McCoy said, “Aye, aye, sir.”
Banning felt a little sorry for him when he saw him climb into the cab of a Studebaker truck. While it was true that the danger of infection of the small caliber wound was over, it was also true that the little slug had caused some muscle damage, and the operation to remove the slug much more. What muscle fibers weren’t torn were severely bruised. It was going to be a very painful trip over a long and bumpy road.
Almost a month to the day later, the convoy returned.
Two days later Lieutenant Macklin furnished Banning with a neatly typed-up report—a report that exceedingly dissatisfied him. Because he had acted with much too much caution, Macklin had not found out what Banning had told him to find out. And he had, for all his caution, been caught snooping by the Japanese.
They hadn’t actually caught Macklin in a situation where they could credibly claim espionage, they just found him somewhere that the officer in charge of a supply convoy should not have been.
There were a number of legalities and unwritten laws involving the relationship between the Japanese Imperial Army in China and the military forces of the French, the Italians, the English, and the Americans. Captain Banning had come to China briefed on many of them. And his years in China had taught him much more. He had a pretty good sense by now of the rules of the game.
What the Japanese had done when they caught Macklin was what they had done before.
They had, as brother officers, courteously invited him to visit their headquarters. They then took him on an exhausting inspection of the area, with particular emphasis on the garbage dumps, rifle ranges, and other fascinating aspects of their operation. Then they brought him to the mess, where several profusely apologetic Japanese officers spilled their drinks on him while they got him drunk. At dinner they managed to spill in his lap a large vessel of something greasy, sticky, and absolutely impervious to cleaning.
The idea was to make him lose face. As usual, they succeeded.
Corporal Kenneth J. McCoy came to the S-2 office just after noon the day Banning received Macklin’s report. He apologized for taking so long. But he explained that his gunnery sergeant had run him over to S-1 to take care of the paperwork that went with his promotion to corporal. This had not been taken care of when he had been shipped off to Peking.
“How’s your leg?” Banning asked. “Bother you on the trip?” He didn’t seem bothered by McCoy’s delay in reporting to him—or else he didn’t believe the kid would have anything worth reporting.
“It was rough on the way up, sir,” McCoy said.
“All right now, though?”
“Yes, sir,” McCoy said.
“Well, whether or not you like it, McCoy,” Banning said, “I’m going to have to use you as a clerk.”
“I thought that was probably going to happen,” McCoy said.
“I’m sorry you’re not pleased,” Banning said. “But that’s the way it’s going to have to be.”
“Captain, I’ve got something to say, and I don’t know how to go about saying it.”
“Spit it out,” Banning said.
“The 111th and 113th Regiments of the 22nd Infantry Division are going to be moved from Süchow to Nantung, where they are going to be mobilized.”
“Mobilized?” Banning asked, confused.
“I mean they’re going to get trucks to replace their horses.”
“You mean motorized,” Banning corrected, chuckling.
“Yeah, motorized,” McCoy said. “Sorry, sir. And then,” he went on, “the 119th Regiment is going to stay at Süchow, reinforced by a regiment, I don’t know which one, of 41st Division. Then, when the 111th and 113th come back, the 119th’ll go to Nantung and get their trucks, and the other regiment will go back where it came from. When the whole division has trucks, they’re going to move to Tsinan.”
“You’re sure of this?” Banning said, sarcastically.
“A couple of whores told me,” McCoy said. “And I checked it out.”
“Now, Corporal McCoy, why do you suppose Lieutenant Macklin’s report doesn’t mention this?”
As he spoke, Banning almost kicked himself for coming to Macklin’s defense. And yet he knew he couldn’t really help himself: Macklin was an officer, and officers do not admit to enlisted men that any other officer is less than an officer should be. But more important, there was bad chemistry between himself and Macklin. And Banning felt guilty about it, guilty enough to protect the lieutenant when he really shouldn’t be protected.
Banning just did not like Macklin. He was a tall, dark-haired, fine-featured man, who fairly could be called handsome, and whose face seemed as bright and intelligent as it was handsome. The problem was that he was not nearly as bright as he looked—much less than he thought he was. The first time Banning had laid eye on him, he had pegged him as the sort of man who substituted charm for substance, someone who spoke very carefully, never causing offense, never in a position he couldn’t escape from by claiming misunderstanding.
“Well, I told you I didn’t know how to say it,” McCoy said. “I told him what I heard, and he laughed at me. But he’s wrong. Whores know.”
The truth was, Banning knew, that whores did indeed know.
“You said you ‘checked it out,’” Banning said.
“Yes, sir.”
“How?”
“I checked it out, sir,” McCoy replied.
“You said that, and I asked you how.”
“Sir, you told me not to go snooping around the Japs, and I’m afraid you’re going to think I did anyhow.”
“Why would I think that?” Banning asked.
“Well,” McCoy said uneasily, “I got pretty close to them.” He paused and then blurted, “I went to Nantung, Captain.”
“You’re telling me you went to Nantung? Without orders?”
“There was a Texaco truck going in,” McCoy said. “With a load of kerosene. I gave the driver fifty yuan to take me with him. And then bring me back.”
“And what did you do, Corporal McCoy, when you were in Nantung?” Banning asked.
The question seemed to surprise McCoy.
“I told you,” he said. “I went to a whorehouse. One that the Jap officers go to.”
“And there were Japanese officers in this brothel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what did the Japanese officers think when they found a Marine Corps corporal in their whorehouse?” Banning asked. But before McCoy could reply, he went on: “They obviously did not see you, or you wouldn’t be here. Did it occur to you, McCoy, that if they did see you, and they didn’t slice your head off at the Adam’s apple, I would have your ass if and when you came back?”
“They saw me,” McCoy said, “They thought I was an Italian that works for Texaco. One of them had been in Rome and thought he talked Italian.”
“Goddamn you, McCoy,” Banning said. “You were ordered to leave the snooping to Lieutenant Macklin.”
“You said not to go near them,” McCoy said. “I thought you meant I wasn’t to get near the compound. I didn’t. I went to a whorehouse. And you made it sound like finding out about the trucks was important.”
“And you’re sure they didn’t suspect you were a Marine?” Banning asked.
Dumb fucking question, Banning. If they suspected he was a Marine, he wouldn’t be here.
“They thought I was Angelo Salini, from Napoli,” McCoy said, both matter-of-factly and a little smugly. “I went to high school with a guy with that name.”
“And they told you about the trucks?” Banning asked.
“No, sir,” McCoy said. “We just had a couple of drinks and messed around with the whores. The whores told me about the trucks.”
Do I bring him up on charges for disobeying what was a direct order? Or do I commend him for his initiative?
“And did the ladies tell you what kind of trucks?” Banning said. “Or how many?”
“Just ‘army trucks,’” McCoy said. “And since
I couldn’t go near the compound, I couldn’t find out,” McCoy said.
“Why should I believe this whorehouse scuttlebutt?” Banning asked.
“I don’t know if you should or not, Captain,” McCoy said. “But that’s what I found out, and since Lieutenant Macklin wasn’t going to report it, I figured I should.”
Which means, of course, that he first told this to Macklin. Which means that Macklin knew McCoy had done something he wasn’t supposed to do, and which Macklin should have reported to me. But if Macklin did report him, his own failure would be even more conspicuous. Sonofabitch!
“And did your lady friends tell you when all this is going to happen?”
McCoy nodded.
“By the time the next convoy goes through Süchow, one or the other of the regiments will probably be gone,” McCoy said. “Maybe on the way back, one of them will already be back, and you could count the trucks.”
“If you were on the next convoy, do you suppose you could count the trucks?” Banning asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to rephrase the question,” Banning said. “Being fully aware of the risks involved—which means that if the Japanese catch you, they will more than likely break every bone in your body with clubs, and then behead you—would you be willing to try to get some photographs of the trucks, of their motorpool, photographs close enough up so that the bumper markings could be read?”
“I don’t have a camera, Captain.”
“I’ll get you a camera, McCoy,” Banning said.
“Then, yes, sir,” McCoy said.
The cold-blooded decision, Banning realized, was whether or not it was worth it to determine if the Japanese were motorizing one of their divisions. It would be more than embarrassing if the Japanese caught this corporal. What he’d told McCoy would happen to him if he were caught was not hyperbole.
“Take the rest of the day off, McCoy,” Banning said. “I want to have another talk with Lieutenant Macklin, and I want to think about this.”
“He’s liable to be pissed I went over his head,” McCoy said.
“Don’t worry about that,” Banning said. “You’re assigned to S-2. You work for me.”
“Thank you, sir,” McCoy said.
The moment McCoy walked out of his office, Banning had further thoughts about what he had just said. There was no question in his mind that the Japanese knew his name, as well as the names of everybody who worked closely with S-2. If it came to their attention that a corporal of his was making another trip on the Tientsin-Peking run, they were liable to drag him out of a truck on general principles.
But, he realized, they’d believe they had an officer in a corporal’s uniform. Japanese corporals were not dispatched on missions of espionage, and therefore they could not imagine that Americans would do it either.
He realized he had already decided to send McCoy back to Peking on the next convoy.
Very early the next morning, Banning was summoned to the colonel’s office. The colonel was in a near-rage.
“Are you aware, Banning, that there was a ‘Welcome Home, Killer McCoy’ party at the club last night? Complete with a banner saying exactly that?”
The club was called the “Million-Dollar Club,” because it had allegedly cost that much to build fourteen years earlier, before the 4th Marines had come to China. It was on Bubbling Well Road, on the way to Shanghai’s elegant race track.
“No, sir,” Banning said. “I was not.”
“What it looks like to the Italians is that we promoted him for stabbing those people,” the colonel said. “If they haven’t heard about it yet, the Italians soon will. We’re going to have to get that kid out of Shanghai again, and quickly.”
“I’d planned to send him back to Peking with the next convoy, sir,” Banning said.
“When does it go?”
“On Thursday, sir.”
“Is there any way it can leave sooner, say tomorrow?”
“I’ll have to check with the S-4, sir, to be absolutely sure, but offhand I can’t think of any reason it can’t.”
“Check with him. If there’s any problem, let me know.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“What about the last trip?” the colonel asked. “Anything interesting?”
“I have some fairly reliable information, sir, say seven on a scale of one to ten, that the 22nd Infantry at Süchow is being motorized.”
“That is interesting,” the colonel said. “Wonder what the hell that’s all about? Do they have that many trucks?”
“I’ll be able to make a better guess when I have more information, sir. I’m going to try to get some photographs.”
“Make sure whoever you send is a good man,” the colonel said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Banning said. “I think he is.”
“And get that damned Killer McCoy out of here as soon as possible. I don’t want him waved like a red flag in front of the Italians.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
(Three)
Headquarters, 4th Regiment, USMC
Shanghai, China
11 May 1941
When his sergeant opened the office door to tell him that Lieutenant Sessions had arrived, Captain Edward J. Banning, USMC, was looking out the window of his office at the trees just coming into bloom. He had been thinking about Milla. If it wasn’t for this character Sessions he was waiting for, he could be with her in the apartment. He had forced the image of Milla in her underwear out of his mind by reminding himself that the price they were going to have to pay for the beauty of spring would be the smell that would shortly come from Shanghai’s infamous sewers.
“Ask him to come in, please, Sergeant,” Banning said.
He turned and hoisted himself onto the window ledge. He was high enough off the floor for his feet to dangle.
Lieutenant Edward Sessions, USMC, marched into the office. He was wearing civilian clothing, a seersucker suit and a straw hat with a stiff brim. He looked, Banning decided, like another Macklin, another handsome sonofabitch with a full head of hair and nice white teeth.
And Lieutenant Sessions was clearly a little surprised to find, on this momentous occasion, the Intelligence Staff Officer of the 4th Marines sitting with his feet dangling like a small boy rather than solemnly behind a desk.
Sessions was not only fresh off the boat from the States, but he was fresh from Headquarters, USMC, and he was on a secret mission. All of these, Banning decided, had perhaps naturally made him just a little bit impressed with his own role in the scheme of things.
Fuck him!
Captain Banning was not awed by Lieutenant Sessions (whom he now remembered having once met years ago at Quantico), nor by the fact that he was fresh from Hq, USMC, nor by his secret mission. And he believed, in fact, that the secret mission itself was a little insulting to him, personally. Not only had he been in China four years and earned, he thought, a reputation for doing his duty the way it should be done, but his own man had been the reason why this whole secret-mission business had started.
Killer McCoy not only returned undetected from his second trip by motor convoy to Peking, but he came back with six rolls of 35-mm film. The Japanese 22nd Division had then been in the process of exchanging its horse-drawn transport for three kinds of trucks—a small truck, smaller even than an American pickup truck; a Japanese copy of a Ford ton-and-a-half stake-body truck; and a larger Mitsubishi two-ton, which was capable of towing both field pieces and ammunition trailers.
Banning had had the film processed, and then sent the negatives and a set of prints by the fastest means available (via the President Wilson of U.S. Lines to Manila, where it had been loaded aboard one of Pan American Airways’ Sikorsky seaplanes bound for Hawaii and San Francisco) to Headquarters, USMC.
The first response to that had been a cryptic radio message:
HQ USMC WASHINGTON DC VIA MACKAY RADIO FOR COMMANDING OFFICER 4TH MARINES SHANGHAI FOR BANNING REFERENCE PHOTOS WELL DONE STOP THE MORE THE MER
RIER STOP MORE FOLLOWS COURIER STOP FORREST BRIG GEN USMC
Brigadier General Horace W. T. Forrest, Assistant Chief of Staff, Intelligence, Headquarters, USMC, was not only so pleased with Killer McCoy’s photographs that he wanted more, but he was sending additional information (which he was reluctant to send via Mackay Radio) by courier.
That communication had taken nine days to arrive:
There are several possible ramifications to the Japanese motorization of divisional-strength units which should be self-evident to you. Among these is the possibility that, considering the road network of China, it is the intention of the Japanese to employ these units elsewhere. It is therefore considered of the greatest importance that you continue to furnish this headquarters with the latest information available concerning actual, or projected, motorization of Japanese formations.
Additionally, intelligence gathered in this area will serve to reflect the Japanese industrial capability.
It has been learned from other sources that Germany will furnish to the Japanese an unknown quantity of so far unidentified field artillery. It is considered of the highest importance that information regarding the specific type of such German field artillery, the quantity of such artillery and ammunition stocks, and the identity of troop units to which such German artillery has been assigned be developed as soon as possible.
Lieutenant Edward Sessions has been detached from Hq, USMC to assist in the gathering of this intelligence. He will be traveling to, and within, China, bearing a passport identifying him as a missionary of the Christian & Missionary Alliance. He will bring with him an encryption code, which, after the intelligence he develops concerning German artillery in Japanese hands is compiled with information you will have generated concerning Japanese motorization of tactical and logistical units, you will use to transmit refined intelligence data to this headquarters. This encryption code will be used for no other purpose, and you will continue to transmit data you generate as in the past.
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