‘Master Wu will be leaving today to orchestrate arrangements in Chuchow, but we still have a few days before Saturday the eighteenth,’ Grandma Wu replied. ‘Say nothing to anyone. Start getting your things ready. Put on your peasant clothes instead of your school uniform when you get up on Friday. We depart first thing that morning.’
12
The Mission
We set off by train at first light on Friday 17 April, accompanied only by Grandma Wu. During the journey from Shanghai to Ghuchow, we were given a private compartment by a trusted guard. As soon as the train left the station, he closed the curtains and locked the door, giving us total privacy. ‘I have checked,’ he said. ‘You are safe. No Japanese aboard.’
‘Who is he?’ I asked when we were alone.
‘I only know him as Agent 0108,’ Grandma Wu said. ‘It’s better not to know anything more in case we’re questioned by the Japanese.’
From time to time, one of us would part the curtain to peek at the terrain we were travelling through. Outside, it started to rain. The countryside was relatively flat and all we could see through the mist were endless rice paddies. Here and there we saw men and oxen pulling primitive-looking wooden ploughs to till the fields. Every inch of land appeared to be cultivated. Sometimes we passed clusters of houses in the distance that looked like villages.
Most of the people on the train seemed to be farmers and small businessmen. There were a few women travelling with their children. Thankfully, we did not come across any Japanese soldiers. Whenever the train stopped at a station, swarms of peddlers would approach and try to sell passengers their local produce, handicrafts and foodstuffs. We left our compartment only when absolutely necessary and avoided talking with anyone.
The train pulled into Chuchow later that afternoon. The town was surrounded by a wall and criss-crossed by cramped streets filled with pedestrians, wheelbarrows, rickshaws, pedicabs and bicycles. We saw no trams, but there were a few buses and motor cars. Outdoor stalls occupied every nook and corner of the large square surrounding the train station. Grandma Wu led us to a noodle vendor and bought each of us a steaming bowl of hot noodles, topped with bean-curd sauce. She handed us chopsticks and we ate standing up. While we were eating, a hot-water seller in the next row of stalls asked me in a loud voice, ‘Little Sister! Would you like to buy a nice cup of freshly boiled water to drink?’ I shook my head just as he pointed to a sweet-gruel seller who was beckoning me with his hand. As David and I approached, he murmured something.
‘Excuse me,’ David said. ‘We didn’t hear you. What did you say?’
This time the sweet-gruel seller answered in a distinct voice, ‘Chu sui san hu, Chu sui san hu.’
David and I looked at each other dubiously. Was this gruel seller in baggy trousers, dirty apron and cloth shoes our contact in Chuchow? But there was no doubt what he had just said. And he had said it twice. Then I heard David take a deep breath and say, ’ Wang Qin bi Chu,’ four times in rapid succession.
The man’s response was immediate. ‘Come with me!’ he said. He unpinned his apron and said something to a woman behind him. With mounting excitement, we called Grandma Wu, Sam and Marat, and followed the gruel seller out of the square.
‘I am Agent 0220,’ he told Grandma Wu. ‘I had no trouble spotting the five of you but needed to make sure. Please follow me. Everything has been arranged. We are going to a safe house that belongs to an American missionary. You will have the house to yourselves.’
We arrived at a little stone house situated close to the city wall at the edge of town. Our guide was a quiet man and said nothing to us along the way. When we reached our destination, he simply unlocked the dark red, double-leafed front door, handed us the keys and bade us goodbye.
We stepped into a tidy but plainly furnished living room, with a long couch, wooden floors and curtained windows. The house had only one bedroom, with a large double bed and mats on the floor. That night, all five of us shared the same room. Grandma Wu slept on the bed while we children slept on cushions from the couch spread out on the floor.
Grandma Wu woke us before dawn for a quick breakfast of hot rice congee and salted duck eggs which she had found in the kitchen. As we ate, the rain kept falling outside.
‘Let’s get to work,’ decreed Grandma Wu. ‘It is now precisely 5.02 a.m., Tokyo time. Let’s synchronize our watches. Adjust your listening devices and short-wave radios. If you hear a signal, decode it straight away. Record the time and date of each message.’
Just after 6.30 a.m., Marat intercepted a radio message from a Japanese ship in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Japan.
‘Grandma Wu! Grandma Wu!’ he called urgently. ‘I just heard someone identifying himself as the Japanese radio signalman from the Nitto Maru sending this message in Japanese: “Three US carriers sighted 700 nautical miles east of Tokyo at 6.30 a.m. Tokyo time.” Is the Nitto Maru one of those Japanese picket boats?’
‘Alert the Americans at once,’ cried Grandma Wu. ‘This is serious!’
Marat nodded solemnly. The rest of us listened intently.
Almost immediately after Marat had transmitted his message to the Americans, I heard the USS Hornet’s radio operator ordering two American ships Nashville and Enterprise to bombard and sink the Nitto Maru.
All at once, I started to tremble uncontrollably. It was no longer a game. The stakes were immense. This was war. ‘What about the sailors on the Nitto Maru?’ I asked. ‘Are they going to die?’
‘There is no alternative,’ Grandma Wu said. ‘Either we destroy them or they destroy us. This is the price we pay for China to regain her independence.’
I thought of the men at sea losing their lives, drowning in the burning flames; the sailors on both sides being torn to bloody shreds; the moans of the wounded; the grief of the widows and the plight of their fatherless children at home. Was war truly the only answer?
‘The Japanese are still dispatching messages to the Nitto Maru,’ Marat cried. ‘They don’t know that it’s been sunk but they must suspect something. I just heard Admiral Matome Ugaki issuing an emergency order to repel a major enemy fleet off the Japanese coast. Japanese planes, destroyers, cruisers and submarines are heading towards the position last reported by the Mtto Mara. The Americans should launch their planes right away so their carriers can make a quick getaway. Otherwise the Japanese will destroy them.’
‘Children! Radio the Hornet immediately and report what you have just heard!’ commanded Grandma Wu. ‘Otherwise all will be lost!’
‘But the American ships are still so far from Japan!’ Sam objected. ‘Master Wu said the planes were supposed to take off when the Hornet is 450 miles away from the Japanese coast. They are still 700 miles away. They’ll run out of fuel for sure!’
The original plan was for the planes to take off just before sunset and bomb Japan under cover of darkness. Now they would be arriving in Tokyo around noon, in full sight of Japanese anti-aircraft guns. The earlier take-off and increased distance to Tokyo meant they would be flying to Chuchow with empty fuel tanks. We hated to admit it, but Jimmy Doolittle’s raid on Tokyo was turning into a suicide mission.
For a while we were all silent, thinking of what the American pilots must be going through. What choice did they have? If they aborted the raid, they risked the loss of their aircraft carriers as well as their planes. If they went ahead, they risked flying with empty fuel tanks over the open sea. Every decision was riddled with danger.
‘If I were one of Jimmy Doolittle’s pilots, I’d volunteer to take off right now,’ announced David, his face flushed. ‘Do or die!’
‘So would I!’ agreed Marat fervently.
‘Me too!’ concurred Sam.
I could hardly speak, but knew that I would also risk my life.
‘Admiral Haisey, the task-force commander of the USS Hornet agrees with you,’ Grandma Wu declared, her transmitter clamped to her ears. ‘The Admiral just ordered Colonel Doolittle to launch the planes immediately. As w
e speak, sixteen brave American pilots and their crews are setting off on the bombing raid.’
13
Chuchow Aifield
We kept our ears glued to the radio transmitters for the rest of the morning, but there was no further news. Early in the afternoon there was a persistent rapping on the door. When I looked through the peephole, I saw a young man wearing a white doctor’s coat and thick glasses.
‘I’m looking for Grandma Wu,’ he said breathlessly.
‘What’s your name?’
He placed his right hand against his heart, clenched it into a fist and said, ‘Chu sui san hu! Chu sui san hu!’
I uttered the response we’d been taught and repeated it four times, before calling for Grandma Wu and welcoming the man into the house.
‘I’m Dr Chen, physician and head of the local resistance in Chuchow and Linhai,’ the man told us. ‘I have terrible news. So far, no fuel or flares have been delivered to the Ghuchow Airfields. The radiomen sent by Chiang Kai-shek to operate the homing radios at the airfield have not arrived because of bad weather. Unfortunately, the forecast is for more rain and heavy fog this evening. Visibility will be limited to 100 feet or less.
‘The American pilots were told there would be homing signals and flares to mark the runways of Chuchow Airfields. Now there will be nothing to guide them. And no fuel is available even if they do land successfully. These pilots are doomed! What should we do?’
Grandma Wu was gripping her chair. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands for a few minutes.
Then she took a map out of her pocket and scrutinized it for a long time. When she looked up, her voice was resolute. ‘Although we have no fuel for the American planes, we do have four capable and multilingual children who are eager to help the crews. It is clear from this map that the pilots will have to make some difficult choices. When they run out of fuel, they’ll need to abandon their planes and parachute out. The question is: if they can’t make it to Chuchow, where will they end up and how can we help them?
‘The planes should have enough fuel to cross the East China Sea. If they manage to get at least 70 miles inland from the coast, they will have a chance. But if they don’t make it that far, the planes will either crash into the ocean or land on one of the beaches. It is possible that the survivors will land on the coast, or even on Nan Tian Island itself.
‘I suggest we go straight to Nan Tian. I have seen aerial photos of the island taken by my pigeons. Nan Tian has a long flat beach that is not only visible from the air but also suitable for emergency landings. It will be risky for the Americans as die island is under Japanese control, but we have many contacts there and know the man in charge of the local guerrillas. They will help us.’
My heart leapt! Big Aunt was at Nan Tian Island.
Grandma Wu turned to Dr Chen and said, ‘I’ll write a note to Agent 0958 and inform him that we will be arriving in Nan Tian this evening. Please send it off by pigeon post immediately. Let’s keep in touch die same way.’
‘They’ve done it! They’ve done it!’ Marat shouted at this moment from the other side of the room. His face was ashen, but his voice exhilarated. ‘I’ve just heard an announcement from Tokyo Radio JOAK that American bombs have fallen on four Japanese cities this afternoon. This is the first time in the history of Japan that any of her cities has been invaded by an enemy. Not a single American plane was shot down.’
‘Hooray for Jimmy Doolittle and his pilots!’ heralded Grandma Wu. ‘The Americans have taken away the enemy’s qi. Japan is no longer invincible. Jimmy Doolittle has brought the war home to Tokyo. Let us hurry now to Nan Tian Island in case one of the American planes should crash-land there. The crew will be needing us!’
14
Nan Tian Jsland
Later that evening, two fishermen met our boat at the dock on Nan Tian Island. They shepherded us into a quaint, thatched-roof hut at the head of a long, curving bay. David whispered that the fishermen must be members of the local underground. Although I was dying to find out whether the two men had been sent by Master Wu, Big Aunt or Grandma Liu, I dared not ask.
It was foggy, cold and wet, and the wind was biting. We could hardly see anything in front of us. No one mentioned it, but all of us knew that the American pilots would have a terrible time landing anywhere in this weather.
Grandma Wu built a fire with straw and charcoal. She made soup noodles with salted fish, brought to us by the fishermen. We wolfed it down. Afterwards, we huddled around the warm stove with our radio transmitters clamped to our ears, hoping to intercept signals from die pilots, but we heard nothing.
Marat, who was fastidious about cleanliness, insisted on washing even though he had to get water from the well outside. The rest of us sat on the floor riddling with the knobs, bent on listening. Despite our best efforts, Marat was the only one who successfully decoded any more messages. As soon as he rejoined us, he reported that Japanese naval units were swarming into the East China Sea in search of US aircraft carriers and abandoned planes. He also located a radio station from Chungking, which declared that the people were celebrating Doolittle’s successful raid on the streets there. Chiang Kai-shek’s war minister announced that the ‘nightmare of Japan’s invasion of China has been shattered by American bombs. The Americans will soon bring justice and freedom to us Chinese people.’
Suddenly we heard an insistent pounding on the door. Grandma Wu sprang up to see who it was. A guttural male voice repeated the password and Grandma Wu responded, opening the door. A fisherman stood there dripping, dressed in a raincoat made of palm fibres and straw sandals. He closed the door carefully arid stared at us.
‘So many children…’ he began hesitantly.
‘Wang Qin bi Chu!’ Grandma interrupted, holding her hand over her heart and making a fist ‘Speak freely! You can trust these children.’
‘My name is Ii Cha (),’ said the fisherman, ‘and I am the leader of the Nan Tian guerrillas. An American plane has just crashed on to the beach half a mile away. There are five crew members on board. They are alive, but four are injured.’
‘Where are the Japanese?’ asked Grandma Wu.
Li Gha looked around fearfully. ‘There are no Japanese troops on this island at the moment. But their boats patrol the area. They are bound to spot the American plane sooner or later. We need to put the airmen on a boat and sail for the mainland as quickly as possible.’
‘Then we have no time to waste!’ Grandma Wu decided. ‘Children! Go with Li Cha at once and bring the Americans here for the night. I have some herbs in my bag that will provide pain relief if they are hurt. I’ll stay here and prepare for them.’
The four of us rushed out into the pouring rain with Li Cha, and made our way along the beach. It was pitch black outside, with no moon or stars to guide us. Li Cha led the way holding a small flashlight, with us following behind in a single file. At first I saw nothing and heard only the boom, hiss and roar of waves rolling onto the sand. We rounded some rocks and then, lit grotesquely by the flickering flames of their burning plane, there were the shapes of five tall figures sprawled on the seashore. A pungent odour of petrol and burning metal permeated the air. As we approached, one of the airmen struggled to his feet, clutching a pistol fearfully.
All the men were in great pain, but the pilot, Ted Lawson, seemed to have suffered the worst injury. He had lost many of his teeth. His face was bruised and filthy. A gash on his leg was so deep that I could see the bone beneath the muscle and gristle. Charles McClure, the navigator, had dislocated both of his shoulders. They were swollen down to his elbows and he could hardly move his fingers. Robert Clever, the bombardier, had blood around his eyes and on top of his head. Dean Davenport, the co-pilot, had cut his lower leg but could still walk.
Li Cha had been standing back, but now he whistled sharply and eight other men appeared from the shadows. Together, we helped the Americans limp back to the hut.
Grandma Wu placed Lawson on the only bed in the oute
r room, covered him with a quilt and gave each American a bowl of hot herbal soup that she had brewed. While we tended to the injured airmen, Marat and Sam accompanied Thatcher back to the beach to salvage first-aid supplies from the plane.
They came back soaking wet. The plane had broken into several pieces and incinerated on impact. Now, only the tail was left sticking up from the sand. Instead of bandages, morphine and iodine, they had found only a carton of cigarettes. David tore off the Cellophane and lit one for Lawson, who seemed more comfortable after drinking the warm medicinal soup. He inhaled deeply with satisfaction.
‘Hey, kids! What are your names?’ Lawson asked.
There were introductions all around. But when it came to Li Cha, Lawson kept forgetting his name.
Finally, Sam suggested, ‘Li Cha’s surname is Li and his given name is Cha, which means “tea” in Chinese. In China, the surname comes before the given name. Why don’t you call him Cha Li, or Charlie? This way you’ll remember.’
‘Great idea!’ Lawson agreed. ‘I’ll call him Charlie from now on.’
Li Cha gave a wry smile. Turning to Sam, he said, ‘Tell the Americans I’m leaving now to arrange for a boat. We’ll take them to the mainland first thing tomorrow morning, so I’ll be back at dawn. Meanwhile, you should all get some rest. Tomorrow will be tough.’
Grandma Wu nodded. She was exhausted. But the three boys and I were much too excited. We decided to stay up and keep the airmen company.
Lawson, Davenport, McClure and Thatcher sat on the bed with their backs against the wall. Robert Clever lay quietly in an opposite corner and appeared to have fallen asleep. The boys and I squatted on a mat next to the airmen, while they smoked their cigarettes and sipped cups of hot water.
Lawson was not used to drinking hot water. His injuries were severe and he had lost a lot of blood. He kept saying he was thirsty. I volunteered to keep up his supply of hot water, but he begged for cold water.
Chinese Cinderella and the Secret Dragon Society Page 10