Shanghai Twilight

by Matthew Legare

  To his left, he saw Mei-chen step around the Buick, her hands also raised. To his right, he saw the body of that young private – who’d shared a dance with her – writhing out on the ground. Blood frothed at the soldier’s lips as he cast a lingering stare at Mei-chen. Satiated, he released a gruesome death gurgle, before his eyes slid shut forever.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The Marine began to unload a torrent of angry Japanese at Tom, drawing his bayonet closer and closer with each word. Wearing civvies in a battlefield was an invitation to a firing squad. There was only one thing that could possibly save him now.

  “Amerika-jin,” Tom said, pointing at himself and at Mei-chen. The Jap blinked, dividing his attention between them both. Maybe this Nipponese would think twice before executing two Americans. Mei-chen began talking in fluent Japanese, jarring Tom slightly. Even after all this, it was still strange to hear her speak that language, as if she was pulling off yet another mask.

  Mei-chen pulled out her phony passport and presented it to the Marine. After a few moments, he scrutinized Tom again, then called over one of his comrades. An older man – a petty officer judging by his peaked cap – marched over and began conversing with the Marine.

  “What did you tell them?” Tom muttered in English, under his breath.

  “That we work for the American Consulate,” Mei-chen answered. “They can kill coolies, but diplomats might cause an international incident.”

  The Petty Officer inspected them both with cold, suspicious eyes. No doubt he was trying to answer the age-old question – how could someone be both Chinese and American? He stopped his scrutiny and scooped up the Browning pistol, then handed it to the Marine. After barking out an order, the Petty Officer returned to his men.

  The Marine rattled off a few words to Mei-chen, who translated.

  “He’s going to escort us to the rear, where their commanding officer will interrogate us.”

  Tom’s breath blew out slowly. There was one thing true about any military – nobody wanted to be stuck making the hard decisions. At least that bought them some time.

  “Susume!” the Marine ordered, before prodding them with his bayonet. Tom guessed that meant, ‘forward march.’

  With their hands up in the air, Tom and Mei-chen crossed back over the ruined fortification, strewn with Chinese casualties. Tom tried not to look at their grisly remains and instead focused up ahead at the armored car, now parked and surrounded by Imperial Marines. Raising their rifles, they chanted, “Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!” over and over again until the victory cry echoed in Tom’s ears. Pretty soon, he figured, all of Shanghai would hear it too.

  *****

  The Japanese rear position was situated in an alley, between buildings that had been half-scooped out by bombs. Several Nipponese Marines stood guard while a hoisted Rising Sun flag with jutting rays fluttered in the chilly morning breeze. On the other side, an enormous painting loomed over them. A smiling Chinese beauty in a silky cheongsam held a bottle of Coke up to her luscious lips. In English and Chinese characters it proclaimed, “Coca-Cola means ‘delicious’ in any language!” Tom suddenly felt a passing homesickness.

  Underneath the wall advertisement, a scraggly-looking man in a silk shirt stood across from a Japanese firing squad. A Navy officer held up his sword for a moment, then brought it down. The rifles cracked and the man dropped face-first to the ground. Two Marines hoisted the corpse up and dragged it to a nearby pile of bullet-ridden bodies.

  “Well, this just went from bad to worse,” Tom whispered to Mei-chen.

  “They might think we’re snipers or spies,” Mei-chen replied.

  “A good guess,” Tom said. “We’re going to have to convince them to call the US Consulate. That’s our only hope of—”

  “Damare!” their Marine escort barked.

  The officer strode toward them before exchanging salutes with his subordinate. Like all officers of the Mikado’s Navy, he wore a high collar, cherry blossom insignia – denoting his rank as an ensign – peaked cap, and leather gaiters, which suggested he was attached to the Imperial Marines rather than the Imperial Fleet. His uniform was smarter than the enlisted rank and file, with their Cracker Jack outfits, sailor caps, and white gaiters. Still, wearing any uniform would be a welcome relief right now. At least then he’d be treated like a prisoner of war with all its rights and privileges.

  The Ensign conversed with the Marine briefly, then cast his attention toward Mei-chen.

  “Pasupōto,” he said, extending his open palm.

  Mei-chen presented her passport, casting a nervous glance over to Tom. The Ensign flipped through it, then handed it back. He thrust out his hand, demanding Tom’s. Mei-chen intervened, explaining in Japanese. For a brief moment, a dark thought crept into Tom’s mind. All Mei-chen had to do was sell him out, admit she was a Nipponese spy and cut him loose. That would be fitting for a rube like him. He swallowed hard and prayed he was wrong.

  The Ensign examined him up and down, then rubbed his chin.

  “What did you tell him?” Tom asked Mei-chen.

  “I said you lost your passport last night, but that we’re both Chinese-Americans attached to the US Consulate.”

  “Let’s hope he buys it.”

  The Marine presented his superior with the Browning automatic. He pointed to Tom’s direction, chattering in accusatory Japanese. The Ensign nodded and gestured to the pistol, then began asking questions.

  “He wants to know if that’s your gun,” Mei-chen said.

  Involuntarily, Tom nodded. The Ensign started up again.

  “Why does an American own a Belgian pistol?” Mei-chen asked for him.

  “Tell him that Americans love all guns, regardless of where they’re from.”

  Mei-chen rattled off his reply in Japanese, but the Ensign kept a dour expression as he barked another question.

  “He asks why an American was fighting alongside the Chinese 19th Route Army?”

  Tom searched his mind for a placating excuse. “Tell him that the Chinese forced me at gunpoint to fight for them.”

  Mei-chen translated with such sincerity, Tom almost believed it himself. Unfortunately, the Ensign shook his head dismissively.

  “He says he doesn’t believe you,” Mei-chen said.

  “I can tell. Look, just ask him to call the American Consulate. That ought to by us a little more time.”

  Mei-chen conversed with the Ensign for several more rounds, but each plea was met with a stern, pitiless stare and laconic answers.

  “He says since you can’t prove you’re American, you’re either a spy or a sniper,” Mei-chen said, her bottom lip trembling. “And that he has every legal right to shoot you along with the other snipers.”

  Tom cast a glance over to the pile of Chinese corpses, all in civilian clothes. Well, he couldn’t be sore at the Ensign. After all, you didn’t survive on the battlefield by taking unnecessary chances. Still, a deep anger welled inside Tom. Here he was again, trapped like a rat and at someone else’s mercy. Whether it was the Japanese or the Green Gang, Tom Lai was tired of running. If only he’d taken Captain Tung up on his offer. At least then he could die fighting.

  “Amerika-jin!” Tom snapped, thumping his chest. He summoned what little Japanese he knew and shouted, “Watashi wa Amerika-jin desu!”

  “Damare!” the Ensign snarled, then ordered the Marine forward.

  Prodded by the bayonet, Tom was led down the alleyway, right underneath the wall painting. The squad of Nipponese Marines resumed their position and raised their rifles. Tom looked up at the giant woman, smiling with her soda. Dying in front of a Coca-Cola advertisement. What could possibly be more American? And here he was – after everything he’d been through – about to be executed as a spy. Or maybe they thought he was a sniper? It didn’t really matter anymore. Tom sucked in a deep breath and braced himself for the end.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Ignoring Mei-chen’s frantic pleas, the Ensign drew his saber. The
blade gleamed in the morning sun, but it possessed a strange beauty. At least he’d be given the martial dignity of a firing squad. Tom wondered if his parents would ever find out how he died. Maybe Mei-chen could let Mama and Papa Lai know how their son bit the dust. Tom wracked his brain for some escape but came up empty. The only shot would be if this Ensign’s commanding officer intervened on his behalf.

  That’s it! Tom didn’t have much influence in the Nipponese Navy, but he did know one officer.

  “Mei-chen!” he called out. She and the Ensign turned with perplexed stares. “A man deserves a final smoke before he dies.”

  Mei-chen nodded her understanding, then translated his words to the Ensign. A few moments ticked by before he finally relented. Perhaps this Nipponese was an officer and gentleman after all. The Marines lowered their rifles, but kept them raised just enough to cut Tom down if he ran.

  Tom dug into his jacket, pulled out his cigarette case and lighter, then lit himself up a Lucky Strike. Drawing the tobacco smoke deep into his lungs calmed his rattled nerves and allowed him to sort out his plan further. It was a long shot, but he had nothing to lose at this point. Taking another drag, he called over Mei-chen. The Ensign allowed her to proceed with a nod.

  “I have an idea but you’re not going to like,” he said to her.

  “What is it?”

  Tom paused and blew out a trail of smoke. “Commander Fukuzaki.”

  Mei-chen’s eyes bulged, then narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s the only Jap with enough clout to save my skin.”

  Brow furrowing, Mei-chen rubbed her bare arms. No doubt she was weighing the options in her mind. After all, she – as Margaret Wong – had an American passport.

  “He can confirm my identity and nationality. The Japs might be more hesitant to shoot an American citizen.”

  Mei-chen glanced over to the Ensign. “And what if he refuses?”

  Tom took another drag. “How could any Japanese officer say no to one of the Mikado’s spies?”

  She’d have to blow her cover, but it was his only chance. The dark thought from before crept back into his brain – could he really trust a Japanese spy? All she needed to do now was keep her mouth shut and she had a free ticket to the States. But after a moment of grueling hesitation, Mei-chen nodded, her eyes like brown pools of sympathy.

  “Okay...I’ll do it…”

  Mei-chen went back to the Ensign and began speaking in animated Japanese. Most words were indecipherable, but the Ensign did straighten up whenever ‘Fukuzaki Chusa’ was mentioned. Tom finished his Lucky and ground it underneath his heel. Tense moments went by, before the Japanese officer called over one of the Marines. After a brief exchange, the enlisted man saluted and trotted off. The Ensign beckoned Tom closer, drew himself up, and spoke a few terse lines.

  “He says he will confirm your identity, and mine, once Commander Fukuzaki arrives. Otherwise, you will be executed accordingly,” Mei-chen said, unable to hide her worry.

  Tom couldn’t suppress a relieved smile and lit up another cigarette. “Tell him I said, ‘arigato.’”

  *****

  The minutes dragged by in agonizing slowness. Between staring up at the Coca-Cola advertisement and exchanging worried looks with Mei-chen, Tom kept quiet, smoking away the remainder of Lucky Strikes in his cigarette case. The Marines remained aloof and silent, not that he could blame them. You always wanted to be alone with your thoughts before battle, just in case it was the last time to have them. Gunshots and explosions wailed in the distance, confirming that the war was still on. At this point, Tom hoped he’d survive long enough to see who won.

  After almost an hour, a motorcycle sidecar rumbled up to the Japanese outpost. Tires squealing, it ground to a halt right next to the flapping Rising Sun flag. An enlisted Marine – goggled and helmeted – was the driver, but in the passenger car sat Commander Jiro Fukuzaki. Like the Ensign, he wore a high-collared blue uniform and peaked cap, but his polished shoes were more appropriate for a ballroom dance floor than the battlefield.

  Regardless, as he stepped out of the sidecar, Fukuzaki exuded such authority that it was almost palpable. The Ensign and Marines snapped crisp salutes as he strode toward Tom and Mei-chen. His reputation as chief of Naval Intelligence in Shanghai must have been well-known, even to these grunts.

  “Ah, Mr. Lai,” Commander Fukuzaki purred in English, “we meet again.”

  “Howdy Commander,” Tom said, taking a drag on his last cigarette. “Wish it were under better circumstances.”

  A furtive glance from Mei-chen made Tom wonder if Fukuzaki knew he’d unmasked his Beautiful Pearl as a Nipponese spy. Best to play dumb and keep mum.

  “This is Ho Mei-chen,” Tom said with his best poker face. She extended a gloved hand and Fukuzaki took it. “I’d invite you to have a drink at Club Twilight, Commander, but it was blown to bits last night.”

  “Not to worry, the Golden Unicorn is still standing,” Fukuzaki said with a wry grin. “Mr. Lai, I’m sorry for this regrettable situation, but you were found on the battlefield with enemy soldiers. In civilian clothes, no less. I’m sure you’re aware that without a uniform, you are not entitled to be treated as a prisoner of war.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m still an American citizen. My country is neutral in your little war.”

  “But you didn’t remain neutral, did you Mr. Lai? Wearing a suit, you aided our enemy. Japanese Marines are plagued by dishonorable Chinese snipers in civilian clothes, shooting from rooftops and behind rubble.” Fukuzaki shook his head. “Is it fair that our men’s uniforms make for easy targets while the Chinese hide behind silk shirts?”

  “No it’s not, but neither is bombing Chapei. Besides, it’s not like the 19th Route Army attacked Little Tokyo, did they?” Tom countered, his temper inflamed.

  “Indeed they didn’t Mr. Lai, but Chinese mobs did molest Japanese civilians. Since the Shanghai Police were unable to deal with this crisis, the Imperial Navy took control.”

  “And started the war you and your ronin wanted,” Tom snapped. “But that’s neither here nor there, Commander. As an American citizen – and one who has friends all over Shanghai – I demand to speak to the US Consulate.”

  Fukuzaki gave a mischievous smile as he eyed Tom, then Mei-chen, up and down. “And who would you speak to, Mr. Lai? Charles Whitfield?”

  Whitfield’s bloodied body, writhing in agony in a bed of broken glass, resurfaced in Tom’s mind. He’d forgotten about that horror for the past few hours, superseded with countless other horrors, but now it bubbled back up with full fury. Unable to disguise his sorrow, Tom blanched.

  “Too bad he’s dead,” Fukuzaki continued. “His body was discovered last night. Shot in the chest. How sad. Apparently, a Russian doorman saw two Orientals – a man and a woman – exiting his apartment building. You wouldn’t happen to know who they were, would you Mr. Lai?”

  Tom balled his fist and cast a sideways glance to Mei-chen. Her face remained rigid, but her eyes shone with mute fear. The son of a bitch was just toying with them now.

  “Commander, I have no idea what you’re insinuating, but—”

  Fukuzaki waved a dismissive hand. “There is no point denying it, Mr. Lai, I can see the truth in Miss Ho’s face. To kill our best source of information! I expected better from her. Truly an amateurish mistake.”

  Mei-chen cast her gaze downward, like a schoolgirl about to be punished in front of the class.

  “Last time we met, you were searching for my spy and you found her,” Fukuzaki said with a sigh, shaking his head bitterly. “And if you figured out her true identity, then perhaps someone else did? Or perhaps you told others? I ask you, Mr. Lai, what good is a spy who no longer enjoys anonymity?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone,” Tom said through gritted teeth.

  “Perhaps you did, perhaps you didn’t. Better safe than sorry, as you Americans say.”

  Snapping his fingers, Fukuzaki ordered the Ensign forward and rattled off
a few commands. The Ensign nodded, and gripped Mei-chen’s bare arm. Shoving her to her knees, he circled around and drew a pistol from his side holster. She stared back at Tom with pleading eyes.

  “What are you doing?” Tom demanded. “You’d kill your own spy?”

  Fukuzaki shook his head again, sorrow and regret etched into his gray face. “A pity. I had a fondness for the girl. But she has failed in her duty.”

  “She doesn’t even deserve a firing squad?”

  “This is more fitting for a spy. But don’t worry, Mr. Lai. Your actions merit a military execution.”

  “My actions?”

  “You cannot expect us to treat our enemies with impunity, especially if they are in civilian clothes,” Fukuzaki said, his mood lightening a little.

  “But the American Consulate—”

  “Will never know what happened to you. With your skin, you’ll be reported as just another executed Chinese sniper. After all, besides Mr. Whitfield, you don’t have many friends in the American Consulate, do you Mr. Lai?”

  No, he didn’t, Tom conceded. Most of Tom’s acquaintances in Shanghai were gangsters, riff-raff, and crooked politicians. Charles Whitfield was one of the few real friends he had in Shanghai. Yan Ping was another, and he’d gotten them both killed.

  Only Captain Tung remained. If only he was here to save them now. Tom swallowed hard and cast a regretful look at Mei-chen, now with a pistol to the back of her head. He’d be joining her soon enough.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  His mind blank and numb, Tom stared at Mei-chen, kneeling on the ground. He’d played his last card and came up short. He mouthed the words “I’m sorry” to her. Meager compensation but it was all he could offer. Mei-chen nodded, then squeezed her eyes shut. Even Commander Fukuzaki appeared remorseful with a dour frown. After all, he was about to lose one of his best spies. Then again, good spies didn’t get caught.