Tainted Treasure (China Marine)

by Buzz Harcus

  TAINTED TREASURE

  Finding Hidden Treasure is One Thing,

  Getting it Home is Another,

  Especially if the Money is Tainted

  Les “Buzz” Harcus

  Copyright © 2008 by Leslie F. “BUZZ” Harcus

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, and sample chapters from eBook vendors.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9786951-3-2

  Available from Wolfenden Publishing

  780-A Redwood Dr.

  Garberville, CA 95542

  Tele/fax 707.923.2455

  dia@asis.com

  booking@inet.co.th

  Harcus, Leslie F.

  10385 Twin Lake Road, N.E.

  Mancelona, MI 49659

  lesharcus28@msn.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Les “Buzz” Harcus

  Cover and layout design by Sans Serif Inc., Saline, MI

  Introduction

  This novel is dedicated to Marines who served in China before and after World War II.

  We lived life differently in China. There were good times and bad times and funny times. We all have our memories. Many of the guys, including myself, are members of the China Marine Association. It’s a proud organization of Marine veterans who served in China at a time that was unique in the annals of Marine Corps history.

  ~~~~~

  The time is 1979, thirty years since the Communists closed off China to the rest of the world in 1949. Thirty years since black marketeer, Joe Gionetti, hid his cache of black market money in the old Marine Corps barracks in Tsingtao in 1949. Harry Martin, a former Marine Corporal, arrived in Tsingtao on an April Friday as a member of the crew of the Swedish grain carrier, Otto J. Nurad. The grain was off-loaded that very day. Harry’s real mission was to recover Joe’s hidden treasure. Friday night was the only night he had to get the money as Nurad would sail the next morning. Harry discovered Joe’s old black market partner, Stan Drezewski, was also after the money. He had already killed Joe! Stan and his Chinese partner were waiting for Harry that night in the old barracks. At a terrible, bloody price, Harry was able to recover the hidden treasure, but, from that moment, he considered the cache as tainted treasure. Now, he anxiously looked forward to the next day’s departure for Nurad was headed back to the States. However, destiny would deal Harry and the crew of the Nurad a different hand. Local Chinese authorities insisted they take four stranded American seamen with them, men the Chinese wanted out of China now. Within days the Nurad changed course bringing them into the dangerous pirate waters of the South China Sea. The ship’s Captain, First Officer, cook and Harry Martin would soon be tested time and again by wind, weather and the evils of mankind.

  CHAPTER 1

  Preparing to Depart Qingdao

  A cold rain swept across the Swedish bulk grain carrier, Otto J. Nurad, beating a steady tattoo against the large windows of the bridge. Captain Karl Andress continued pacing back and forth, looking out the windows, checking along the dock, muttering under his breath. Where is that damnable Harbor Master, Mr. Ma? He wanted to see them off this morning. Below deck in his cabin Harry Martin, too, paced back and forth. Damn Mr. Ma! Damn Stan Drezewski! Nurad has to leave Qingdao today!

  Captain Andress, standing at least six foot, six, was a powerfully built man, older than many of his contemporaries, but sound of mind, alert, one who was in command no matter what the situation. He ran his fingers lightly over his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He’d been awake since dawn, had dressed early and had walked the decks of the 730 foot vessel from stem to stern, even below decks. Something besides Mr. Ma was bothering him, but what? He couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was a touch of arthritis acting up, tensing him, who knows. He rotated his right arm several times, then his left.; no, no it was something else, something that gnawed at his gut.

  There was a chill in the air, but then it was April, April, 1979 in Qingdao, China, and damp. It had rained constantly after midnight. Thank god they had unloaded the precious grain in sunshine yesterday. In fact, yesterday, Friday, had been a perfect day.

  The thick brown turtle neck sweater the captain wore was his favorite. His wife had knitted it several years ago, extra large to fit his huge frame. It went with the rest of his outfit: black trousers and rugged work shoes like the crew wore.

  Abruptly, he stopped pacing and went to the chart table to check the chart of Qingdao harbor where it entered into the Yellow Sea. Qingdao/Tsingtao was boldly printed on the chart. He pored over the chart for several minutes, then with a smile he nodded; he was satisfied. It would be an easy task leaving the harbor.

  Next, he reviewed another larger chart and the course they had taken to get to China. The trip to China had been demanding. The Nurad had carried a full shipment of grain from the Midwest farmers of America, and over the last few days they had delivered over a million, five hundred thousand cubic feet of precious grain to China; one half of the shipment at Shanghai, and the rest of the grain yesterday here at Qingdao. Captain Andress was proud of the role his crew and the Nurad had played.

  The way he figured it, they would retrace their course back across the Pacific Ocean, pass on through the Panama Canal, up the east coast of the United States and into the St. Lawrence Seaway, then into the Great Lakes and finally arrive back at the port of Saginaw, Michigan. There, they would pick up the second shipment of precious grain, then travel back to China, unload, and finally head to their home port of Stockholm.

  This time, he was done. At age 65, it was time to step down, become a land-lubber and enjoy retirement with his wife and family. A broad grin broke out across his rugged face, and under shaggy eyebrows a twinkle in his steel blue eyes, as he thought of home and his wife, Johanna, the prettiest girl in the village of Uppsala, the blonde, blue-eyed girl who had melted his young heart the day she smiled at him so many years ago.

  Again, a chill racked his huge frame; his thoughts fleeting suddenly back to that time in 1937 in Shanghai, when as a young deck officer aboard the Viking Prince, he had fought with that young upstart America reporter who demanded that a young Chinese girl be allowed aboard. The vessel was already loaded with influential Europeans and wealthy Chinese wanting to flee the advancing armies of the Japanese, who on that very day were fighting a rag-tag force of Chinese soldiers in the streets of the city. The Viking Prince had steam up ready to depart for Manila.

  No! He was not about to let a damned Chinese whore aboard his vessel, but at that precise moment Japanese aircraft roared down from a cloudless sky with machine guns spitting death and destruction. Captain Sodermann was killed in the first pass. First Officer Aspern in the second attack as bullets ripped through the wheelhouse.

  Andress recalled desperately rushing topside and taking command of the ship. Lines were hastily cast off and the vessel headed down the Yangtze River and out to sea. But the damned planes with the big red ball painted on their wings and fuselage continued their relentless attacks, and then, through the grace of God, as he had said so often over the years, the ship disappeared into a thick fog bank on the East China Sea.

  The American reporter had appeared in the shattered wheelhouse offering to help. It was during that hectic time they had talked, that he had learned w
hy the reporter had fought so valiantly for the Chinese woman; she had saved his life back at Nanking during the Japanese soldiers horrendous massacre and rape of the civilian population. And yes, the reporter had said, he did bring her aboard; she deserved to live.

  Two nights later, without warning, the Viking Prince suddenly shuddered as two tremendous explosions shook the ship. Almost immediately the vessel erupted into flames that engulfed the entire ship. Hundreds of screaming refugees were thrown into the water by the two explosions. Hundreds more perished when the ship went down.

  By a stroke of luck Andress was able to climb aboard a lifeboat crammed to the gunnels with refugees. The reporter and the Chinese girl? He’d seen the man in that chaotic moment of the first explosion when they were both blown overboard, but not the girl. And he never saw either one again.

  A submarine surfaced shortly after. Japanese. Moments later a machine gun sprayed the area murdering many more innocent souls. Without a word, the submarine submerged, it’s grisly job done.

  Taking command of his life boat, Andress and the other survivors were tossed about on the endless seas for days under a sweltering hot sun and chilling, cold nights. Those poor souls who died were eased over the side; others crazed by thirst—some had resorted to drinking sea water—often jumped overboard and were lost to sharks. It was ten days before a passing ship rescued them and took them to Manila.

  Captain Andress grimaced recalling the incident. Why today, of all days, would he suddenly think of those horrible days adrift in that lifeboat, and that American reporter and Chinese girl? It was an experience he never wanted to repeat.

  “Ve are all set to depart, Captain,” reported First Officer Sigmund Helmstrund on entering the bridge at that moment, “and none too soon vat vis dis huge storm approaching.”

  “Yah,” Captain Andress replied. “I vant to get undervay no later dan 1300 hours.” Where in tarnation was the harbor master, Mr. Ma, he wondered. After lunch and a tour of Shantung University yesterday, Mr. Ma had distinctly said that he wanted to see them off this morning. Andress had checked his watch several times figuring he could delay for a couple of hours but he really wanted to get underway before the anticipated bad storm got any closer. Where was that damned Harbor Master, Mr. Ma?

  “And, I vant to pick up water ballast once ve clear der harbor. I don’t vant to pick up any of dose strange creature from dis harbor and dump them in the Great Lakes ven ve get to Saginaw for our next shipment of grain. Bad for der environment.”

  Sigmund acknowledged with a quick, “Aye, Sir.”

  “Do you feel comfortable with your promotion?” asked the Captain.

  “Yes.” Sigmund replied. “As First Officer, I vill do a good job for you.”

  The young officer had automatically snapped to attention. Another blonde-haired, blue eyed Swede, he had that youthful rugged look that so many of those stalwart Swedes had, that chiseled look that attracted the eyes of young women, even older women.

  Sigmund was the son of one of the major stockholders in the shipping company. There was an air of arrogance about him which often irritated the Captain, not to mention the crew members he worked with, but he was a hard working, industrious officer. He knew about ships, and he knew Nurad well from stem to stern.

  He was also a health fanatic, working out endlessly to keep his trim figure and muscular body, a body he was very proud of. The American, Harry Martin, had commented several times about his being in such good shape. Even Osa had noticed his good looks too, and she loved to tease him as he passed through the chow line. But then, he loved to tease her, too. It was part of the crew‘s efforts to keep her spirits up after the horrible death of her husband with that young prostitute last summer. Yes, he thought, this voyage is good for her.

  At age thirty-five, Sigmund had achieved much in moving forward toward his goal of eventually being captain of his own vessel, but, sadly, he had much to learn about life, especially women.

  “I know you vill do a good job, Sigmund. You make a fine First Officer.” Captain Andress spoke with a benevolent smile.

  “It vas a shock ven ve learned Peter vas trying to sink our vessel,” Andress said, “a shame. He vas a good man.” He stopped, turned and gazed out the forward window. Sigmund knew the story well; along with the rest of the crew they had lived through both horrendous events.

  First Officer, Peter Selham, had been with Captain Andress for years, his right hand man. To think that that damned Lindstrom in the home office could bribe him, could cause him to turn on his fellow crew members in order to sink the Nurad; it still made him sick.

  At that critical moment on the bridge that night in mid-Pacific ocean, Captain Andress had had to shoot Peter so he and Harry could save the Nurad from plowing into that huge crude oil carrier. The American, Harry Martin, had proven his worth twice during the crossing of the Pacific Ocean in saving the crew and ship from a watery grave.

  The life raft Peter had prepared for his escape still sat in the corner of the bridge where he had stashed it. Captain Andress glanced to his right; it was still there. Sigmund caught the sudden glance, the damned life raft. As soon as they got out to sea, he’d have it taken from the bridge; it was a hard reminder for the captain about his friend.

  “Osa has outdone herself today. Pancakes, sausage, eggs, frosted rolls and fresh coffee” Sigmund said. “I teased her about her trip ashore vis Harry last evening. She blushed, turned beet red. I tink she likes him real vell.”

  “Yah,” Andress answered, almost ignoring the comment. He looked at his watch. 8 A.M.—eight hundred hours. “Keep an eye open for Mr. Ma or his military attache, Colonel Wen Pui. Let me know the moment either one arrives.”

  He took one more consuming look around the bridge, gave a nod at Sigmund, and said, “Vell, I go down for breakfast and get some coffee und den I’ll be back.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Recalling the Night of Horror

  Osa was behind the counter along side the cabin boy, Hans, serving breakfast to the crew. Her long blonde hair was wrapped around in a bun, a starched white calf-length coat covered her body. As usual she received a lot of good natured jibes and comments about the food, but she snapped right back with her own sharp tongued remarks, laughing with the men.

  Several times she had caught herself looking at the young mess boy, Hans, out of the corner of her eye. She couldn’t believe he was in Qingdao last night walking boldly down the street with his arm tight around the waist of that Chinese girl. A whore no less. It was disgusting! Harry had teasingly chastised her; one has to learn the facts of life sometime, he had said. But Hans was so young!

  As she turned back to the task of serving, she was startled to find herself looking into the smiling face of Harry Martin. Her warm blue eyes widened, her heart skipped a beat. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and then she blushed. “Good morning, Harry,” she managed with a warm smile, and slapped an extra portion of food on his tray.

  “Good morning to you, too,” Harry said, and winked, then continued through the line. He found a table off to one side. He wasn’t interested in conversation this morning; he had too much on his mind.

  Osa looked after him. She loved his rugged good looks, graying hair at his temples, deep blue eyes that seemed to hold her transfixed. In spite of their age difference, his being 53 and her about to turn 45, they were an attractive couple, and they loved the same things, not just sex but all kinds of sports—and, yes, definitely sex.

  She grinned. Osa Peterson, she said to herself, then repeated it, then she tried Osa Martin. Osa Martin. Yes, she liked the sound of it. Osa Martin!

  She remembered last night, the bottle of cognac, the counting of all that money, his slurring voice as he proposed to her. Would she be his wife? She had cried out yes, and then they had made love—not once, but twice, or was it three times? Vaguely she remembered leaving him lying on his bunk amongst all that money and scurrying back to her own cabin around three A.M. Osa Martin. Yes, I will make him the
best wife ever!

  Harry had thoughts, too. As he shoveled food into his mouth, washed down by fresh hot coffee, he thought about last evening. It had turned into one hell of a night! In fact, the night hadn’t turned out the way he had planned it at all. It would have been so simple if only she had stayed aboard ship last night, but no, she had insisted on going ashore with him.

  Mister Helmstrund had made it apparent that if he didn‘t take her along last night, there would be no shore leave, and he really needed shore leave in order to go after the hidden cache of money. The decision had nearly cost both of them their lives.

  Stan Drezewski and Mr. Ma had him figured out from the moment Nurad docked yesterday. They knew he only had one night in town because Nurad was scheduled to leave port early the next morning. He had only Friday night in which he could make his move to recover the hidden cache of black market money stashed away in their old Marine Corps barracks, now Shantung University.

  Mr. Ma, being the Harbor Master, and knowing Harry from thirty years before when he had been stationed in Qingdao, had invited Captain Andress, Mr. Helmstrund and himself to lunch at the Tivoli. It was a sumptuous luncheon. Afterwards they toured Qingdao ending up at Shantung University, even stopping right in front of his old barracks building. Hell, Mr. Ma even made sure they took a tour of the old barracks, now the Fine Arts building. God! He had walked right into their trap. Stupid! Damned Stupid!!

  Back in 1947, when he was stationed in Tsingtao with Joe Gionetti and Stan Drezewski, he learned the two Marines were deeply involved in black market activities. They were bad news and he steered clear of them. He only became involved when he had testified at their trials, helping to send both to Leavenworth. But never had he given a thought about their having a local black market contact. It had to be Mr. Ma.