Author's note:
The following is a somewhat-shorter, sequel-of-sorts to my story, 'China Boat'. Several of the main characters from that story appear in this one; however, it is my hope that you won't need to read 'China Boat', to understand or appreciate this story.
This is a work of fiction, set (primarily) in late 1945.
All characters are fictitious. However, several real people are referred to, in the course of the story; and as with 'China Boat', in all cases, they are portrayed as realistically as I could manage. Wherever possible, I have placed them where, as far as I can tell, they really were at the time; doing what they were actually doing, at the time.
With one, important exception; which will be clarified in another note at the end of the story.
Again, as with 'China Boat', all settings in the story are portrayed as accurately as I could manage.
Any and all anachronisms or errors are completely my own fault.
* * *
6 MILLION TROOPS DUE HOME BY MAY
Admiral Land Says Heavy European Return Will End in January
Vice Admiral Emory S. Land, chairman of the War Shipping Administration, asserted yesterday that the "return of six million troops is scheduled for completion by May, 1946." In a statement in which he commented on the present rate of troopship arrivals, Admiral Land explained that it required three and a half years to move this number of troops to the battle areas …
(New York Times, October 22, 1945)
* * *
Tuesday, October 30th, 1945
9:04 a.m.
United States Embassy
2, Avenue Gabriel,
Paris
It wasn't working.
" … well, that's disappointing," I said to the man behind the desk. I put a woebegone expression on my face. "You know, my leave is up in just a few days — "
It was a lie, but he didn't need to know that.
" — and it really would be a shame, if I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to him. I'd still very much like to get a message through to him, at least. If I could."
The man — Dixon, was his name — was middle-aged, and oily, with thinning black hair combed over his scalp, and a thin black mustache. He kept his eyes down, on the open file-folder on his desk.
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant — "
I let it pass, for the moment. Again.
" — but we still haven't heard from him. As I explained to you yesterday, and the day before, there's nothing we can do, until he wires us or telephones us. Still, I'm sure there's no reason for concern. And we'll be glad to pass on any message you leave with us." All this, with an exaggerated air of long-suffering patience.
I'd known it wouldn't work. But I'd had to give it a try. It was part of our deal.
"Thank you, for that … "
I hesitated a moment, before taking the plunge.
"Still. You know, it's odd. I don't think I mentioned it, before; but he promised, faithfully, to wire me once a day, from Berlin. And I did get one wire, saying he'd arrived safely … and after that, nothing. And that was four days ago."
My heart beat a little faster, as I said it. I wondered, how much trouble I'd just gotten Rhys into. I wondered, how much trouble I'd gotten the both of us, into. Not that I cared, for my own part. Not now.
A flicker, from the eyes opposite mine. But they still didn't lift up from the pages in his file-folder.
"So … You made arrangements, to wire one another? Daily?" The tone of his voice had grown distinctly cooler.
I smiled brightly over at him, even though he wasn't looking. My heart beat faster, still.
"Oh, yes. We stay in touch with each other, these days, whenever we can, now that we can. We're very close; he's like a member of the family, he's close to all of my brothers and sisters."
It was true. But it was also a lie. We'd arranged to stay in close contact, during his visit to Berlin, for a reason.
A pause, as Dixon turned a page in his file-folder.
"Yes," he said at last; with the barest, upward-flick of his eyes. "Yes. You are very close to one another, aren't you — ?" The distaste — bordering on something stronger — was clear, on his face.
So. He knew about us.
It didn't come as a complete surprise. Rhys had warned me, years ago; even before the war.
Still. That this oily man knew about us, made my skin crawl. And just a few years ago, it would have panicked me.
Well. I'd been through a few things, since.
Still. It explained a lot.
The man's eyes flicked up to meet mine, briefly. Finally.
"Under the circumstances, I trust you'll let us know, if he contacts you — ? We would appreciate it." The irony in his tone was clear.
"Of course," I said; giving him an even look. Not trying to be charming, or to fast-talk him, for a moment. "If I hear from him," I went on. "But the fact remains, that he hasn't wired me, not since that first day. And I have to ask myself, why would that be — ? And I have to wonder; don't you have another … Foreign Service … officer — "
I paused a little, ironically, at the title.
" — at least one other Foreign Service officer, somewhere in Berlin, that he could contact, and who could get a message to you — ?"
This last was an extremely blunt question; and I could tell it was a mistake, right off.
Another, pregnant pause.
"As I've told you before, Lieutenant, there's really nothing to worry about," he said at last; dismissively. His eyes were back down on the pages in his file-folder. His face was shuttered. "It is Berlin; conditions are trying, and chaotic, at best. Have you been there, recently — ?"
"I've been over it." I said it, dryly.
A quick flick of his eyes, again, as if he were noticing my uniform for the first time.
"Yes. Well, you of all people, should understand conditions on the ground in Berlin. I'm told that it is still a city of rubble, with barely a building left standing." He said it with an air of satisfaction; and I despised him for it. "We didn't get our own occupation troops into the city until July; and we are still dependent upon the Soviets, for a great deal … Go home, Lieutenant. We'll be in touch, when we hear from him." He was back to being deliberately, ostentatiously patronizing.
I got to my feet, and put my uniform cap, my cover, under my left arm.
"Well, I won't trouble you any more today, then, Mister Dixon. But if you don't mind, I'll be checking back in with you tomorrow morning, as usual. Just in case."
The oily man came close to rolling his eyes. "That really isn't necessary, Lieutenant. As I said, we'll send word to you, as soon as we hear from him — "
"Oh, I don't mind at all!" I flashed him one of my most charming smiles. "It's gotten to where I look forward to our little morning conversations … And besides, I don't really know that many people in Paris, yet. I just got here, after all. Maybe I can bring some fresh bread? Our concierge picks up our ration for us first thing every day, it's really very good."
A pained look crossed Dixon's face.
"Oh … " I began, as I turned towards the office door. I looked back at him. "One more thing — ?"
"Yes — ?" he said; into the moment's silence.
I turned the wattage of my smile up a little. Deliberately.
"It's 'Captain', now. Captain John J.P.B. Van Doern; Fifteenth U.S. Air Force, United States Army Air Forces." And fuck you, I thought to myself, fuck you, you mendacious, oily prick, you'll never know what that means in terms of sacrifice, and honor, and fucking horror, and the pain of uselessly-slaughtered friends and brothers. Fuck you!
For the first time, Dixon lifted his eyes, to meet mine, full-on; we stared at each other, for several heartbeats …
And then, finally, he looked down.
He took a fountain-pen from his pocket, and uncapped it; and he drew a line through some words on the paper in front of him, and he wrote in a new note, his pen scratching in the silence of the office.
"Captain," he said. Evenly. Colorlessly. Eventually.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Mister Dixon!" from me; cheerfully.
* * *
Back down through the hallways and corridors of the Embassy; I knew the way by heart, now. Out through the front doors; the Marine sentries snapped to attention and saluted as I passed, just as they had the other days, and I saluted back.
Left, then, on the Rue Boissy d'Anglas; the sky gray with fog overhead, my shoes scuffing through dry October leaves, the breeze cold on my cheeks.
The dread, tightening around my heart.
Left, again, on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and down the long, stony, dignified block —
To a relatively-discreet doorway, in an ornate stone wall; Number 35. A brass plaque read, 'His Britannic Majesty's Embassy'. And then, in larger letters, 'CHANCERY'.
More salutes. Time spent, time wasted, talking and charming my way past impossibly-polite, impossibly-solicitous secretaries and minor functionaries … until I found myself in the office that I wanted.
"Good morning, Captain," from the mild-looking individual behind the desk. He was tall, and thin, and soft-spoken; and he rose to shake my hand. "Please, please, sit down … "
A few words, then. Tea offered, and politely refused. And then, finally, with a sightly-puzzled air; "Tell me, please; what can we do for you, today — ?"
The puzzlement seemed understandable enough. What, indeed, could the Passport Control Officer of the British Embassy in Paris, do for a serving U.S. Army Air Force officer — ?
I took the unsealed envelope from the breast pocket of my uniform jacket, and I handed it to him.
"I was told, that you were the person who could see that this was properly delivered — ?"
I'd written the superscription out, myself, the previous night:
Mr. Ian Grey
℅ Imperial Mining and Metals, Ltd.
London
A long, rather fraught, moment of silence from the slender man, as he looked at the address; then he peered back up at me, appraisingly.
"Yes … yes, I believe we can help you, in this matter … " He fingered the open flap of the letter, thoughtfully. "Is there anything you would, perhaps, care to add, to this message — ?" He asked it, delicately; almost apologetically.
I smiled one of my biggest smiles over at him; already gathering myself, to get to my feet.
"No; no, thank you. It's all in the note, really." I rose up, putting my cap under my left arm, again, automatically. "I just want you to know, that I appreciate this, very, very much!" I stuck out my right hand, and I shook with him, enthusiastically. "Cheers!" I said; a salute I'd picked up in pubs, since I'd been released from the hospital, in England.
"Oh … yes. Cheers, Captain."
* * *
October 29th, 1945
Paris
Dear Mister Grey:
It is barely possible that you remember my name.
I am writing you on behalf of a mutual friend of ours; Rhys Williamson. In fact, I am writing you on Rhys' previous suggestion.
The matter concerning him is of a confidential nature, and it is also rather urgent.
Would you consider contacting me, or having someone contact me, at your earliest convenience?
I can be reached at the address and telephone number below, in Paris, for the next twenty-two days; following that, I will be at my posting in Britain, and can be reached at the A.P.O. address, which is also listed below.
Many thanks, in advance, for any assistance which you might be able to provide.
Yours very truly, believe me —
John J. Van Doern
Captain, U.S.A.A.F.
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