by Buzz Harcus
The robbery had cost him his new color television set, the old 30-06 Winchester Western Model rifle his dad had given him the first year he started deer hunting, an AM-FM radio and his wide- angle binoculars, the ones he used at the beach to check out the sexy, bikini-clad girls with rich brown tans, big bouncy breasts and well-rounded asses - but that was before Sandy.
At the kitchen door adjoining the garage, he momentarily paused to survey the place before leaving. In spite of his being a bachelor, the place looked tidy. A smile broke across his face - neither his mother nor his ex-wife would have believed it possible he could keep a place looking at least half way decent.
He slammed the kitchen door behind him and got into his car knowing he'd have to hurry to finish his business with Joe to meet Sandy as soon as he could. The Pub was no place to leave a beautiful woman alone, especially a knockout like Sandy.
The engine growled as he turned the ignition key on, coughed,
then caught hold. He let it idle for a minute or so to warm up. It was quite cold for January, yet warm enough this year that the shipping channels were still open, a phenomenon that surprised even the port of Saginaw, still able to ship outbound to the world.
Harry sat shivering in the beat-up '73 Pinto, all Laurie, his ex- wife, had left him after the divorce. He listened for the engine's special last clattering sound that would let him know the car was ready to go. "C'mon, Betsy," he chattered. "Let's go!" She was an old rust-bucket but she ran well, and she was paid for. Betsy just seemed the logical name. At 82,000 miles, she used some oil, but she was good transportation. Besides, Harry figured, someone might ram the damned thing some day, and he could collect from Ford when the gas tank ruptured and the car burned up - if he survived.
Ah it was purring now. He dropped the shift lever into reverse and backed out of the garage, stopped momentarily to close the garage door, and then got back behind the steering wheel, flicked on the lights and backed out.
Stopping across the street to shift gears, he looked back at the small bungalow. Not much to look at but it was home. He and the bank were proud of it. One day, he kept telling himself, he'd remodel the damned place: new living room, new kitchen, a bathroom with a sunken tub and built-in Jacuzzi, and a "macho" bedroom with a king-size waterbed and mirrors on the ceiling; a real stud palace.
He grinned. It was a far cry from the big rambling house he'd lost in the divorce settlement, but this place was special to him; it was his home, his castle, and he was enjoying life the way he wanted.
The divorce hadn't been amicable - Laurie saw to that. He ended up with the Pinto and a couple thousand dollars. But, looking back, he guessed it was worth it.
Laurie had always bought things they didn't need to impress people he didn't care for, and he spent most of his time trying to figure out how to pay the damned bills. Luckily, the kids split after college in pursuit of their own careers. It was then, after the kids were on their own, they finally agreed they had nothing in common anymore: just two souls existing independently in a large overpriced house, pursuing different paths to reach their own separate goals.
He'd only seen her once since the divorce, about two years ago at Sissy's wedding. She was there with her new husband, a successful criminal lawyer. Big deal. It gave him satisfaction knowing he gave the bride away.
The look on his boss's face was one Harry would never forget. The divorce was final and it was time to make many drastic changes - beginning with his job. He was tired of the damned phonies he worked with every day as director of public relations, the things he had to do to keep his job, the glad-handers, picking up bar tabs for lushes, scrounging up hookers for out-of-town bigshots, and tired of promoting what he felt were worthless products. He'd told his boss to shove the job, as the saying goes, "where the sun don't shine!"
Free of the job and marriage, he'd stashed the Pinto at his son's place and returned to the sea working as a deckhand on a cargo ship sailing to distant ports. At sea was a good place to be, to think, to clear his mind, to review his life, to set new goals, to challenge his future. He was 49 then, and starting life anew was an awesome challenge, a chilling experience. He deliberately downplayed his education; a Master's Degree in Public Relations wasn't really helpful to an ordinary deckhand.
Initially, it was exciting traveling to distant Pacific ports-of-call, seeing the world from a different perspective. After several sexual experiences, he found himself backing off, not avidly pursuing every whore on the beach, not like the younger seamen. He no longer had to prove his manhood; he was virile. Besides, he dreaded the thought of getting the clap or some incurable venereal disease. At the bars the younger guys easily picked up the good-looking women. They laughed and kidded him, the old man, about his out-dated techniques. It hurt, but it was true.
After two years he quit the sea. He had proven his worth to himself. He had advanced to a position of helmsman but he found the sea no longer held the fascination it did when he was younger. With praises for a job well done, he hit the beach and headed back to Saginaw. He kept his papers current though, just in case the wanderlust to sail again came back.
Back in Saginaw, he pursued one of his other loves: carpentry
He got a job with a construction company building residential homes, office complexes and shopping malls. Working with his hands was a challenge to both his mind and body, proving to be mentally and physically rewarding. One day he'd hit it rich, but on his own terms, through hard work, honest effort and a hell of a lot of luck.
The blaring of a horn startled him as a car swerved around him, jarring his thoughts back to the present.
"Asshole!" he yelled after the departing car. Another case of "Saginaw Syndrome!" He'd never lived in a town where there were so many bad drivers. They ran stop signs as if they didn't exist; floored it on amber lights and ran red lights without a qualm of guilt - let the other guy worry. And they could throw away the speed limit signs: each driver drove between ten and twenty miles an hour over the speed limit, changed lanes without using indicators, disdainfully gave you the finger if you honked, and swore a blue streak at you. If nothing else, he had learned how to drive defensively.
Roaring off down the street, he shifted the car to second, and then third, now cruising along, his mind still on the past. The bachelor life had done wonders for him. He'd found the small bungalow, making a down payment with the meager savings he'd acquired at sea. He'd set a demanding regimen for himself exercising daily, losing about twenty pounds within the first couple of months. Today, he was proud of his physique; he was stronger, leaner and more muscular. His attitude was positive. He read mind challenging magazines and books, although he did enjoy an occasional adult magazine to stimulate an active mind. He chuckled to himself as he recalled signing up for a Wok Chinese cooking course at the local college. He had become somewhat of a gourmet cook.
Sandy popped into his mind. She was far different from the other women he had pursued. An attractive thirty-one year old divorcee, they had seemed to hit it off from the time they had first met a year ago. No talk about marriage - an understanding they had reached early on, and neither broached the subject. Sex was a real turn on for her; she was aggressive, yet coy, submissive at times, inventive, making the most of each moment together, savoring each experience. He grinned as he recalled letting her talk him into going to a porno film, the first one he'd ever gone to, to "break him out of his Victorian mold" she had said. He'd come alive after that. She was an excellent teacher; he an apt student.
Tonight would be special. He was anxious to see her. He had thirty days vacation accumulated and wanted to steal away with her to a warmer clime like the southern gulf coast, maybe South Padre Island, some secluded out-of-the-way place where they could relax and enjoy each other.
A couple of times the idea popped into his mind to ask her to marry him. Then he shrugged it off. Maybe one day, maybe on vacation they could see how compatible they were. It would be warm and cozy, just the two of them. Any plac
e would be better than here and this damned cold weather.
Once again, he rehearsed the way he was going to pop the question: order Margaritas, talk about how nice it would be to vacation in a warmer clime, really lead her on, and then ask her to go with him. She was bound to say yes. She was bound to!
Now, all he had to do was get through his meeting with Joe — and he knew he'd make short work of the visit.
He drove north on Bay Road to Weiss, then right. Before he realized it, the VA hospital was suddenly on his left. He'd traveled the mile and a half in moments. Yet, all the while, his thoughts had been elsewhere.
Pulling into the parking lot, he picked a parking space as close to the entrance as possible. Gusting wind-whipped clouds of snow billowed across the lot amidst the sparse number of cars. Harry shut off the engine and sat quietly. Events leading to the trial of Joe and Stan raced through his mind. Why, he wondered, after all these years, after all the deep bitterness, why did Joe want to see him now?
He stared out across the parking lot, his vision blurred by the blustering snow, yet not seeing the snow, thinking only of the events that lead to the trial.
Chapter 4
TSINGTAO: SPRING 1948
It was cold that Friday morning back in April 1948. The dirty snow was melting; spring was in the air. Crocuses were breaking through the snow at the side of the administration building. Already his buddies in the 12th Service Battalion were talking about baseball, planning to knock hell out of the First and Third battalions. The sun broke through the morning haze It felt good to Harry, warming him through the thickness of his green field jacket. Northern China was bitter cold in the winter; chilling and damp in the spring and suffocatingly hot in the summer. Tsingtao was a hell of a place to be stationed, especially as it was located next to the sea.
Today was a good day, pay day, a day to enjoy life. But it would all change rather abruptly. Joe had seen to that.
Arriving at the Jap Compound, Harry overheard Ming Lee, a batu, complaining to Sergeant Rupp about a beating Joe and Stan had given to a young coolie boy they had caught stealing. The boy had cracked ribs and numerous bruises on his body, arms and legs. Sergeant Rupp told Ming Lee to come back after lunch and he would help him file a formal complaint, but at the moment, he was due at the command post.
On leaving the office, Ming Lee was confronted by Joe, who began screaming at him telling him he was a no-good, lying bastard, that all coolies he sent to work for them were lazy, dirty, no-good thieves.
Ming Lee snapped back, incensed at the remarks made about his crew, defending them, standing his ground, facing Joe squarely, trying to convince him he was wrong. For his effort, he was suddenly punched fully in the face by Joe. He fell backwards, landing in the aisle. Before he could recover, Joe had rushed him again, kicking
him viciously in the stomach. Ming Lee gasped, clutching at his mid-section. Joe didn't let up. He seized the injured man, bodily picked him up, and then slammed him hard against the solid wooden doors of the warehouse.
Hearing the commotion, Harry rushed from the office, saw what was happening and raced down the aisle toward the two men. This time, Harry vowed, Joe had had it. It was time for a showdown.
Joe didn't see Harry coming. Still swearing threats at Ming Lee, Joe flung the warehouse doors wide open, grabbed the bloodied foreman by his shirt and flung him out the door into a ditch overflowing with mud and trash.
"You bastard!" Harry screamed at Joe, smashing a solid right cross to his jaw that sent him reeling backwards down the aisle. Joe fell to the deck "C'mon, you sonofabitch!" Harry screamed. "See if you can handle someone your own size!"
He stood over the fallen Marine, fists clenched tightly, moving in small circles, ready to knock him down again. His face was livid with anger. "C'mon, Joe! Try me! I'm ready!"
Joe lay back on the hard cement nursing his jaw, fearful of Harry's anger. Rising slowly, his eyes on Harry, he got to his feet, turned and started walking away. "Screw you," he clamored. "I ain't gonna have it out with you right here, not right now!"
Harry watched the departing figure, a bit surprised that Joe surrendered without a fight. Joe had been spoiling for such a confrontation for the past few months. Instead, he walked away. It wasn't like him. Like a rattlesnake, he'd strike again. Harry knew he could book on it.
Turning, he started out the door to help Ming Lee. With the aid of several coolies, he helped the mud-spattered man to his feet. With rags the other coolies gathered up, he began wiping the mud and crud from Ming Lee's body.
"Leave th' stinkin' gook alone!" a voice shouted. It was Joe who suddenly reappeared in the doorway.
"Make me!" Harry snapped glancing at the sallow-faced Joe. There was no response and Harry continued wiping off the mud, apologizing to Ming Lee as he did, saying all Marines weren't like Joe. The batu nodded; he understood. Then, hurt and humiliated, he hobbled off toward the main gate taking his crew with him.
Joe spewed obscenities after them. Stan appeared in the doorway next to Joe. Harry now understood where Joe had gotten his sudden bravado; his sidekick was there to back him up. Gleefully, Joe described the incident to Stan. They stood laughing and gloating like a couple of snotnose kids.
Not wanting to tangle with both of them, Harry returned to the office. Later, he reported the incident to Sergeant Rupp. An old China hand, Rupp shrugged it off. "The batu will have his day," he added philosophically. "In the meantime, those jokers can do the coolies' work!" And thus, it was two grumbling, sweating Marines who broke their backs unloading stateside supplies the rest of the day.
Chapter 5
BREAK-IN AT THE JAP COMPOUND
Arriving at the warehouse early the following Monday morning, Harry found the padlock to the front door had been cut and cleverly forced back together giving the impression the warehouse was locked. Passing guards wouldn't have noticed unless they rattled each of the locks, which they obviously hadn't. Harry dispatched Private Novak to the command post on the double to report the cut lock to Lieutenant Donaldson.
Within minutes, the Lieutenant, accompanied by Sergeant Major Warden and Sergeant Rupp, arrived, their jeep splattering mud and gravel as it came to a grinding halt in front of the warehouse.
Harry showed them the lock, still in place as he had found it. With guns drawn, the three cautiously opened the door and entered. Harry followed, staying behind, picking up an ax handle as his weapon. The Marine work detail stayed outside watching as the foursome disappeared into the darkness.
It was an eerie feeling knowing someone had been inside, knowing something valuable might be missing, but what? Harry thought. And the search continued down the musky aisles.
Suddenly, Harry realized what was bothering him. It was so obvious and yet, it wasn't. It was like looking at the Eiffel Tower and suddenly realizing it was missing. All that was left was an empty space.
"The cigarettes!" he blurted. "The cigarettes are missing!"
All eyes riveted on the space where just last Thursday and Friday they had stacked more than three hundred brown corrugated cardboard cartons of fresh, stateside cigarettes nearly to the roof. Now they were all gone.
Lieutenant Donaldson immediately placed the area off limits and called for the Military Police. Next, he ordered the Marines to return to the main compound.
Even as the trucks loaded with Marines were heading for the main compound, the investigation was underway under the direction of Warrant Officer "Shorty" Donelson, a thirty-year man whose career dated back to World War One.
The Marines had a special respect for the man. No one screwed around with Shorty Donelson. He didn't take lip from anyone, no matter what their rank. He was blunt, fair, and let the chips fall where they may. From the top brass to the lowest buck private, Shorty was held in high regard.
Shorty had been wounded in Belleau Woods where he won a Silver Star for bravery under fire. He was captured early in World War II, surviving the Bataan Death March, only to spend the rest of the wa
r in a Japanese prisoner of war camp. A wiry, feisty man, Shorty was a battle-toughened Marine committed to giving only name, rank and serial number to the enemy. No more. The Japanese tried repeatedly to beat this negativism out of him, but to no avail.
His tough demeanor set a tone for other prisoners. The merciless beatings he survived made headlines after the war when the trials of his Japanese captors was held. In spite of his debilitating experience, Shorty was one of the first of the prisoners to step forward and re- enlist, ending up in Tsingtao with the Military Police.
Even as the trucks unloaded the men outside the 12th Service Battalion barracks, inside, the building was already a scene of chaos. Word of the investigation had spread like wildfire. GI cans suddenly filled with fresh stateside supplies of candy bars, cookies, crackers, canned pineapple juice and other coveted items not yet available through the official base PX outlet. In addition, excess clothing, outlawed rifles, machine guns, pistols, bayonets, knives, swords and other Japanese souvenir weapons were hurriedly stashed on the fourth floor in the cramped quartermaster room, from whence the corporal in charge had conveniently absented himself for about an hour in order not to get involved.
Although slated to return to the states in a few months, Harry opted to hide his favorite weapon, a K-bar, the one he kept honed razor sharp, so he wouldn't lose it to a souvenir-hunting MP. He'd already lost his prized Japanese Nambu pistol during a sweep of the barracks in the summer of'47. It had really burned him up that no one at MP headquarters knew anything about his missing pistol, which, he finally figured, was probably some Captain's war souvenir now. This time, he took special pains to wrap the knife in an oiled cloth and hide it where no one would find it.