The Mercenaries (4 page)

‘Have you, by God? What this chap want?’

Sammy shrugged ‘Perhaps we’d better let him tell you himself,’ he said. ‘I arranged for him to be here. In an hour. I went to see him in Moshi.’

‘Did you, by God? So that’s where you’ve been?’

‘I’m your friend, see, boss,’ Sammy said. ‘I’m your partner.’

Ira stared at him and Sammy chuckled at his expression. ‘You ought to know that once a Jew gets his hands on the books you’ve got to make him a partner. He asked me to speak to you.’

‘Englishman?’

‘No.’

‘South African?’

‘No.’

Ira studied Sammy from the corner of his eye, then he stood up abruptly and began to sweep the bills from his desk.

‘Better wheel him in,’ he said.

To his surprise, it was a Chinese who was sitting in the big new Packard that drew to a stop by the ramshackle office. He was fanning himself with a straw hat as he opened the door and climbed out.

Ira thrust out his hand. ‘Understand you want to do business with me,’ he said.

‘That’s correct.’ The other was a tall good-looking man with a long thin face and the high-bridged nose of North China. His clothes were immaculately cut and he spoke excellent English.

Ira gestured at the office where Sammy was standing by the door like a commissionaire. ‘Better come in,’ he suggested. ‘It’s not much of a place to talk business. Normally we always did what we wanted at a hotel.’

What he meant was that most of his decisions had been made over a drink in a bar, but it passed as the truth. The Chinese seemed unperturbed.

Inside the office, Ira pulled a chair forward and indicated a second one which Sammy held out, and the Chinese introduced himself.

‘My name is Lao Tse-L’Ai,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m searching for pilots to go to China to fly aeroplanes. I heard about you.’

Ira’s eyes flickered towards Sammy standing in the comer.

‘China,’ he said slowly. He knew nothing about China save that it appeared to be retarded and medieval and that the Chinese did everything backwards--from signing their names to writing letters. He had a mental vision of one of Lao’s aeroplanes flying tail-first and almost burst out laughing.

He pulled himself together quickly. ‘What sort of flying?’ he asked.

Lao gestured. ‘Perhaps I had better explain,’ he said. ‘After the Manchu dynasty was overthrown by revolutionaries in 1911 the republic’s first president was Yuan Shih-K’Ai, but when he insisted on making himself emperor, his generals in Yunnan rose in revolt, and, as he fled, defeated, it suddenly occurred to them that, since they had the troops, they, not the politicians, had become the holders of power in China.’

Ira nodded, wishing he knew more about Chinese history. During recent years the Far East had been somewhat overlooked in the greater events taking place in Europe and remarkably little of what had been happening there had ever found its way into Western newspapers.

Lao had drawn a deep breath and was gesturing with a long pale hand. ‘Since that time,’ he said, ‘the republic has become the sport of the military and, though there has been a succession of cabinets both in Peking and in the south, both assuming the name of government, both are really controlled by their own generals.’

Ira studied the Chinese warily. He seemed completely in control of the interview. ‘Whose side are you on?’ he asked bluntly.

Lao avoided a direct answer. ‘I am on the side of democracy,’ he said.

Ira pushed a packet of cigarettes across. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged.

Lao took a cigarette and lit it carefully, the bony structure of his narrow Manchu features heightened by the glow of the match flame.

‘These generals,’ he went on, ‘support or betray for money whichever government they represent They organise the opium trade, sell positions, tax the people and finally retire to Japan or Singapore with immense fortunes. They don’t fight much, preferring instead to offer or accept bribes. The poor are oppressed, and the soldiers are like bandits in uniform. The whole of China has become a battlefield.’

‘Where do I come in?’

Lao leaned forward. There is a general in the north,’ he said. ‘General Tsu Li-Fo, the Baptist General, the Warlord of the South-West. He is a disciple of Sun Yat-Sen, the great Liberal thinker, and he has sworn to end it all. He is a Christian and, with the backing of the Peking government, is gathering an army to give China back its democracy.’

Ira was suitably impressed even if not entirely convinced, and Lao went on quickly. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘the warlord who opposes him to the south, General Kwei, has an aerial balloon which makes all attempts to move dangerous.’

‘Because it can see everything that’s going on?’

‘Exactly. And he talks now of acquiring aeroplanes. But General Tsu is very air-minded, too, and he is trying to organise a fine up-to-date air force himself.’

A doubtful look crossed Ira’s face. Flying in someone else’s war wasn’t quite the same as flying in your own. In Russia he’d never been able to find much enthusiasm for the work.

There will be no shooting,’ Lao assured him, as though he’d guessed his thoughts. ‘We are not asking you to fight--only to organise and train our men. That is all.’

Ira nodded again. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I’m interested.’

Lao smiled and gestured towards Sammy who was listening carefully by the door. ‘I have heard you are an experienced instructor and engineer,’ he went on, ‘and that you were a leader of distinction in the war in Europe. I think you are the man we want.’ He paused. ‘Especially as I have heard you are no longer anxious to run your airline.’

‘Capable’ would have been a better word, Ira thought.

‘What about pay?’ he asked.

“General Tsu is a wealthy man,’ Lao pointed out. ‘He will agree to anything reasonable. Shall we say four hundred dollars a month--plus expenses?’

Ira controlled his gasp with difficulty. Four hundred dollars a month seemed like a fortune when you’d been keeping a whole airline running on very much the same amount, scratching for coppers, hopefully paying for petrol on the never-never, hardly ever catching up with debts, and scrimping and saving even on the safety margins to keep the aircraft flying. Four hundred dollars represented untold wealth. ‘All right so far,’ he said cautiously and he saw Sammy grin. ‘But what about aircraft? And spares, vehicles, ground organisation--that sort of thing.’

‘We have several fine new aircraft. Modern ones with guns.’

‘What sort?’

‘I’m not an expert.’

Ira gestured. ‘Want another?’ he asked.

Lao nodded towards the door and rose. The machine out there?’

‘The very one.’

Outside, Lao kicked the tyres and the skid of the Avro and stared into the cockpit. ‘Did this machine carry a gun?’ he asked.

‘It was a trainer. The best.’

The Chinese studied the rear cockpit thoughtfully. Tell me about it,’ he suggested.

Ira drew a deep breath. He’d been listening half his life, it seemed, to the slow clonkety-clonk of rotary engine cylinders as they sucked in petrol, and had sniffed the burnt castor oil they threw out for so long he’d more than once suffered from bowel disorders.

He settled for simple sales talk. ‘So easy to fly,’ he said, ‘pilots killed themselves when they went on to more advanced machines. Dual controls. Gnome Mono engine. They keep on going even when parts drop off. One of them once took off itself and flew forty miles chased by the pilot in a car. When he found it, it had landed safely in a field.’

It was a story he’d heard many times and, though it may have been apocryphal, it was still worth re-telling.

The Chinese seemed impressed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We will ship it to China. Will you go with it?’

Ira was on the point of blurting out a joyous ‘Yes!‘ when he felt rather than saw Sammy’s eyes on him. They seemed to be boring a hole in the back of his head and he turned to see the desperate appeal in them.

He gestured. ‘I have a pilot under contract to consider,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he’d come, too.’

‘Is he a good instructor?’

‘I trained him myself.’

‘Very well. We can accept one more, though we already have two other instructors waiting in Shanghai.’

‘I see.’ Ira decided to push his luck a little further. Then that raises another point: Who’s going to run the show?’

‘You wish to?’

Ira had long since decided that the world could be divided into three groups--those who wished to lead, those who were willing to be led, and those who were neither one nor the other. He’d once been called by Cluff ‘a bloody independent Cornishman’ and he supposed he was, and he couldn’t see himself in a subordinate position.

‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘If I come, I run the show.’

Lao seemed satisfied. ‘You would be given the rank of major,’ he said. Two other aircraft will be waiting in Shanghai, and we have also recruited expert mechanics. If I may come and see you here tomorrow I will bring the necessary documents for you to sign.’

As the Packard drew away, Ira turned back towards the office, his breath coming out in a great gasp of relief. Sammy was staring at him from the far side of the hut, quivering with anticipation like a setter waiting for the gun Ira grinned. ‘Sammy, lad . .’

‘Yes, boss?’

‘When you’re a partner in a firm you don’t call the Old Man “boss” or “mister”.’

‘No, boss--I mean, Ira.’

They were both laughing now.

‘I think we’ve got a job,’ Ira said.

Sammy hurtled round the table, scattering papers to the floor in his excitement. Unaffectedly, he seized Ira’s hand and began to kiss it, and Ira pushed him away furiously, slapping at him wildly.

‘Cut it out, you bloody idiot,’ he yelled. ‘Flying men don’t go in for kissing each other.’

‘No, Mr. Penaluna--I mean, Ira.’ Sammy straightened up, quivering and trying to hold down his excitement and grinning all over his face. ‘It’s because I’m a Jew. We’re always too bleddy emotional!‘

4

Turning his back on the dusty field near Moshi was harder than Ira had expected. He was surprised to find he had thrust down roots and the idea of leaving frightened him a little.

He sold the Lancia and the lorry and the tin-roofed bungalow for knock-down prices and, with Sammy’s help, crated up the tools and spares from the workshop and shipped them south before flying off in the Avro for Mombasa. In Mombasa they stripped the machine of its wings and, with Sammy sitting on the tailboard of a hired lorry holding the skid, towed it into the docks and saw it hoisted aboard ship.

Waiting in Durban for them were two seedy-looking individuals who introduced themselves as the mechanics Lao had engaged.

‘Geary,’ the tallest of them said. ‘Fitter.’

‘Lawn.’ The other gave a boozy grin. ‘Rigger.’

Ira eyed them dubiously. Geary was an unwholesome South African, shiftless and unsettled, who looked as though he’d liked Cape brandy for far too long. Lawn was a short fat North Countryman much older than he claimed, who had found his way to Durban after the war looking for work. Privately, Ira decided he wouldn’t have offered either of them a job as a tea-boy.

‘Call me Yorky, Sonny,’ Lawn said condescendingly. ‘Sergeant Lawn, R.F.C., I was, but Yorky’s good enough for me. In China afore. I can ‘andle coolies. Corporal in the York and Lancasters, see?’Ong Kong, 1909.’

He interspersed his conversation with words like ‘tiffin’ and ‘chow’ to show he knew what he was talking about, then he gestured at Sammy, standing nearby, uncomfortable as a tailor’s dummy in a new suit that was as stiff as a board, a high celluloid collar and a flat cap as wide as his shoulders. ‘Who’s the young shaver?’ he demanded. ‘Babu? Clerk?’

‘Mr. Shapiro’s a pilot,’ Ira pointed out. ‘And you service his aircraft as you do mine.’

‘Oh!’ Lawn seemed a little disconcerted. He glanced at Sammy again, disbelievingly, then he flipped his hand in a gesture that was almost a salute. ‘Righty-o, Mr.--er--er . .

‘Penaluna. Ira Penaluna.’

‘
The
Ira Penaluna,’ Sammy added gleefully.

Lawn pulled a face. He’d obviously heard the name before. They used to say ‘e was a bit regimental,’ they heard him observe with a heavily doom-laden voice as he shuffled away with Geary. ‘And here I was thinking this was going to be a bloody picnic.’

The voyage followed the pattern of all such voyages, with the passengers sorting themselves into groups, cliques and love affairs, and it was quite obvious that more than a few of them were not spending the nights in their own bunks. The warmth and the moon were working havoc on people out from England for the first time, and the passenger list entered a state of grave dissolution, with Ira startled to find himself fighting off the advances of the over-eager daughter of a well-heeled British nobleman across the vast bed of her expensive first-class cabin.

Trying to avoid her when the ship put into Bombay, he found himself thrown with Sammy into the arms of Geary and Lawn on a trip ashore that turned into nothing more than a voyage through the red light district of Grant Road, where women of every conceivable shade whined at them behind barred windows as they rode past in rickshaws. It was his first sight of the Far East, with its barefooted coolies stinking of garlic, their blue-brown skins shining with sweat, and he noticed uncomfortably Geary’s tendency to treat them all as subhumans.

Bombay was followed by Colombo and Penang and soon afterwards by Singapore and Hong Kong with its acres of bobbing junks, then as they approached the entrance to the Yangtze, the water grew more oozy and yellow, with the brown patched sails of junks standing out on the horizon like drab moths. A coastal steamer approached and passed, then they were in the mouth of the river--still thirty miles wide with a thin brown line in the distance across the expanse of yellow water, all there was to be seen of the land.

Suddenly, Ira was caught by a sense of unease he hadn’t so far felt. In Moshi his responsibility in China had seemed remarkably small, and he’d felt he was being well paid, but now, unexpectedly, the country seemed huge and unknown and it struck him with tremendous force how small England was and how narrow an outlook it gave a man. Even East Africa, largely British in influence, had left him unfitted, he realised, for this unknown land with its teeming millions. Even here, before he’d set foot ashore, he was aware of its size and foreign-ness, and the thought that he was proposing to lose himself somewhere in its hidden centre unnerved him a little.