyance. Another Always Agree-with-the-Superior-Officer ass-kisser like Macklin. Then he changed his mind. Sessions was just saying what he was really thinking.
“Have you?” Banning asked.
“Eventually, we may have to face that logistic horror,” Sessions said. “I really thought we were going to take action when the Japanese sank the Panay2.”
“Tell me more about the Reverend Feller,” Banning said. There was no point in discussing whether a force large enough to do any good could be deployed in China with an officer who had just gotten off the boat.
“He is willing to help us in any way he can,” Sessions said, “consistent, of course, with his religious principles.”
Banning thought, but did not say, that there was very little then that the good Reverend would be able to do. The principles of religion seemed to disagree almost entirely with the principles and practice of gathering intelligence. The more he thought about it, the more he thought it was likely that the Reverend Feller’s motive in returning to China had less to do with patriotism than it did with transporting a case, or cases, of Chinese antiques back to the States.
“As a practical matter, Lieutenant,” Banning said, “I am more concerned with the Reverend Feller’s reaction to Corporal McCoy.”
“I don’t think I follow you.”
“For one thing, on the way back and forth to Peking, McCoy spends a lot of time drunk, usually in brothels. I don’t want the Reverend, or anyone else, interfering with that. Or anything else that McCoy might do.”
“I understand, sir,” Sessions said immediately.
Banning looked at him and was somewhat surprised to see that he did, in fact, understand why McCoy spent a lot of time in brothels.
“Did the missionaries weather the trip well?” Banning asked. “How soon can they be ready to start?”
“They’re in the Hotel Metropole,” Sessions said. “They can leave just as soon as their vehicles have been serviced.”
“I’ll send McCoy over to the hotel in the morning,” Banning said. “The Japanese will hear of it immediately, of course. But they won’t think anything about it after I tell them that he will be taking your missionaries with him to Peking. What he’ll do at the hotel is what he would be expected to do.”
“Which is?”
“Get the missionary vehicles in condition to roll. Tell the Reverend Feller that it will be his responsibility to bring his vehicles here to be examined and to provide two extra wheels and four extra tires and tubes for each of them. That sort of thing.”
“Where is Feller going to get wheels and tires?”
“You can buy anything you want in Shanghai,” Banning said.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to have Corporal McCoy get the wheels and tires for him? I have some funds…”
“The only reason a corporal of Marines would go shopping for a missionary,” Banning said, “would be if he were ordered to. And the Japanese would then wonder why the Marines were going out of their way to be nice to a couple of missionaries—why these missionaries were different from any of the others.”
Sessions winced, and exhaled audibly.
“I’ve got a lot to learn, don’t I?”
“I’m sure that Corporal McCoy will be happy to point out the more significant rocks and shoals to you,” Banning said.
“The most dangerous shoal would be getting caught in a compromising position,” Sessions said. “What would happen if the Japanese detain or arrest me and charge me with espionage?”
“The thing to do, of course, is not get yourself arrested. And the way to do that is to listen to Killer McCoy. If he says don’t go somew
here, don’t go somewhere.”
III
(One)
The Metropole Hotel
Shanghai, China
12 May 1941
None of his peers was surprised when Corporal Kenneth J. “Killer” McCoy, USMC, took an off-the-compound apartment immediately after his return from the first “Get Him out Of Sight” trip to Peking.
He was now a corporal, and most of the noncommissioned officers of the 4th Regiment of Marines in Shanghai had both a billet and a place where they actually lived. McCoy’s billet, appropriate to a corporal, was half of a small room (not unlike a cell) in one of the two-story brick buildings that served the Headquarters Company, First Battalion, as barracks. It was furnished with a steel cot (on which rested a mattress, two blankets, two sheets, a pillow and a pillow case), a wall locker and a footlocker filled with the uniforms and accoutrements prescribed for a corporal of Marines.
With the exception of an issue mirror mounted to the door, that was all. There was not even a folding chair.
McCoy shared his billet with a staff sergeant assigned to the office of the battalion S-4 officer1 The two of them split the cost of a Chinese room boy (actually a thirty-five-year-old man) who daily visited the room, polished the floor, washed the windows, tightened the blankets on the bunks, touched up the gloss of the boots and shoes, polished the brass, saw that the uniforms and accoutrements were shipshape, and in every way kept things shipshape.
Before inspections that Corporal McCoy and Staff Sergeant Patrick O’Dell were obliged to attend (and there was at least one such scheduled inspection every month, on payday) Chong Lee, the room boy, would remove from the wall locker and the footlocker those items of uniform and accoutrements that were required by Marine regulation and lay them out on the bunks precisely in the prescribed manner.
To prepare for the monthly inspection of personnel in billets, it was only necessary for Staff Sergeant O’Dell and Corporal McCoy to go to the arms room and draw their Springfield Model 1903 rifles and the bayonets for them, ensure they were clean, and proceed to their billet.
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