Griffin W.E.B. - The Corps 08 - In Dangers Path

»

Chinese

wives?» the Deputy Director asked, his tone making it clear that he found the idea distasteful.

«Mostly Chinese, but according to Captain Haughton, a number of these chaps married White Russians. After the Bolshevik takeover in Russia, thousands of Russians fled into Shanghai, Peking, et cetera. Many of them had been aristocrats. Anyway, after fifteen, twenty years in China, these people had acquired wives and children. And their pension checks would go much further in China than in the States. So they didn't come home. Some of them, according to Haughton, opened bars and restaurants. Some went into the countryside and bought farms. Anyway, they stayed. And rather than let themselves be imprisoned—or shot—by the Japanese, they took off. Presumably, they are hoping that they can get out through Russia. And the safest route to Russia is through the Gobi Desert.»

«Fascinating. But I still don't see what all this has to do with the OSS.»

«If I may continue, Charley,» the DDO said. «There has been some radio communication with these people. Erratic. They apparently don't have very good equipment.»

«So they can't furnish the weather data?»

«They need meteorological equipment and better radios. Plus, of course, meteorologists to operate it. Which the Navy proposes to send in to them.»

«How do they propose to do that?»

«Haughton was a little vague about that.»

The DDA snorted.

«The Navy came to the meeting hoping to convince Admiral Leahy that since the Air Corps has been unable to get a weather station operating in the Soviet Union, and since the data generated in the Gobi Desert would be more useful anyway, and since they have these military retirees already in the Gobi Desert—«

«With whom they are not in communication,» the DDA interrupted.

»—they be given the weather-station mission,» the DDO finished.

«And the Navy, not surprisingly, got their way, right? And we have been directed to cooperate with them?»

«Not exactly. 'Cooperate' isn't the precise word. I don't know whether Leahy didn't want to slap the Air Corps down, or appear to be too partial to the Navy, but the Solomon-like decision of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is that the OSS will determine, as a high-priority mission, whether or not the 'assets' presently in the Gobi Desert can be reinforced so that they can operate a weather station, and if so, to do so.»

«Which means that we are expected to establish communication with these people—who may or may not exist?»

«Not only establish

reliable

communication with them, but, if feasible, use them in setting up a secret weather station.»

«God!» the DDA said.

«Leahy threw a bone to the Air Corps. They can still send their weather team into Russia as soon as they get permission from Uncle Joe. In other words, if and when.»

«The Navy is really not capable of taking on something like this,» the DDA said thoughtfully. «The Gobi Desert is some distance from the nearest ocean.»

«The Marine Corps is part of the Navy,» the DDO said. «The Marine Corps could be given the mission. But that would annoy the Army Air Corps. If we do it…«

«I take your point,» the DDA said. «On the subject of the Marine Corps, you are aware that General Pickering is now the OSS Deputy Director for Pacific Operations?»

«Yes, I am.»

The DDO knew General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, only by reputation. And he also knew that Pickering had been named OSS Deputy Director for Pacific Operations by the President of the United States, who had not consulted OSS Director Donovan before making the appointment.

«Since when is Mongolia considered in the 'Pacific,' Charley?» the DDO asked.

«I think Director Donovan will determine that it falls in General Pickering's area of responsibility,» the DDA said.

It took the DDO a moment to figure that out, but then it made sense. Or, rather, he saw what good ol' Charley had in mind: While the DDA hoped, of course, that General Pickering would quickly accomplish the task of establishing contact with a group of former enlisted men and their Chinese wives roaming somewhere in the Gobi Desert, it was possible that he would fail. That would, of course, disappoint Director Donovan. On the other hand, Director Donovan had not appointed General Pickering to run OSS Operations in the Pacific; consequently, he could not be held responsible for his failure.

The DDO knew that if Director Donovan had been consulted vis-a-vis General Pickering's appointment, he would have strongly advised against it. Director Donovan was not an admirer of General Pickering, for a number of reasons he had shared with the DDO immediately after learning of the presidential appointment. The DDO had decided that that conversation had been private and so had not shared it with good ol' Charley. But now it seemed obvious to him that Donovan had also complained to good ol' Charley.

«Presumably, there is written notification of this assignment of mission in the briefcase?» the DDA asked.

«Duly initialed by all parties concerned.»

«I'll bring it to the Director's attention as soon as I see him.»

«If you see him before I do, Charley, ask him to give me a ring, will you?»

«In connection with the Gobi Desert operation?» The DDO pushed himself out of the green leather armchair. «Actually no,» he said. «Something else. Thanks for the coffee, Charley.» He was pleased with himself. He had nothing really important for Donovan, nothing that couldn't wait. But the DDA didn't know this; and, with a little bit of luck, he'd worry all afternoon about what the DDO was going to discuss with the Director.

note 12

Paotow-Zi, China

8 February 1943

Milla, Mae Su, and the children left Shanghai on November 30, three days after the 4th Marines sailed away aboard the President Madison. It took them six weeks to travel to Mae Su's home village in the tractor-drawn cart. Milla dressed as a Chinese. At night, they stopped by the side of the road. And when they passed through a village, she hid herself in the cart, sometimes for five or six hours. Mae Su dealt with the curious who came to see what they could sell to—or steal from—the travelers. Several times, it was necessary for her to brush aside the flap of her loose, thigh-length blouse to make the curious aware of the Mauser Broomhandle machine pistol hanging there, but there was no serious trouble.

By the end of the third week on the road, Milla knew she was pregnant.

She prayed that wasn't so—not in this worst of all possible times to bear a child. Into what horrible kind of world would she be bringing it?

And worse, it would not have a father. Not now, certainly, with Ed in the Philippines, and probably—facing reality—not ever. Even on the back roads they were traveling over, they heard stories that the Japanese had attacked the American Navy base in Hawaii, and that America and Japan were at war. Ed would certainly be in that war. Facing reality, he would probably die in it.

That left the entire responsibility for rearing a child on her shoulders. Facing reality, that meant finding enough food for it to eat, a place for it to live, and medicine for it when it became ill.

Facing reality, she was not equipped to do any of those things. If she was arrested—facing reality, a real possibility—her possessions would be searched and the gemstones in her mother's girdle, her only means of buying food and shelter for herself and an infant, would be seized.

God did not answer her prayers. She was pregnant.

Suicide was no longer a possibility. Suicide was a sin, but she had been willing to endure whatever punishment God gave her for doing it to herself. But now suicide would mean killing the life in her womb, and she could think of no greater sin. She had no option but to bear the child and do whatever she could to keep both of them alive.