Once More the Hawks

by Max Hennessy

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you. I haven’t changed my mind.’

  ‘I didn’t come to ask you to,’ Dicken said shortly. ‘Father O’Buhilly asked for help. I’ve come to bring it. I gather you’ve got a lot of children here.’

  She frowned at his tone, and gestured to the buildings behind her. ‘Around five hundred.’

  ‘We’re hoping to fly them out.’

  ‘They’ll need adults to help.’

  ‘We can take a few. Even you, if you choose to go. Foote’s organising transport to Chungking. Let’s have a look at the driest part of this place.’

  She led the way, her robe flapping in the wind, her feet lumps of muddy clay. At the other end of the stretch of land the ground was higher and better drained, and seemed hard.

  ‘It’s rock underneath,’ she said. ‘That’s why it’s never been cultivated. If it had been reasonable soil – or for that matter unreasonable – they’d have grown something.’

  For an hour or more Dicken and Babington walked backwards and forwards, every now and then thrusting a stick into the earth where it seemed dangerously soft. Standing at the end of the field they were able to plot a landing area with only a small clump of trees and a line of brushwood in the way.

  ‘Can we get those moved?’ Dicken asked. ‘We’ll also need the rocks lifting and the holes filled in.’

  ‘It can be done.’ Marie-Gabrielle still sounded wary. ‘There are enough people here and most of them have tools. Those who haven’t, have their hands.’

  Within minutes, the field was swarming with men and women. The first of the trees was down in a quarter of an hour and stones and rubble were being pushed into the hole it left. More people were hacking at the brush and a long column of women was bringing baskets of soil to fill other holes. More blue-clad figures were pushing barrows and chopping at the earth, yellow ants with strange medieval tools, hacking yard by yard at the length of the strip they had chosen. A shallow ditch that ran across it was filled, the men shovelling to the sound of a pre-arranged rhythm, and by late afternoon they could see the strip taking shape.

  Foote hadn’t been idle. By the time Dicken returned, he had the General’s promise of help and had collected cartons of American canned and packeted food.

  ‘He said “Thank God there’s something useful we can do at last,”’ Foote grinned. ‘He’s right behind us and the war correspondents see it as a good story. We’ve contacted the nurses at the US Hospital and they’re ready. The US ground crew chiefs on our side, too. There’ll be no Liberators or anything like that but we’ve got two of the Tups ready and there’ll probably be a third tomorrow.’

  The first Tupolev took off early the following morning, piloted by Johnson, followed soon afterwards by the other, piloted by his friend, the dark-haired spaniel-eyed pilot called Moreno. They were five-to six-seat heavy bombers with four BMW engines, old and out of date, their best performance – which they hadn’t achieved for years – in the region of 124 miles per hour, their ceiling only 10,000 feet, their range no more than 620 miles. They had undercarriages like inverted tripods, each side with two wheels, and their noses looked like gazebos. With Father O’Buhilly in the rear cockpit of the Hart a scarf wound round his fur cap and crammed down low behind the armadillo shield, Dicken was already waiting in the air, and the Tupolevs lined up behind him.

  Babington had been left behind at Sushan to light smudge fires to give the wind direction and Dicken slipped down and landed, quickly turning off the airstrip out of the way of the first of the bombers. The big machine floated in behind him, its propellers turning slowly, bounced gently, settled, and rolled to a stop. Immediately, dozens of people marshalled by Babington formed up round it and dragged it out of the way so the second could land.

  The Chinese were yelling and chattering in their high-pitched sing-song voices, some of them so excited they were standing on their hands and turning somersaults. Then, suddenly, the uproar died. One of the men pointed. Their heads turned and, as they did so, a car appeared from behind the buildings. It was followed by a second and a third. They were full of Chinese officers and Dicken recognised the man alongside the driver of the first car as Colonel Kok. He faced Dicken, smiling.

  ‘How clever of you to think of aeroplanes,’ he said. ‘It will save us a long and dreary journey by road.’

  ‘These aircraft are for the rescue of children,’ Dicken snapped.

  Kok gestured. ‘Children can’t save China and those are Chinese aircraft. Have you my government’s permission to use them for this purpose?’

  The authorities in Chungking had maintained only a sullen silence, but Dicken lied that it had, and he saw Father O’Buhilly lift his hand, two fingers raised, in a gesture of absolution. Just beyond him, Johnson, his cap with its broken visor crushed on the back of his head, stood with Moreno and their co-pilots, their faces angry.

  Kok obviously didn’t believe Dicken. ‘I need those aeroplanes for myself and my staff,’ he said. ‘Step aside.’

  As the Chinese began to move forward, Dicken yanked his revolver from its holster and shoved the muzzle against his head. The click as he pulled the hammer back was loud in the silence and he saw Marie-Gabrielle’s hand go to her throat. One of the Chinese reached for his weapon.

  ‘He’d better not use that thing,’ Dicken said. ‘If he does, you’ll sure as hell die as well.’

  Kok’s eyes swivelled but he didn’t move his head. He gestured to the officer whose hand dropped to his side.

  ‘Tell your men to throw down their weapons, Colonel. If one of them makes a move, you’re dead. Very dead. This is a .38 and they make a mess at this range.’

  For a long time Kok stood stock-still, then he spoke in Chinese. The officers turned from the aircraft and grouped themselves by the cars.

  ‘Now their weapons.’

  As the officers threw down their weapons, Dicken gestured. ‘Pick ’em up, Bab.’

  Helped by the other airmen, Babington started to collect the revolvers and swords and Dicken saw that Marie-Gabrielle was helping too.

  ‘Now get back in your cars,’ he said. ‘When this is over you’ll find your weapons where you dropped them. Go.’

  As the cars vanished, the first children were brought from the buildings and were pushed into the aircraft. Immediately the singing started, high-pitched and monotonous, and they could hear it even as the engines revved up and the Tupolev began to taxi down the field. As it soared over Dicken’s head, trailing a plume of grey smoke, they were already pushing children into the second machine.

  The airlift went on all day. During the afternoon, when they were beginning to wonder if they could get more than they had expected out of the island, the incoming machine brought Foote.

  ‘Old Dogleg’s creating trouble,’ he said, his face grim. ‘He claims we’re using petrol to save useless lives. He says his army needs the Tupolevs and he wants to know why we refused to lift out Lee’s staff. The General’s handling him.’

  ‘I hope he can go on handling him just a bit longer,’ Dicken said. We’ve got most of the kids out. If we can just hang on a little longer, we can get the sick out too.’

  The Tupolevs continued to come in at two-hourly intervals until dark. The last one brought Foote again.

  ‘We can keep going tomorrow,’ he said. ‘But the General’s in a wrangle with Chiang who’s mad enough to bite the heads off nails. That goddam Kok signalled him from some place down the road. I reckon you’re finished, boy.’

  As Foote flew off again, Dicken walked towards the hospital. Father O’Buhilly was just ushering the remaining children in to a sparse meal.

  ‘You’ve got to leave tomorrow, Father,’ Dicken said.

  The priest turned. ‘This is where I live, boy,’ he pointed out gently.

  ‘Not any more. Father.’

  The pri
est led him into the little room where he slept. It was as bare as every room Dicken ever remembered him occupying, nothing but a bed, a table, an upright chair, and a shelf where he kept his missal, his breviary, his New Testament, and the works of a few favourite saints.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Chiang’s raising hell and claiming the Tupolevs back. Foote thinks General Loomis can stave him off until tomorrow night. But it’s the end for me. I’m held responsible. They’ll also hold you responsible. You’ll never be able to carry on here when it’s over.’

  The priest shook his head slowly. ‘Sure, I’ve never believed in Hell,’ he said, ‘but I’d like to, if only to see people like Chiang and Lee and Colonel Kok there.’ He nodded. ‘Very well. I’m ready to go. What about Marie-Gabrielle?’

  ‘She’ll have to go too.’

  ‘Who’s going to tell her?’

  ‘I will.’

  Father O’Buhilly sighed. ‘I’ve prayed for you both.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Dicken said, ‘God’s a bit hard of hearing.’

  Marie-Gabrielle looked up as Dicken appeared in the doorway of her office. Somehow, he sensed a warmer attitude towards him and wondered how she would react to his news.

  ‘I’m grateful, Dicken,’ she said. ‘You haven’t changed. I always thought you were brave and honest. You still are.’

  ‘I’m not all that honest,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve known something for some time that I haven’t dared tell you. You’ve got to go, too.’

  She frowned and he hurried on to explain. ‘Father O’Buhilly’s also got to go. I’m in trouble, it seems, but I think this place will be in worse trouble. You’ll never be allowed to stay. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Where can I go? I haven’t got anywhere.’

  ‘You have if you want it.’

  She gave him a quick glance and was silent for a moment before she spoke. ‘I’ve lived here too long.’

  ‘They can use nurses at the American Hospital in Chungking. They’d even fly you to India if you wished, and there’s one sure way of making them. They’re going to declare me persona non grata. If I had a wife she’d doubtless have to be flown out, too.’

  The sustaining anger seemed to drain from her body. Her shoulders sagged wearily and there was something forlorn in the way her hands hung limply at her side. For a long time she didn’t speak; when she did her words came unhappily.

  ‘It was years after Rezhanistan,’ she said, ‘when I learned your wife was dead and then I had no idea where you were or how to find you. I decided by that time you must have remarried.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t. Marry me, Marie-Gabrielle.’

  ‘I’m Catholic.’

  ‘I don’t care if you’re a Turk, a Mormon, a Rosicrucian or even a bloody fire-worshipper.’

  For the first time she smiled and, taking a step forward, she put her cheek against his. His arms went round her and they clung to each other, laughing at themselves. Then she pushed him away gently. ‘But it makes no difference, Dicken,’ she said quietly. ‘We’re both too old.’

  Father O’Buhilly left in the first machine the following day, sitting in the cockpit alongside Moreno. The machine that flew in two hours later was a different one with a different pilot and contained Foote.

  ‘The General reckons he can hold off old Dogleg until we’re finished,’ he said. ‘There’s just one thing–’ his face grew hard ‘–Moreno’s engines cut on landing just as we left. It didn’t burn, though, and they seemed to be gettin’ everybody out.’

  Even as Foote flew out, Johnson returned. ‘You heard about Georgie Moreno?’ he asked.

  ‘He crashed.’

  ‘Yeah. All the kids were saved, though. A few of ’em were burned but none of ’em bad. She broke in two and those Chinese teachers got ’em out fast.’

  ‘And Moreno?’

  Johnson shook his head. ‘Not Georgie.’ He paused. ‘Nor Father O’Buhilly.’

  Seven

  The celebrations among the foreign element in Chungking at outwitting Chiang and his generals were muted for Dicken by the disappearance into an American hospital from which she never seemed to emerge of Marie-Gabrielle. Several times he called, trying to see her, but there were always excuses – she was off duty, she had gone somewhere with one of the American nurses, she was too busy – so that it wasn’t hard to form the opinion that she was dodging him. With the death of Father O’Buhilly, it left him empty of feeling and with the certainty that his time in China was growing short. He wasn’t wrong.

  Hatto arrived from India, angry that he had managed to combat all Diplock’s evil influences throughout Dicken’s career only for him to ruin everything as he reached high rank by getting involved in the taboo subject of Chinese politics.

  ‘Officers of your rank aren’t asked to leave an ally’s country,’ he said. ‘What the hell happened?’

  Foote came into the explanations and Hatto listened carefully. He seemed to appreciate what had occurred and when he had visited General Loomis he was in no doubt.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll fight it. The General’s on our side.’

  As he flew back to India, Dicken, expecting his orders to leave almost hourly, was surprised to find they didn’t come, and he could only put it down to the changing attitudes. Suddenly the Communists, because they were fighting and Chiang was not, were being regarded as an unexpected ally.

  ‘Those wise guys in Washington are turning somersaults,’ General Loomis announced. ‘And as always, they don’t do the thing by halves. They’re beginning to see the Communists now as Jeffersonian democrats, and there are plans that when the Nips throw their hands in at the end of the war, their weapons will go straight to them so they can kick out old Dogleg. I hope to bejesus they’re right because I have a feeling we’ll have put one bogey down only to raise another.’

  It was still bitterly cold and the walls of the offices and rooms in Chungking seemed to drip moisture. However, with their incredible energy, the Americans were beginning to make themselves comfortable, and it was a comfort which they generously spread to the other allied missions. Then, towards the end of the winter, American correspondents scenting a scoop north of Chengshan came back with horrific stories of famine. Lee’s blowing in of the dykes near Yuking had forced people nearer to Chengshan and the flooded fields gave no hope of crops. A relief effort had been started but it was marked by lethargy and inefficiency, and tax collectors were still trying to wring money out of the wretched people, while soldiers were rounding up men so weak they could hardly walk to collect fodder for their horses.

  ‘Lee’s retreating with the whole of his goddam army,’ Foote said. ‘He’s pulling out with all his men. He has a convoy of vehicles a mile long.’ His hand moved across the map on his desk. ‘Here. Moving south with the refugees between him and the enemy.’

  The story of disaster left the Chungking government unruffled, and with their usual emotional generosity it was the Americans who organised the convoys of lorries north. In one of them was a group of American nurses, medical officers and missionaries in fur caps, parkas and heavy boots and among them was Marie-Gabrielle.

  As the lorries disappeared Dicken left once more with Foote, Johnson and Babington in one of the old Tupolevs. As they landed at Chengshan, peasant families were already sprawled in acres waiting for trains to take them to safety in the west. Many had come in old and battered trains that had sneaked past the Japanese artillery in the night, riding on flat cars and in boxcars and ancient carriages, bracing themselves on the roofs in the freezing cold so that fingers became numb and they fell off to the track, but most had come under their own power, by cart or barrow or on foot.

  The Americans were quick to set up radio stations, tents and marquees and organise soup kitchens. As the starving people queued up, all round the airfield were thousand
s more, here and there little food shops conspicuous in the growing darkness by the blue flames of their stoves and the smell of frying.

  Several times Dicken saw Marie-Gabrielle, bulky in padded clothing, near the tents of the American hospital, but he was never able to get her on her own. He was convinced by now that she was avoiding him but he could never be sure whether it was because she distrusted him or because she distrusted herself.

  In an attempt to round up refugees, Dicken drove with Babington into the town in a lorry. There had been a fire that had gutted booths and godowns and their wreckage was strewn across the cobblestones in a litter of smashed earthenware and frayed flapping cane matting. The wind lifted drifts of yellow paper, fragments of cloth and loose straw and chaff, and a red streamer twirled where it had caught on a projection.

  The city’s population had been cut to a quarter of its normal numbers. Bombed, shelled and occupied in the past by the Japanese, the place could offer no comfort to the starving hordes. Buildings were empty shells, devoid of roofs, and the people who appeared from doorways, tottering on their feet and spreading their hands to ask for food, seemed like ghosts.

  Lying alongside a doorway was a girl in her teens, her body only half-covered, as though someone had snatched away her outer garments for their own use. Her lips were black, exposing white even teeth, her hair frozen into the mud and snow of the roadway. Further on they found other bodies, an old woman beneath a table in a doorway, an old man, a child, its legs and arms like sticks. The whole town stank of urine and human filth and of the people who shivered in the cold, their grey and blue rags stirred by the bitter wind. Over the hordes of wretched people, steaming breath rose in clouds, and their eyes were like dark holes in expressionless masks. More people lay in the gutters. One or two who were still alive were lifted into the lorries to be taken to the hospital tents, but most were already dead. A woman in rags clutching a baby rose as they stopped alongside her, but as she did so the baby fell from her trembling hands into the snow and started to cry pitifully.