by Buzz Harcus
CHINA MARINE TSINGTAO TREASURE
A Marine Returns to China in Search of Hidden Treasure
By Les (Buzz) Harcus
Copright © 2005 by Wolfenden All rights reserved.
Cover and Interior Design: Robert Stedman, Pte. Ltd., Singapore
eBook published by Les (Buzz) Harcus with permission of Wolfenden
This novel is dedicated to those thousands of adventurous Marines who served in China over half a century ago prior to World War II, and afterwards during that hectic period from 1945 well into 1949, before the nation fell to Communism.
Today, many of these same Marines comprise the ranks of the China Marine Association, older, wiser, and with a sense of pride at having been a part of a unique life-changing experience in the annals of Marine Corps history.
CHINA MARINE TSINGTAO TREASURE
A Marine Returns to China in Search of Hidden Treasure
By
Les (Buzz) Harcus
Chapter 1
A VOICE FROM THE PAST
China! China! That's the second time thoughts of China had popped into Harry's mind that morning. "Thirty years," he grumbled to himself, "and I still can't put China behind me. And why does that damned phone keep ringing! Can't they tell I don't want to answer it?"
The incessant ringing cut through the hot stinging spray of the shower. Harry deliberately held his head under the nozzle trying to drown out the jangling, letting the steaming water coarse over his body washing away the grime of a ten hour day.
His count reached twenty. Don't people know you hang up after ten rings? Still it continued. Disgustedly, he reached down and twisted the faucets sharply to of?, yanked the shower door open, grabbed up a large towel and stepped out of the tub striding with deliberate steps toward the kitchen and the damned phone.
"Hello!" he snapped, jerking the phone to his lips. "Yes, this is Harry Martin —"
Harry stood in the kitchen doorway, the towel draped around his wet, shivering body, water puddling at his feet on the cold linoleum floor.
"You th' same Harry Martin that served in da Marine Corps back in China in 1948?" a raspy voice asked.
Harry paused for a moment, suddenly cautious, and then answered, "Yes. Who is this?" He was irritated at having to leave a steamy shower to answer the damned phone, and now some jerk wants to play question and answer games. "Who is this?" he demanded again.
"It's been a long time, Harry," the raspy voice answered, "an awful long time "
"Speak up or I'll hang up!" Harry snapped, anger welling in his voice.
"It's me, Harry. Yer oP buddy, Joe, Joe Gionetti," the voice cackled. Harry felt the blood drain from his face. He leaned against the doorframe for support. Joe Gionetti! Fear he hadn't felt for thirty years suddenly washed over him.
"How'd you find me?" he asked, a catch in his voice.
"Oh, hell, Harry," Joe replied, "Old Joe has know'd where ya' lived fer years, 'n fact, I know all about ya."
Harry felt a slight wave of relief. If Joe had known his whereabouts all these years, he could have snuffed him out any time he wanted to. "Why are you calling me now, after all these years? What do you want?"
"Harry. I ain't mad at ya' no more. I let by-gones be by-gones," Joe said. "I figure what th' hell, we was jus' young punks back then —" He coughed, a long hacking cough as though he was trying to clear his throat. Several more times he coughed before continuing. "I jus' want ta' talk ta' ya' an let'cha know there ain't no hard feelings. You did what ya' had ta' do. I served my time an' it's over an' done with."
"It's not like you to forgive and forget, Joe," Harry replied, remembering the threats Joe had made. "Why call me now after all these years? What's the angle?" As he spoke, he began drying himself off, vigorously running the towel rapidly over his head, then down across his body, now a mass of goose bumps.
"I'm here at the VA hospital, Harry, over on Weiss," Joe rasped. He coughed again. "I got cancer. The docs think it's terminal" He cut loose with another series of heart wrenching coughs, then weakly continued. "This is th' only place I could get in, here in Saginaw." His voice sounded tight to Harry. He could hear his labored coughing again as he tried to clear his throat. "I got ta' see ya' Harry. It's important. I got ta see ya as soon as possible, right now! Can ya come over ta th' hospital an' see yer oP buddy, Joe. Jus' fer a few minutes? It's important, fer oP times sake."
Harry paused. Joe was as deadly as a rattlesnake. He only gave a moment's warning before he struck hard and deadly. There had never been any love lost between them. Joe repeated his plea. "I got ta' see ya' now, Harry. It's really important. If ya' could come over now, before 7:30, fer jus' a few minutes, that's all, I'd be much obliged."
Still drying off, Harry glanced at the clock on the stove. It was 6:45 pm. "Okay. Okay," he replied, but with a strong feeling of apprehension. "I'll be over in about half an hour."
"Thanks, Harry, I knew I could count on my oP buddy. Be sure to get here by 7:30," Joe rasped. "7:30. See ya' soon."
"Yeah, soon."
Harry hung up the phone and finished drying off. What could be so damned important to Joe Gionetti that he'd want to see him after all these years? Shivering, he hurried back to the warmth of the bathroom. "Joe Gionetti -" he repeated the name several times while vigorously working up a thick lather on his shaving brush. Then, looking at his reflection in the mirror, he began lathering his face.
"Joe Gionetti, that sonofabitch!" His thoughts flew back to China, a tough, cruel China of long ago, back to when he was stationed there right out of boot camp in 1947, stationed with Joe Gionetti, and he automatically thought of Joe's rotten sidekick, Stan Drezewski.
It didn't take Harry long to find out Joe and Stan were deeply involved in black market activities. Scuttlebutt had it that they had salted hundreds of thousands of black market dollars away in special savings accounts back in the States before they got caught. Some of the old timers had claimed their take was in the millions - an unfathomable amount of money Harry recalled at the time, when as a lowly corporal, he was only making 75 bucks a month. It was harder, still, to believe the two skilled black marketeers got tripped up by a stupid, kid's mistake.
The sharp blade glided over his face as Harry reminisced about China. It seemed like yesterday, not thirty-two years ago, that he had been assigned to the U.S. Marine Corps base in Tsingtao. Tsingtao, an old historic seaport, bleak, desolate and foreboding that overcast spring morning when the U.S.S. General J. C.
Breckinridge docked. A Navy officer with the docking crew commented that this was a major port used by the U.S. Navy for the distribution of supplies to American troops stationed in north China that included not only Tsingtao, but Tientsin and Peiping as well.
Navy cargo ships unloading fresh stateside supplies were a common sight. Harry recalled the drudgery of unloading and transporting tons of supplies to the Old Japanese Compound, a series of tired red brick warehouses just inland from the dock area. The compound was surrounded by an equally tired red brick wall topped with coils of jagged barbed wire. Except for the main gate, the other three sides of the compound were ringed by a moat filled with dirty, slimy, stagnant water.
Each warehouse, called a "godown," contained stores of military supplies - canned foods, candy, cigarettes, C-rations, uniforms, boots, jackets, helmets, belts, winter clothing and every imaginable item to maintain the Marine garrison.
Guarding the compound was the responsibility of the First and Third Marine Battalions. They were a tough lot, dedicated, many battle-scarred veterans of World War II. At night the compound turned into a no-man's land with sporadic gunfire, as thieves tried to gain access to the supplies, and wiley Marines re
sponded accordingly. In spite of the rigid security, a frightful amount of supplies ended up on the black market.
The duty of receiving and distributing supplies was the responsibility of the 12th Service Battalion. Harry was assigned to work with Joe and Stan, two old timers. A friendly relationship never materialized. With his rapid promotion to Corporal, by-passing Joe, who remained a Private First-Class, Harry felt the tension between them increase markedly. He soon found it necessary to pull rank on the two to get the work done. The tension never ceased.
Unlike Gionetti, who was always running off at the mouth, Stan Drezewski was more low key. He despised Harry, although he gave the impression he didn't give a damn about him. He did his work, kept his mouth shut, but he was always scheming. Harry had no use for either man. The two had arrived in Tsingtao in 1945 as part of the Marine Occupation Forces sent to secure the port and assist in the surrender of all remaining Japanese forces. In short order, they had established an efficient, well-entrenched black market operation. Pay-offs to authorities and the lack of sufficient evidence to arrest the two acknowledged black marketeers only prolonged their operation until the day they screwed up.
Chapter 2
FLASHBACK: OLD JAPANESE COMPOUND
Harry looked at himself in the mirror. Was this the same peachfuzzed face he saw every morning on the dumb young corporal responsible for several godowns? He shook his head recalling the walk down the dusty road from the main gate every morning; large trucks passed by roiling up the dust even worse, and officer's jeeps added to the mess. The roadbed was raised and the ditches on either side usually contained dirty, scummy water. The road was the main artery between several rows of warehouses. The Command Post was a faded yellow house in the center of the Old Japanese Compound, FORMELLY the Japanese Command Post.
Dirty, ragged, smelly coolies were the chief means of labor, and cheap labor at that. Diseased, vermin-ridden and unwashed, the coolies nevertheless were good workers, but they were also artful thieves. They stole anything and everything that could be smuggled off the compound, in spite of stringent inspections.
Batu, Harry's Chinese foreman, was responsible for hiring the necessary daily contingent of coolies. Often, it seemed to Harry that he hired the same thieving scoundrels they had thrown out only days before. It kept Harry constantly on the alert.
Like happy children playing games, the coolies delighted in teaching simple Chinese phrases to those who wanted to learn. Harry was an eager student. He worked hard to master even the simplest Chinese phrases. It was more effective to give orders to the coolies in their native tongue. The coolies also responded more willingly to his requests.
Stan and Joe were a sharp contrast. They despised all coolies. They delighted in tripping or bumping into a coolie heavily laden with supplies, causing him to drop his load. Screaming obscenities, the two would beat the coolie unmercifully, then lift his fallen load on high and slam it down on his shoulders, reloading him. A swift kick in the behind sent the coolie on his way.
"Scum of the earth!" Joe always remarked, "Damned scum of the earth!"
The end of the workday was the time all Marines hated: coolie inspection. Searching through dirty, greasy, lice-infested hair, the half-dozen thin cotton jackets they all wore, making them drop their pants and bending over for an anal inspection, checking everywhere for stolen goods. Using a cut-off length of broom handle for the loathsome job, Harry recalled how he gingerly poked the stick up under each coolies armpit, jacket by jacket, a favorite hiding place for stolen items. The stench of unwashed bodies often gagged him as did the sight of open runny sores, smallpox scabs and ugly deformities.
Harry crinkled up his nose as he recalled the day he searched La- Tor, the old man, the one who looked like the kindly Chinese peasant featured on travel brochures. He had ordered the old man to drop his britches, and then swatted him smartly across his buttocks to indicate he'd passed inspection. La-Tor crapped right on the spot. Gagging, Harry had dashed for the door and fresh air.
And, almost daily, a thief was caught. There was no pity shown by the Marines. The thief was whisked off to pay the price for stealing. The Marine's cardinal rule was no beating about the face or head; this left visible bruises. Bruises could mean a court martial. However, you could beat the hell out of the rest of their bodies and buttocks.
Joe savored catching a slant-eyed thief. He was a craftsman honing his special skills. Talking softly to the unsuspecting coolie, Joe would let him know it wasn't nice to steal from the American taxpayers, from Uncle Sam, from the Marine Corps. As he continued talking, a mounting rage grew in his voice, a contorted angry look across his face, and a sudden outburst of obscenities. Suddenly, he'd lash out, grab the coolie, throw him against the wall, punching and slapping him, screaming at the top of his lungs. If Stan were present, the unfortunate coolie got a double-dose of corrective medicine - shoved
back and forth between the two. Faster and faster they'd push, punch and slap the helpless victim until he collapsed. There was never an outcry from the coolie. Each thief accepted the punishment, not for stealing, but for getting caught.
The workday was finally ended when the Marines loaded on the trucks and rolled out of the main gate of the Japanese Compound. They had to ease through a sea of milling coolies bunched around the gate. The Marines couldn't help but admire the ingenious coolies who gleefully held up their stolen goods, laughing as they flaunted their catch. The Marines, with equal enthusiasm, responded with profanity and the universal finger salute. This, the Chinese returned, but many pointed their index fingers at the Marines as though they held a gun.
"Damn!" Harry yelped, feeling the razor cut. A thin sliver of blood appeared on his neck. "Pay attention to what you're doing or you'll slit your throat," he admonished his reflection. Quickly, he washed away the blood and pressed a piece of toilet paper tightly to the cut, staunching the bleeding. After a minute or so, he checked. Satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, he washed his face, and then liberally splashed after-shave lotion over his cheeks, neck, chest and body.
He took one long last look at himself in the mirror only to utter, "Joe Gionetti, what does that screw up have on his simple mind?"
Flicking off the light, he strode into his adjoining bedroom. The room was small but neat, the bed covered with a thick brown quilt. An early American chest of drawers stood against the outside wall between two tall windows. Several papers and magazines were stacked on the left side of the chest. On the right side were three pictures: one of a young smiling boy holding up a large bass; another of a slender young girl with a new bike; and a larger picture of himself, smiling, with his arm around a young, attractive dark-haired woman.
Beside the bed stood a small two-drawer end table. On it sat a huge piece of driftwood. Out of its center rose a large brass tube leading to a makeshift lamp. A brown burlap lampshade completed the rustic appearance. Jeff, his son, had made it at Boy Scout camp one summer twenty years ago. It was a birthday present. Harry still
used it. The soft light from the lamp fell across the latest issues of "Penthouse" and "Playboy" that rested on the table.
Harry opened the top drawer of the chest of drawers, pulled out a T-shirt and shrugged into it, and then pulled on Jockey shorts. Stooping, he rummaged through the bottom drawer yanking out a black, ribbed turtleneck sweater and slipped into it. He crossed the room to the closet, stopping momentarily at the sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door. For just having turned fifty-three, he thought he still had a good build. He struck a karate pose. "Hah!" he challenged his reflection, and then laughed. He took pride in his physical appearance, exercising every day: thirty pushups, thirty sit-ups, deep squats, five miles of jogging when the weather permitted, especially now in the middle of January, and faithfully practicing karate. He had taken up the martial art many years ago to protect himself in case Joe or Stan came after him. He chuckled; now he was going to see Joe. Crazy.
He slid the cl
oset door open and pulled a pair of black slacks off a hanger. He stepped into them, zipped up, and then slipped a black belt through the loops. Digging into the laundry basket, he came up with a matching pair of clean black socks and pulled them on. Lastly, for warmth, he pulled on his insulated, spit-shined black leather boots.
All the while he was dressing, his thoughts constantly slipped back to Joe Gionetti. He had to be one of the most rotten, conniving, dishonest guys he'd ever recalled meeting in or out of the Marine Corps. Stan Drezewski ran a close second, but Joe had to be the worst. Probably both were just as bad today.
He slipped a heavy medallion on a gold-link chain over his head, centered it on his chest, and checked himself in the mirror. Good. Sandy would like it; she'd bought it for him at Christmas. He looked forward to a romantic night with her. Carefully, he brushed a comb through his greying hair a couple more times. He smiled; his reflection looked good.
He went back to the dresser, reached into the second drawer, fumbled under his pajamas, which he no longer wore, and pulled out a .22 calibre Ruger automatic. He slapped a full clip into the
butt, and then tucked the weapon inside his belt under his sweater. "Just in case," he mused. If he was being set up, at least he'd have a fighting chance with the gun, or with his skilled karate training.
He slipped into his leather jacket and glanced at himself one more time in the mirror. What a guy won't do to please a woman. But then, Sandy was something special.
"Christ!" he suddenly exclaimed glancing at his watch. It was 7:10 p.m. "I forgot all about Sandy being at the bar. She'll be there the same time I'm seeing Joe. Dammit!"
Chapter-3
THE YEARS IN BETWEEN
Quickly, Harry moved through the house making sure the lights were on in the kitchen and living room, all the timers set to turn o'n or off at staggered times. Then, he partially inserted the lamp plug for the hallway lamp but carefully trailed a thin black thread from the plug to the front doorknob. The plug was in deep enough to make contact, but loose enough so that any intruder opening the door would break the connection and the lamp would go off, a warning signal he'd devised years ago after he'd been robbed. Since the robbery, the place was lit up at night giving the appearance of someone in the house. House break-ins were quite common, especially with all the dopers who needed money to feed their habits.
