Chinese Cinderella and the Secret Dragon Society (18 page)

We set off by train at first light on Friday 17 April, accompanied only by Grandma Wu. During the journey from Shanghai to Ghuchow, we were given a private compartment by a trusted guard. As soon as the train left the station, he closed the curtains and locked the door, giving us total privacy. ‘I have checked,’ he said. ‘You are safe. No Japanese aboard.’

‘Who is he?’ I asked when we were alone.

‘I only know him as Agent 0108,’ Grandma Wu said. ‘It’s better not to know anything more in case we’re questioned by the Japanese.’

From time to time, one of us would part the curtain to peek at the terrain we were travelling through. Outside, it started to rain. The countryside was relatively flat and all we could see through the mist were endless rice paddies. Here and there
we saw men and oxen pulling primitive-looking wooden ploughs to till the fields. Every inch of land appeared to be cultivated. Sometimes we passed clusters of houses in the distance that looked like villages.

Most of the people on the train seemed to be farmers and small businessmen. There were a few women travelling with their children. Thankfully, we did not come across any Japanese soldiers. Whenever the train stopped at a station, swarms of peddlers would approach and try to sell passengers their local produce, handicrafts and foodstuffs. We left our compartment only when absolutely necessary and avoided talking with anyone.

The train pulled into Chuchow later that afternoon. The town was surrounded by a wall and criss-crossed by cramped streets filled with pedestrians, wheelbarrows, rickshaws, pedicabs and bicycles. We saw no trams, but there were a few buses and motor cars. Outdoor stalls occupied every nook and corner of the large square surrounding the train station. Grandma Wu led us to a noodle vendor and bought each of us a steaming bowl of hot noodles, topped with bean-curd sauce. She handed us chopsticks and we ate standing up. While we were eating, a hot-water seller in the next row of stalls asked me in a loud voice, ‘Little Sister! Would you like to buy a nice cup
of freshly boiled water to drink?’ I shook my head just as he pointed to a sweet-gruel seller who was beckoning me with his hand. As David and I approached, he murmured something.

‘Excuse me,’ David said. ‘We didn’t hear you. What did you say?’

This time the sweet-gruel seller answered in a distinct voice, ‘
Chu sui san hu, Chu sui san hu.
’

David and I looked at each other dubiously. Was this gruel seller in baggy trousers, dirty apron and cloth shoes our contact in Chuchow? But there was no doubt what he had just said. And he had said it twice. Then I heard David take a deep breath and say, ’
Wang Qin bi Chu,
’ four times in rapid succession.

The man’s response was immediate. ‘Come with me!’ he said. He unpinned his apron and said something to a woman behind him. With mounting excitement, we called Grandma Wu, Sam and Marat, and followed the gruel seller out of the square.

‘I am Agent 0220,’ he told Grandma Wu. ‘I had no trouble spotting the five of you but needed to make sure. Please follow me. Everything has been arranged. We are going to a safe house that belongs to an American missionary. You will have the house to yourselves.’

We arrived at a little stone house situated close
to the city wall at the edge of town. Our guide was a quiet man and said nothing to us along the way. When we reached our destination, he simply unlocked the dark red, double-leafed front door, handed us the keys and bade us goodbye.

We stepped into a tidy but plainly furnished living room, with a long couch, wooden floors and curtained windows. The house had only one bedroom, with a large double bed and mats on the floor. That night, all five of us shared the same room. Grandma Wu slept on the bed while we children slept on cushions from the couch spread out on the floor.

Grandma Wu woke us before dawn for a quick breakfast of hot rice congee and salted duck eggs which she had found in the kitchen. As we ate, the rain kept falling outside.

‘Let’s get to work,’ decreed Grandma Wu. ‘It is now precisely 5.02 a.m., Tokyo time. Let’s synchronize our watches. Adjust your listening devices and short-wave radios. If you hear a signal, decode it straight away. Record the time and date of each message.’

Just after 6.30 a.m., Marat intercepted a radio message from a Japanese ship in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Japan.

‘Grandma Wu! Grandma Wu!’ he called urgently. ‘I just heard someone identifying himself
as the Japanese radio signalman from the
Nitto Maru
sending this message in Japanese: “Three US carriers sighted 700 nautical miles east of Tokyo at 6.30 a.m. Tokyo time.” Is the
Nitto Maru
one of those Japanese picket boats?’

‘Alert the Americans at once,’ cried Grandma Wu. ‘This is serious!’

Marat nodded solemnly. The rest of us listened intently.

Almost immediately after Marat had transmitted his message to the Americans, I heard the USS
Hornet’s
radio operator ordering two American ships
Nashville
and
Enterprise
to bombard and sink the
Nitto Maru
.

All at once, I started to tremble uncontrollably. It was no longer a game. The stakes were immense. This was war. ‘What about the sailors on the
Nitto Maru?
’ I asked. ‘Are they going to die?’

‘There is no alternative,’ Grandma Wu said. ‘Either we destroy them or they destroy us. This is the price we pay for China to regain her independence.’

I thought of the men at sea losing their lives, drowning in the burning flames; the sailors on both sides being torn to bloody shreds; the moans of the wounded; the grief of the widows and the plight of their fatherless children at home. Was war truly the only answer?

‘The Japanese are still dispatching messages to the
Nitto Maru,
’ Marat cried. ‘They don’t know that it’s been sunk but they must suspect something. I just heard Admiral Matome Ugaki issuing an emergency order to repel a major enemy fleet off the Japanese coast. Japanese planes, destroyers, cruisers and submarines are heading towards the position last reported by the
Mtto Mara
. The Americans should launch their planes right away so their carriers can make a quick getaway. Otherwise the Japanese will destroy them.’

‘Children! Radio the
Hornet
immediately and report what you have just heard!’ commanded Grandma Wu. ‘Otherwise all will be lost!’

‘But the American ships are still so far from Japan!’ Sam objected. ‘Master Wu said the planes were supposed to take off when the
Hornet
is 450 miles away from the Japanese coast. They are still 700 miles away. They’ll run out of fuel for sure!’

The original plan was for the planes to take off just before sunset and bomb Japan under cover of darkness. Now they would be arriving in Tokyo around noon, in full sight of Japanese anti-aircraft guns. The earlier take-off and increased distance to Tokyo meant they would be flying to Chuchow with empty fuel tanks. We hated to admit it, but Jimmy Doolittle’s raid on Tokyo was turning into a suicide mission.

For a while we were all silent, thinking of what the American pilots must be going through. What choice did they have? If they aborted the raid, they risked the loss of their aircraft carriers as well as their planes. If they went ahead, they risked flying with empty fuel tanks over the open sea. Every decision was riddled with danger.

‘If I were one of Jimmy Doolittle’s pilots, I’d volunteer to take off right now,’ announced David, his face flushed. ‘Do or die!’

‘So would I!’ agreed Marat fervently.

‘Me too!’ concurred Sam.

I could hardly speak, but knew that I would also risk my life.

‘Admiral Haisey, the task-force commander of the USS
Hornet
agrees with you,’ Grandma Wu declared, her transmitter clamped to her ears. ‘The Admiral just ordered Colonel Doolittle to launch the planes immediately. As we speak, sixteen brave American pilots and their crews are setting off on the bombing raid.’

13

Chuchow Aifield

We kept our ears glued to the radio transmitters for the rest of the morning, but there was no further news. Early in the afternoon there was a persistent rapping on the door. When I looked through the peephole, I saw a young man wearing a white doctor’s coat and thick glasses.

‘I’m looking for Grandma Wu,’ he said breathlessly.

‘What’s your name?’

He placed his right hand against his heart, clenched it into a fist and said, ‘
Chu sui san hu! Chu sui san hu!
’

I uttered the response we’d been taught and repeated it four times, before calling for Grandma Wu and welcoming the man into the house.

‘I’m Dr Chen, physician and head of the local resistance in Chuchow and Linhai,’ the man told
us. ‘I have terrible news. So far, no fuel or flares have been delivered to the Ghuchow Airfields. The radiomen sent by Chiang Kai-shek to operate the homing radios at the airfield have not arrived because of bad weather. Unfortunately, the forecast is for more rain and heavy fog this evening. Visibility will be limited to 100 feet or less.

‘The American pilots were told there would be homing signals and flares to mark the runways of Chuchow Airfields. Now there will be nothing to guide them. And no fuel is available even if they do land successfully. These pilots are doomed! What should we do?’

Grandma Wu was gripping her chair. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands for a few minutes.

Then she took a map out of her pocket and scrutinized it for a long time. When she looked up, her voice was resolute. ‘Although we have no fuel for the American planes, we do have four capable and multilingual children who are eager to help the crews. It is clear from this map that the pilots will have to make some difficult choices. When they run out of fuel, they’ll need to abandon their planes and parachute out. The question is: if they can’t make it to Chuchow, where will they end up and how can we help them?

‘The planes should have enough fuel to cross
the East China Sea. If they manage to get at least 70 miles inland from the coast, they will have a chance. But if they don’t make it that far, the planes will either crash into the ocean or land on one of the beaches. It is possible that the survivors will land on the coast, or even on Nan Tian Island itself.

‘I suggest we go straight to Nan Tian. I have seen aerial photos of the island taken by my pigeons. Nan Tian has a long flat beach that is not only visible from the air but also suitable for emergency landings. It will be risky for the Americans as die island is under Japanese control, but we have many contacts there and know the man in charge of the local guerrillas. They will help us.’

My heart leapt! Big Aunt was at Nan Tian Island.

Grandma Wu turned to Dr Chen and said, ‘I’ll write a note to Agent 0958 and inform him that we will be arriving in Nan Tian this evening. Please send it off by pigeon post immediately. Let’s keep in touch die same way.’

‘They’ve done it! They’ve done it!’ Marat shouted at this moment from the other side of the room. His face was ashen, but his voice exhilarated. ‘I’ve just heard an announcement from Tokyo Radio JOAK that American bombs have fallen on
four Japanese cities this afternoon. This is the first time in the history of Japan that any of her cities has been invaded by an enemy. Not a single American plane was shot down.’

‘Hooray for Jimmy Doolittle and his pilots!’ heralded Grandma Wu. ‘The Americans have taken away the enemy’s
qi
. Japan is no longer invincible. Jimmy Doolittle has brought the war home to Tokyo. Let us hurry now to Nan Tian Island in case one of the American planes should crash-land there. The crew will be needing us!’

14

Nan Tian Jsland

Later that evening, two fishermen met our boat at the dock on Nan Tian Island. They shepherded us into a quaint, thatched-roof hut at the head of a long, curving bay. David whispered that the fishermen must be members of the local underground. Although I was dying to find out whether the two men had been sent by Master Wu, Big Aunt or Grandma Liu, I dared not ask.