Little Foreign Devil 2010 Chapter 12

8/3/2019 Little Foreign Devil 2010 Chapter 12

1/24

151

A-SOLDIERING WE WILL GO

HEY YOU GUYS

, barricades gone, lets go GermanPark, havent been there for heck-of-a-long-time.Good idea, lets go, chorused Theodore Mavropolis,

Murat Apakaieff, Rajan Patel.Crazy. Youll never catch me outside the British

Concession. Too dangerous, Alioshka Bublikoff pipedup.

You mean youre gonna let yourself be cooped inhere forever?

Thats right. Im gonna stay right here.Who could blame Aliosha? In recent months things

had turned pretty nasty for Russians. Their communityhad split into factions. And all because of the WhiteGuard and its infamous founder Ataman Grigori Se-menov, the renegade Cossack from Trans Baikal, theman who during the Allied intervention in Siberia at theclose of the Great War had thrown the whole of easternSiberia into a state of terror. When his Cossacks, armedand financed by Japans militarists, overran a Bolshe-vik position, they showed no mercy, took no prisoners.And they worked their will upon the populace, Red orWhite, it didnt matter. In every village that fell to themthey slaughtered the men, and raped the women andchildren. When the Red Army finally swept across theMaritime Province, Semenov slipped over the border into

Manchuria. He managed to get to the States, but hisreputation followed him, his entry permit was revoked.He then sailed for France where he went to ground inthe forlorn world of lost migrs.


2/24

152

It was not until the mid-30s that he resurfaced,once again in the Far East, once again under Japanesemilitarist auspices. He soon made his presence felt. In

Peking he founded a new anti-Bolshevik paramilitarymovement, a revived White Guard, which was to spreadits tentacles over every Russian community in Chinaand Manchuria. In Tientsin his long-time henchman,Pastukhin, issued an edict from his headquarters inthe ex-German Concession, grandiosely designated theWhite House, calling on all local Russians to register.Refuse? Pastukhin learned well from his master. Aprominent Russian disappeared from his London Roadhome. A week later his mutilated corpse was foundfloating in the creek under the Elgin Avenue bridge.

Incensed at this blatant flouting of British author-

ity, Chief-of-Police Lawless ordered all known WhiteGuard activists in the concession to be rounded up forquestioning. Fat lot of good. In just a matter of days apopular TGS student, Alex Promptoff, was kidnappedright from under the noses of the BMC police. Andtwenty-four hours later it was the turn of another

young Russian, though in his case, fortuitously, twooff-duty Tommies happening on the scene dashed intothe ex-German Concession and set him free. Puppetgendarmes came storming to the perimeter. A detach-ment from the Durham Light Infantry was rushed tothe scene. The confrontation ended in stalemate but

not the verbal slanging. The North China Starlambastedthe White Guard the Peking Chronicleexcoriated theEnglish colonial soldiery. And all this hullabaloo at atime when the French were raising a storm over thekidnapping and murder of the brilliant young pianist,Simon Kaspe. Semenovs cutthroats in Harbin hadomitted to check Kaspes citizenship. He might havebeen Russian born, but he had French papers. FromShanghai, theflamboyant American broadcaster, CarolAlcott, added his voice to the barrage of words: Jello,

Jello, Jello (he always kicked off with this commercial),this is Carol Alcott speaking on Radio XMHA. Criminalsin the pay of the Japanese have taken to kidnappingand murdering adolescents . . .

Too much exposure even for the White House. AlexPromptoff came home to the jubilation of family, friends,and well-wishers.


3/24

153

Pastukhin might be roundlycursed by many, but he was not

without his adherents. How couldthey forget their roots, they whohad made the murderous journeya step ahead of the Red menaceacross Siberia and down throughMongolia and Manchuria to Pe-king, to Tientsin, to Shanghai?Worse than losing home andlivelihood, they had forfeited theirself-esteem. Doctors from St Pe-tersburg took work as hospital or-derlies. Teachers scrubbedfloors.Officers from classic regimentsenrolled as NCOs in the Britishand French police. Disbandedcavalrymen sold themselves as soldiers of fortune toChinese warlords. Unprotected women went up forsale. Warlord Chang Tsung Chang added twenty Rus-sian maidens to his harem. In the sleazy bar districtsof every foreign settlement there was an over-supply of

joy girls with blue eyes and flaxen hair.So of course, the Russians of Tientsin fell from grace.

They were seen by the British colonials as the the low-est of the low, on a par with Eurasians. How easily cansocial values change! Twenty years earlier when thedefence of the settlements was about to collapse underthe combined assault of the Boxers and Imperial Ban-ner Brigades, when the settlements men women andchildren faced rape and slaughter,fifteen hundred menof the Fifth Siberian Corps who had fought their wayfrom Taku to Tientsin East, went immediately into theattack and threw the Chinese back into their walledcity. Their lives saved, the settlers threw themselves atthe Russian heroes, kissing and hugging them.


4/24

154

How those Russian spirits must have soared whena parade of the White Guard came marching by! Whatmemories were stirred when the jackbooted formationburst into the old marching song, Rasboynichki! Wasthis the birth of a new White army that was going tofree Holy Mother Russia from Stalins satanic grip?

It most certainly was, if you listened to KonstantinMaltsev. Absolutely not, according to Serge Vishniakoff

who was not afraid to sing out to any who cared to listenthat no matter how strong the call, how soul-stirringthe message, signing up with the White Guard meantsigning up to fight for Japan.

What then do you propose? someone asked.Get out of China. Get to America, to Australia.And how do we do that without passports, without

boomashki?What are you all talking about? Konstantin butted

in. Why should we go? We have our rights here. Wehave more rights here than do the English or Japanese.We were here a hundred years before them.

Nonsense.Konstantin was ready to blaze away, but no one

challenged. And he needed challenge, he thrived onchallenge. He rounded on Chuck Collins. Do you knowthat two hundred years before your pioneers startedtheir westward trek across America our explorers andhunters and traders had already established colonies

in Siberia. Long before you Americans were fightingoff your Red Indians we had subdued the Turki andBuriat and Yakut tribes. China was powerful then. TheManchu Emperor, Kang Hsi, blocked our way in theAmur region, but we pressed on, and we eventuallyreached the Pacific. Probing southwards our tradersgot to Peking. We got to Tientsin before you Americansever even heard of the place.

Thats a tall story, Konsty. Everyone knows the Je-suits got here first, then the Portuguese.

Look you guys, Konstantin was getting red in theface, if you dont believe me, next time youre in Peking,

go to the northeast section of the city, go to the Rus-sian Orthodox Mission Church, take a good look at the

worshippers. Theyre Chinese, youre gonna say. Let metell you right now theyre not Chinese, theyre Russian.


5/24

155

Emperor Kang Hsi so admired the fighting skills andcourage of the Russian garrison he captured at Albazinthat instead of chopping off their heads, as was thecustom, he packed them off to Peking and absorbedthem as a separate and distinct banner brigade in hisimperial army. He deeded to them in perpetuity thenortheast corner of the city. Their descendants surviveto this day. They are the ones you see in the Orthodoxchurch there. Through generations of intermarriage

they might have lost their Russian appearance, theirlanguage, but not their Russian religion, their Rus-sian soul. They are a part of China that will be foreverRussia.

Empty words, my dear Konsty, empty words. TheChinese population is so vast it simply swallows up itsminorities. You yourself admit that the Albazin Russianshave already lost much of their identity. The day willcome when, like the Kaifeng Jews before them, they willvanish with hardly a trace. Those were the words ofLeo Olshevsky, and he spoke them with a catch in hisvoice. The disappearance of the once thriving tribe of

Hebrews at Kaifeng and the leveling of their synagoguewas cause for sorrow among local Jews. Leo was one,an Ashkenazi.

Then you dont believe we have our rights, Konstyshot at him.


6/24

156

I dont believe we have. I share Sergeis view that weshould all get out. I myself am going to try for Palestine.

I intend to help in the building of settlements there.And I, said Murat Apakaieff, will go to Turkey.America, America is the place.Australia.Rubbish, wishful thinking. Have any of you got

boomashki? How can you get there without boomash-ki?

Ihave boomashki, Ben Shurupkin retorted. I haveSoviet passport. You too can have Soviet passport. Yougo USSR Consulate, Number One, Park Road, old Rus-sian Concession. They give you.

Where can you go with such passport?To Vladivostok, to Moscow, to freedom.Youll get shot soon as you cross the border at

Manchuli.Capitalistic propaganda, Ben Shurupkin snapped.

And that was Ben all over; incorrigibly dogmatic, hewould cite chapter and verse from Engels or Marx topress home a point. He would tell you it was Jardine,Dent, Russell, and Sassoon who brought opium to

China, that it was the Versaillessignatories who bestowed upon

Japan the confiscated Germanpossession of Tsingtao, that it

was Chiang Kai Sheks regulars who brutally suppressed the1935 student demonstration at

Tian-An-Men. He mocked ourschools presumption that thehistory of the British Empire

was the history of the world,that the ruling class ruled bydivine right. He groaned audi-bly at assembly when we cameto that certain verse of thatcertain hymn:

The rich man in his castle,The poor man at his gate,God made them high or lowly,And ordered their estate.


7/24

157

Shut up Ben, for Gods sake. A Soviet passport is notworth a damn. We are talking about proper boomashki,real boomashki, boomashkithat will get us to America,to Australia, to Britain.

Impossible to obtain.Yes, yes, absolutely impossible, Bens supporters

sounded in chorus.Wrong, wrong, wrong as wrong can be! It was not

impossible. Nick Mihailoff hadboomashki, the very bestboomashki, top quality Angliski passport, no less. All

he had to do wasflip open the stiff cover of royal blue,gilt-embossed with lion and unicorn, and there, plain

for all the world to see, was the caveat, in the name ofHis Majesty King George VI, rendering him the sameprotection as that enjoyed by any English-born English-man, even by the very Lord Archbishop of Canterburyhimself. How did it come about that this Muscovite wasable to crack the uncrackable strictures of the PassportOffice at Somerset House? Perfectly simple the scionsof Magna Carta in their munificence granted full UKcitizenship to all comers, Russians included, who hadserved five years with the BMC. And not only had Nickand his assistant Leo Vladimiroff more than fulfilledthe time requirement with the municipalitys electricitydepartment, they were highly regarded by one and allfor their competency in running the meter section ofthe said department.


8/24

158

I joined the meter section two monthsafter finishing school, and a month af-

ter a friend of a friend of Tai-tais (whowas owed a small favor by Electricitysbig cheese Mr Crosby) had put in agood word for me.

All right, young fellow, Mr Crosby remarked at theend of the three-minute interview in his posh GordonHall office, looks as though youll do. Call in at ChingChongs on Taku Road and get yourself measured fora uniform. Go down to Avon Imports and pick yourselfout a Hercules.

A Hercules! A brand spanking new English bike?Wow!

Yang Futian will teach you all you need to know aboutsorchiks, Nick Mihailoff said to me the day I started.And the first thing Yang taught me was that dian biao

was the Chinese term for sorchik, which was the Rus-sian term for electric meter. I was lucky; Yang Futianknew his stuff; and luckier still, he knew how to putit in clear simple terms. In a week he handed me overto Lao Nian, an old-timer, whose job it was to test allnew meters fresh out of packing cases from England.And it was Lao Nian, the taciturn Buddha, who showedme how to compare the dial readings with those of amaster meter, and how to slow or speed up the RPMsby increasing or reducing the gap between the jaws of amagnet through which the meters timing disk revolved.I was soon testing meters on my own, the easy ones,the single-phase ones, specified for residential use.

After a meter was deemed to be running at BMCsexact prescribed speed, either Nick or Leo no oneelse would thread a lead blank through the ends ofa serrated wire that held down the cover, then withspecial pliers they would crimp the blank, fusing itpermanently to the wire. At every opportunity those two

would have me observe that simple procedure, carriedout with such religious formality. Then the day came

when Nick handed me the pliers and watched breath-

lessly as I exerted the necessary pressure on the blankto transform it into a seal. My performance must havesatisfied him, for right there and then, after a floweryspeech affirming that my period of probation had been


9/24

159

successfully completed, he presented me with a hand-some leather holster in which snugly lay a chrome-platedpair of those precious pliers. Dont ever let me catch

you leaving these lying around. Guard them with yourlife. Here, let me strap the holster to your belt. Now youcan join Yang Futians installation team.

It took a team of three to install a meter. The appren-tice did the joe work, mounting the ladder, clearing aspace, and affixing the meter to the wall. The journeymanelectrician would then make the power connections.My only role was to seal the meter with those preciouschrome-plated pliers.

I didnt take long to catch on that I was extra baggage.Why couldnt they simply give Yang the damned pliersand be done with it? When I asked that of the Chinesestaff they laughed good-naturedly. When I asked thatof Nick he stared at me aghast. Despite Yang Futianstwenty-year old unblemished record, a record, thateven Monseigneur Monet, Bishop of Peitang, would beproud to possess, there was no way that the BMC wasgoing to let him run loose with those pliers.

So I carried on doing what I was supposed to be doing,though I could never really put my heart into the job.Fortunately, it wasnt all testing and installing meters.

There was that jolt of excitement whenever the fire alarmwent off in Nicks office, and anyone who happened to beon hand would scramble aboard the green ladder-truckbefore it roared off, screeching tires at every turn. At thescene of the fire we were life-savers, heroes, we could


10/24

160

preen as proudly as those firemen in their glisteningbrass helmets and braided blue jackets.

I was aboard the laddertruck the day it careereddown Meadows Road, pastAll Saints Church, past thegrand colonnades of theKMA building, and there,heavens alive, of all places,that holy of holies, TientsinClub was on fire!

It turned out to be a small fire, nothing to write homeabout, but it got me into that taipans citadel for thevery first time. I stood by in the foyer as instructedby Nick before he went off with Yang to attend to themain fuse box. It was noon, the clubs busiest time ofthe day. I quickly found that the best way to escapethe barrage of penetrating stares was to pretend to beexamining the pictures on the wall. Presently, a spindlyginger-haired man with a gingery toothbrush-mustacheapproached, giving a little cough to draw my attention.He addressed me in the hushed tones of a priest in aconfessional: Excuse me, are you a member? I shookmy head. Then hadnt you better be off? The firesout you know. His curled lip and flexed nostrils saidmountains more than his words.

And that was just the beginning of my education.Some weeks later I learned even more sharply that whatis sauce for the goose is not necessarily sauce for thegander. It happened after one of our surprise raids ona customer suspected offilching electric power. Yes,electricity could indeed be filched, and in a number of

ways: by breaking a meters seal to get at the points,by tapping into the mains, by hooking up the lightingsystem to the power line for industrial equipment therate for lighting being treble that charged for drivingmachines.

Acting on a tip, we burst into the very place whereId been measured for my BMC uniform Ching Chong

the tailor. The whole midnight shift shop assistants,cutters, seamstresses tried to block our way. Buttalk about being caught red-handed! Each and every500-watt lamp was connected to the shops industrialpower line. Suddenly the owner was on the scene filling


11/24

161

the air with shrill invectives. He cursed Nick. He calledhim Qiong Lao Ne poverty stricken Russian themost derogatory epithet for Russians in the Chinesevocabulary. Purple in the face, Nick yelled back in hisoff-beat Russianized Mandarin. A cutter pointed a pairof shears. An electrician brandished a crowbar. Leosummoned the police.

Next day we were at Gordon Hall to collect our reward,a crisp ten dollar CNC note, which Mr Crosby customarilyhanded each and every member of the raiding team. We

were all smiles. Wed more than earned our ten bucks.We hadnt allowed ourselves to be intimidated.

How dare you Mihailoff! Have you gone completelyout of your mind? Who gave you permission to raidChing Chongs? Runciman is livid. Dont you know hesponsored Mr Ching for election to council? Get outof here. No reward for your people. Ive half a mind tosack the lot of you.

What got into Mr Crosby? I asked Leo when we wereoutside. Do we always have to clear the raids with himbeforehand?

No, but we should have used our savvy. Mr Run-ciman is the most influential member of council. Onhis say-so the police order their uniforms from ChingChongs. Kickback, dont you see?

Kickback? Whats that?Forget it kid, forget what I said.

Back in the shop I asked Yang Futian what he thoughtof it all. He shrugged his shoulders and uttered thatmost frustrating catch-phrase in the Chinese tongue:Mei you fazi Nothing can be done.

I asked Kao Shiying. Mei you fazi, he responded.And mei you faziwas what I got from Lao Nian and fromthe rest of them, even apprentice Xiao Li to whom tendollars must have meant a lot. Its mei you faziwhenfloods inundate the countryside, its mei you faziwhenthe annual cholera epidemic hits, its mei you faziwhenthe Golden Units, heroes of Chinese soccer, get shel-lacked five-nil by the Royal Italian Marines!

After cashing my next paycheck at Hongkong &Shanghai Bank, I crossed kitty-corner to the BritishConsulate. I knew the consular constable, Mr McVeigh,by sight. His son, Dick, was a schoolmate.


12/24

162

Hello, young Desmond. What can I do for you?

I want to join up. Can you tell me please how I goabout it?

Wait here. Ill see if Mr Bagshaw is free. He wasback in minutes.

Follow me.I recognized Mr Bagshaw right away. I knew him from

cricket, a big affable fellow, bald as a pumpkin, alwaysa wide grin on his face.

Well, well young man. What are you up to?Desmond wants to enlist, wants to join the Indian

Army, Mr McVeigh answered for me.I caught my breath. It had never entered my mind.

Yes, of course, the Indian Army! Billy Laidlaw, JackCarter, Denis OHara, all a class or two ahead of me atschool, had already gone to India, had been acceptedat Bangalore OCTU, had gone on to receive their com-missions . . .

Hes like my Dick. Speaks Chinese like a native,continued Mr McVeigh.

Champion! We can use all the bright lads we canfind. How old are you, Desmond?

Seventeen, sir.Seventeen? Bit on the young side. Might have to wait

six months. Fill out these forms anyway. Mr McVeigh

will arrange your medical. Dont look so disappointed.Half a year is neither here nor there. Why dont you jointhe Volunteers while youre waiting? Get some basictraining. Stand you in good stead later.


13/24

163

How do I join, sir?Easy. Go see Mr Sontag of Peihua Press on Cousins

Road. Hell do the necessary.I biked it down to Cousins Road. I knew exactly where

Peihua Press was. My brother Patrick had worked there.Mr Sontag saw me right away.

Heres a paper to sign.On the form under the space for Desired Unit the

words Armored Cars had been crossed out.Id like to get into the Armored Cars, I said.Everyone does, but theyre full. What about No.1

Platoon?I shook my head, and he didnt press the point. We

both knew No.1 was for pukka sahibs, executives withold school ties. And even more out of the question wasNo. 2 Platoon which every year took the silver challengecup for ceremonial drill. You had to have Russian bloodin your veins to drill with such clockwork precision.

What about Murrays platoon, No. 3, Light Automatic,

the Corpss Lewis gun platoon, All right?All right.Go over to Perrin Coopers on Consular Road. Ask

to see Mr Frank Murray. Hes the platoon sergeant. Illtell him on the phone youre on your way.


14/24

164

Mr Frank Murray, managing direc-tor of Perrin Cooper, came aroundthe front of his gleaming rosewooddesk to gave my hand a squeeze. Andsuch a knuckle-crunching squeeze it

was I nearly jumped out of my shoes.When he broke into a smile, his teethgleamed whiter than white against thesepia of his face. He was an Anglo-Indian-Portuguese from Macao. Gladto have you young fellow, he opened

with a burst of sing-song China-coast English. Drilltonight . . . O-eight-hundred hours . . . You report toHQ and my goodness gracious, youll see what a damnfine lot my boys are.

He was already there on the drill square when I ar-rived. And what a transformation! No more the genialexecutive in immaculate pinstripes, he was a raging wildman clad in the rough khaki serge of the Somme.

Snap to it Ozorio, he yelled. Pick up your clumsyfeet you horrible Gobi Desert camel. And to show hemeant business he whacked his puttees with viciousswipes of his swagger stick.

I recognized some of the men being put through theirpaces: Tartars, Greeks, Armenians, Russian Jews,Anglo-Indians, Anglo-Chinese, Anglo-Portuguese.

Slap that butt, you shriveled up eunuch. Dont

baby it! He snatched the rifle from a skin-and-bonesBengalese, spun it around as if it were a toy pop gunand struck the wooden stock such a ferocious blow thecrack rang like a pistol shot.

As you were. Slo . . . ope . . . arms! Pree . . . zent . . .arms! Slo . . . ope . . . arms! Pree . . . zent . . . arms!

He had me in the corner of his eye when he dismissedthe platoon. Here, you come with me. Well get you youruniform. I wont have that white-haired whoremongertossing anything he likes at you.

At the stores he stood by glowering while the grizzledold-time quartermaster put a tape measure to me. I

was soon the proud owner of a World War I field servicecap, serge tunic, serge trousers, puttees, hose tops,

webbing belt, webbing ammo pouches, and boots withinch-thick soles.

Volunteer Weinberg, snapped Sergeant Mur-


15/24

165

ray. Show this youngpup how to get properlydressed. Wait! Hold it! Not

you! You wont do! Lookat your puttees! Perfectdisgrace! You look like adrop-out from Wu Pei Fusdefeated army!Hey, you over there,Karachusian. Come helpthis recruit with his uni-form. Look at his buttonsand webbing. Horrible!Get him some Brasso andblanco. Volunteer Wein-berg, dont you go away.You stay and watch. Youmight learn something.

Twenty minutes later Iwas one of them prickly

collar torturing my neck steel-hard boot leather cramp-ing my toes. Volunteer Weinberg nudged me. Comealong to the mess. I kept in his wake as he forced achannel through the crush of khaki at the bar. I triednot to breathe through my nostrils; whether it was thesour stench of stale beer or the thick, acrid cigarettesmoke, my head was spinning, my innards giving off the

ghastly warning signals that come with sea-sickness.Over the nightmarish rumble of voices and eruptions

of laughter and rattle of dice shakers, a voice soundedin my ear: Hey, Desmond, hows Pat doing?

The fair brows, blue eyes, and Hollywood-handsomeface looked familiar. I ransacked my brains but couldntplace the fellow.

Is he playing hockey in England?Suddenly it came to me, of course, Tuleneff, Igor

Tuleneff, star athlete, terrific skater, Pats line mate onTientsins interport ice hockey team.

Pats in the RAF.

I know, but where is he stationed?In Malaya, in a place called Alor Star.Is he okay?Yes, from what I can tell. The censor slices out a

good bit of his letters.


16/24

166

Is that right? Sometimes we forget there is a war on.

Give him my best regards when you write, will you?Sure will.A powerful hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me

around.You Pat brarder? Pat and me same class. I am Sasha

Poroshenkoff. I buy drink. He called out to the Chinesebartender. Hey Charlie, two beer.

Pushing between us, Volunteer Weinberg shoved afoaming glass in my hand.

Vada hell! Poroshenkoff snorted at Weinberg.Dassmont iss myfran. Ibuy drink. He gave me a big

wink. Nsdrovia!Nsdrovia, I answered.Hey Sasha! Whos this new recruit?

A heavy-set fellow in gray dungarees andblack armored-car beret squinted at me

with narrowed eyes.Pat Power brarder, Dassmont.You mean the Pat Power whose car-

toon of a volunteer hangs up on the wallthere?

Same fellah. We in same class at StLouis College.

The armored car man turned to me.Well, well, well. Glad you are one of us.

Drink up. Have one on me.I tingled with elation. They were raising me to their

level. They were investing me with the badge of man-hood. I could not, I would not, repress the smile that

was playing on my lips.


17/24

167

That night I labored long over my letter to Mr Crosby,

tearing up one draft after the other. Ifinally ended upwith the simple declaration that I was enlisting in the

armed forces I was obliged to resign from the BMC.That was pretty close to the truth. I felt sure Id be

on my way to India before the year was out. Meantime,wasnt I a full blown Volunteer? And werent Volunteersthe real thing almost? Why had we begun drilling threeevenings a week? Wasnt it because Mussolini, now inthe war on Hitlers side, might nudge the Royal ItalianMarines camped at the north end of International Bridgeinto having a go at us? And what about the Frenchies?Mightnt they throw in their lot with the Eyeties? Noone knew for sure. The FMC had officially declared forPetain, but most of our French pals, vehement de Gaullesupporters, had left to join the Free French in Chad. Butthat was before the Royal Navy bombarded the Frenchfleet at Oran. One thing certain, you didnt hear thatpopular song any more, the one that was on everyoneslips the previous spring Entente Cordiale .

And of course last years other big hit, Well Hangout the Washing on the Siegfried Line, had gone out offashion soon as the newsreels showed those thatched-topped, bare-chested heroes of the Wehrmacht hangingout their undies on the Maginot Line.

Germans had reason to gloat; but few of them inTientsin did. And not surprisingly. Hadnt Britons andGermans unstintingly cooperated in the developmentof each others concession? HadntHerr Gustav Detring served thirteen

years as Chairman of the BritishMunicipal Council? Wasnt it he

who conceived and engineeredthe straightening of the Hai Ho soit could be navigated by coastalsteamers? Wasnt it he who de-signed then pushed through theconstruction of our hallowed Gor-

don Hall, so it could be completedin time for the fiftieth anniversary of Queen Victoriasreign? And who was it that presided over the inaugura-tion ceremonies on that historic day? Who else but hisGermanic Eminence, Herr Gustav Detring!


18/24

168

Herr Detring was no stranger to Tai-tai, for when shewas Gracie DArc, she and Detrings daughter Lucy wereclass mates at the German Holy Ghost Convent at theGerman-fortified naval port of Tsingtao. Though withouta drop of German blood in her she spoke German withutter fluency. Moreover she stunned all, even the nunsthemselves, when she took the Convents First Prize in

German language.Indelibly inscribed in our private family scripture is

her fairy-tale romance with a lieutenant serving in thecruiser Emden. We could all recite verbatim how thatromance was scuppered within days of the outbreakof the Great War when Grandmamam DArc traveleddown from Tientsin to pluck her daughter from thehornets nest. How darling Gracie refused to leave onthe grounds that she was affianced to an officer of theKaisers fleet. How Governor Meyer-Waldeck lecturedher on ones duty to ones fatherland, and how it mustalways take precedence over personal considerations.

And how, when Mademoiselle Grace dug in her heels,the noble Teuton packed her off tout de suite withGrandmamam. Four months later, after a spiriteddefense, Tsingtao fell to a combined Anglo-Japaneseassault. But that was not quite the end of the story as


19/24

169

the whole world knows. Slipping through screens ofBritish, Japanese, French, and Russian warships, the

Emdenplayed merry hell with Allied shipping beforemeeting its brave end under the superior guns ofHMASSydneydown near the Cocos Islands.

Back in the twenties when it was the fashion on festiveoccasions for boys to dress up in sailor suits, we Powerboys had something extra special to show off. Spelledout in gothic on our silk hatbands was that proudestof names, a name that stood out above all for gallantryand audacity the name EMDEN.

A decade later those sailor suits, salted away in sometrunk somewhere, were forgotten, and a good thingtoo; Germans and Britons were again at each others

throats. It wouldnt do to extol the Emdenafter whathappened to the Royal Oakat Scapa Flow. Yet howcould we bring ourselves to desist from fraternizing withGermans or Austrians as advocated by Mr Walsingham,

Chairman of the Tientsins Royal StGeorge Society? We had no quarrel

with Erik Lange or Karl Detter orCharlie or Jimmy Wolter. Was ittheir fault that Hitler decided to letChamberlains ultimatum lapse onSeptember 3, 1939? Anyway, howcould one avoid fraternizing at theCountry Club whose members (I wasnow a junior one), irrespective offlag,happily bumped shoulders on thespringy hardwood dance floor.So how should I have responded toCharlie Wolter when he caught up

with me on London Road shoutingexcitedly that Lopezs swing band

was playing at the club and that weought to scoot out there to take inthe tea dance? Recalling the warmthof a girls hand, the suppleness of agirls back, the fragrance of a girls

hair, my every cell tingled. Butdamn, damn, damn, damn, damn,Id never get back to the drill hallin time.


20/24

170

Sorry Charlie, have drill tonight.He shrieked with laughter and filled the Tientsin air

with Hamburg oaths.

On the drill square it took Sergeant Murray less thanten seconds to get the dance floor off my mind. There

was something strangely gratifying in mastering theintricate steps of forming fours forming two-deep sloping arms ordering arms, and always rememberingto position the thumb in perfect line with the trouser

seam, to close the fingers round the rifle stock at theexact precise angle laid down by Kings regulations. Yes,sir, in advancing the rifle from ground to shoulder, fromshoulder to ground, we gallants of No. 3 Platoon were fastapproaching the immaculate synchrony of No. 2. And,by golly, we felt in our bones that we might even reachthe sublime heights of the Duke of Marlboroughs VeryOwn Regiment of the Foot, whose superb marching andcounter-marching, whose clockwork gymnastics with themusket, gave them the edge, as every schoolboy knows,in their contest with French Louiss legendary Maisondu Roi. How else, I ask you, plainly and simply, could

the Dukes men have pulled off those grand victoriesat Blenheim and Ramillies?

Sunday mornings, a treat. Not square bashing but ataste of the real thing target practice with its whiffs ofcordite, ringing eardrums, bruised collarbones.


21/24

171

My first shoot, Im a pack of nerves. And mostlybecause Sergeant Cooke of Armored Cars is in a foul

temper. His words sting. Prone, you useless wimp,down on all fours. Strong hands take my elbows andplant them apart. You have to make an equilateraltriangle with those skinny elbows and that pigeon chestof yours. Rude hands grab my ankles and pivot mybody as though it were a loose sack of potatoes. And

you have to be at sharp angle to the line offire. Hemoves on. I revert to my original angle of incidence.Compared with any Daisy or Diana or even ChuckCollinss Remington .22, the Mark III SMLE weighs aton. If only I could support it on that sandbag! But thesergeant has already snorted No bloody wayto some-one bold enough to ask: I press the butt into my leftshoulder. I cushion the stock with my cheek. I peerthrough the sights.

What the bleedin-ell you up to? You cant fire fromyour left.

But Im left-handed, is my faint-hearted reply.None of your lip . . . Hey, you over there! Isaacs!

What do you think youre doing? Yes, you, Isaacs, Imaddressing you. Are you deaf?

Good! While the sergeant moves on to deal with thatother miscreant, my rifle stays pressed hard againstmy left shoulder.

Grouping, Sergeant Holden bellows. Object is tosee how close together you can put five shots. Doesntmatter if theyre off center. What counts is getting themtogether. Open fire.

Craaack! I am startled out of my skin by the rifle goingoff next to me. I have to prepare myself all over again.

The front sight wavers. I cant stop it. First pressure,second pressure, Craaack! Not bad. Hit the target. Maybea little high. Ten oclock. Resist the temptation to aimat ten oclock. Take a bead on the bull. Craaack! Tenoclock again. After five shots my ears are ringing likean alarm bell. Volunteer Herskovitz runs our targetsto us.

Wipe out! No points! Sergeant Cooke snarls atme.

I gaze at the four holes within a two-inch circle at tenoclock. One of the holes is oval shaped.


22/24

172

Two rounds went through there. All five hit, I say.Answer me back do you? Right you are. Up on your

feet you horrible little squirt. No more shooting for youtoday.

Funny thing about it, Sergeant Cooke is none otherthan Bob Cooke, one of the Cooke boys, a near neighbor,

who has exchanged Christmas cards with our familysince the year dot. Astonishing what three stripes cando to a man. Sergeant Murrays the same. Wild animal.Snaps at everyone. Even his sons.

On Thursdays its Lewis gun training for our sec-tion. Sergeant Murray has all seventeen of us stand-ing in line in the drill hall. Nicely decked out we arein freshly laundered dungarees, blancoed webbing,mirror-polished boots. All eyes are on the solitary Lewisgun parked on the groundsheet. Weve had our lectureon the wonders of this World War I weapon, its rate offire, its rounds per pan, its stoppages number onestoppage, number two, number three. Lots of reasons

why that wonder weapon can fail. Most embarrassing,our sergeant tells us, if it fails in action. Thats why,

he says, every last one of us is going to learn to takeit apart and re-assemble it blindfolded in twenty-eightseconds flat.

Snap-clack-ting! He has four separate parts in hishand. Click-click, he reassembles them in an in-stant.

He glares at us. Youd better start shivering in yourboots right now if you cant learn to do that. Do I makemyself clear?

Snap-clack! He has a part in his hand. This herebutterfly spring is called the ladies delight. VolunteerHerskovitz, why do you think this is called the ladies

delight?Dead silence.Volunteer Herskovitz, I asked a civil question, I ex-

pect a civil reply.


23/24

173

No answer.The sergeants eyes narrow. His lips quiver. His face

distorts. Volunteer Herskovitz, I will answer for you.It is obvious, with that Fatty Arbuckle gut of yours,

youve forgotten what your tiny shriveled-up thinglooks like.

Torrents of laughter. Herskovitz blushes crimson. Thesergeant smirks. For once he gives us latitude, lets ussnigger, lets us wink and nudge, lets us share in hisenjoyment of Volunteer Herskovitzs humiliation.

Now he is demon serious again. We know him wellenough to freeze. Before you know it, he barks at us,were going to fire this weapon on the army range.By that time you will have learned everything there isto learn about it. Youre going to learn you dont keep

your finger on the trigger like this. Forty-bloody-sevenrounds will be gone before you can bloody say SergeantOGrady. Butt to your shoulder, steady aim, short burstslike this . . . short bloody bursts. Do you follow me?

Volunteer Baziuk, youre number one. VolunteerPower, youre number two. Baziuk, when I call thetarget, you repeat it after me. When I call the numberof bursts, you repeat the number after me. When I givethe command fire, you yell fire before you bloody pullthe trigger. Do you understand?

Yes, sarzhant.Urik Baziuk, my Ukrainian number one, grips the

stock in the proper prescribed manner. I lie on my leftside, remove a pan from the ammo pouch, feel for thecenter spring, squeeze it with thumb. The instant I snapthe pan into place, Baziuk swivels it with a sharp cuffof his palm. He retracts the cocking handle. The firstround is in the chamber. We are ready for action.

Sergeant Murray barks: Target-bottom-right-half-of-green-door-in-front.

The Ukrainian by my side wheezes noisily; he makesno other sound.

Target, Baziuk, target! The sergeant bellows.Stony silence.

Baziuk! Give me the target.The Ukrainian has turned to stone.What the hells got into ya Baziuk?At last a growly, throaty guttural: Dargat harf-pottom


24/24

174

. . . harf-grin fron door . . . !Moment of hush, then a riot of uncontrolled laughter.

Some hold their sides. Some double up. I roll on to myback in paroxysms. Tears run down my cheeks.

Sergeant Murray is stamping his feet.Volunteers Baziuk and Power are sweeping the yard

when the others go to the bar. And Volunteers Baziukand Power lose out when the rest of the platoon attendthe British Garrison range for a real Lewis Gun shootunder the watchful eye of a Durham Light Infantrysergeant.

Little Foreign Devil 2010 Chapter 12

Documents

Transcript of Little Foreign Devil 2010 Chapter 12