LITMIR.BIZ

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The voice was firm.

       The second pilot looked out of the side, then turned. ‘About five hundred feet below, Skipper. Another Dakota. A Yank from the look of it.’

       ‘All right,’ Caine said wearily and banked to port.

       The man who stood on the porch of the Station Commander’s office staring up into the rain, listening to the sound of the first Dakota coming in, wore the uniform of a Vice-Admiral of the Royal Navy, a trenchcoat over his shoulders. His name was Lord Louis Mountbatten and he was cousin to the King of England. A highly decorated war hero, he was also Supreme Allied Commander Southeast Asia.

       The American General in steel-rimmed spectacles who emerged behind him, pausing to light a cigarette, was General ‘Vinegar Joe’ Stilwell, Mountbatten’s deputy and also Chief of Staff to Chiang Kai-shek. The greatest expert on China of anyone in the Allied forces, Stilwell was also fluent in Cantonese.

       He perched on the rail. ‘Well, here he comes, the great Chairman Mao.’

       ‘What happened to Chiang Kai-shek?’ Mountbatten asked.

       ‘Found an excuse to go up-country. It’s no use, Louis, Mao and Chiang will never get together. They both want the same thing.’

       ‘China?’ Mountbatten said.

       ‘Exactly.’

       ‘Yes, well, I’d like to remind you this isn’t the Pacific, Joe. Twenty-five Jap divisions in China and, since the start of their April offensive, they’ve been winning. No one knows that better than you. We need Mao and his Communist Army. It’s as simple as that.’

       They watched the Dakota land. Stilwell said, ‘The Washington viewpoint is simple. We’ve given enough lend-lease to Chiang.’

      ‘And what have we got for it?’ Mountbatten asked. ‘He sits on his backside doing nothing, saving his ammunition and equipment for the civil war with the Communists when the Japs are beaten.’

       ‘A civil war he’ll probably win,’ Stilwell said.

      ‘Do you really think so?’ Mountbatten shook his head. ‘You know, in the West Mao and his people are looked upon as agrarian revolutionaries, that all they want is land for the peasants.’

       ‘And you don’t agree?’

       ‘Frankly, I think they’re more Communist than the Russians. I think they could well drive Chiang Kai-shek out of mainland China and take over after the war.’

       ‘An interesting thought,’ Stilwell told him, ‘but if you’re talking about making friends and influencing people, that’s up to you. Washington won’t play. Fresh supplies of arms and ammunition must come from your people, not American sources. We’ll have a big enough problem handling Japan after the war. China is your baby.’

       The Dakota came towards them and stopped. A couple of waiting ground crew wheeled steps forward and waited for the door to open.

       ‘So you don’t think I’m asking dear old Mao too much?’

       ‘Hell, no!’ Stilwell laughed. ‘To be honest, Louis, if he agrees, I don’t see how you’ll be getting very much in return for all that aid you intend to give him.’

       ‘Better than nothing, old sport, especially if he agrees.’

       The door swung open; a young Chinese officer emerged. A moment later Mao Tse-tung appeared. He paused for a moment, looking towards them, wearing only a simple uniform and cap with the red star, then he started down the steps.

       Mao Tse-tung, Chairman of the Chinese Communist Party, was at that time fifty-one, a brilliant politician, a master of guerrilla warfare and a soldier of genius. He was also the implacable foe of Chiang Kai-shek and the two sides had been engaged in open warfare instead of taking on the Japanese together.

       In the office he sat behind the Station Commander’s desk, the young officer behind him. To one side of Mountbatten and Stilwell stood a British Army major. His left eye was covered by a black eye-patch and the badge in his cap was that of the Highland Light Infantry. A Corporal wearing the bonnet of the same regiment stood against the wall behind him, a cardboard office file under his left arm.

       Stilwell said in fluent Cantonese, ‘I’ll be happy to translate for these proceedings, Chairman Mao.’

       Mao sat facing him, face enigmatic, then said in excellent English, an ability he seldom advertised, ‘General, my time is limited.’ Stilwell stared at him in astonishment and Mao said to Mountbatten, ‘Who is this officer and the man with him?’

       Mountbatten said, ‘Major Ian Campbell, Chairman, one of my aides. The Corporal is his batman. Their regiment is the Highland Light Infantry.’

       ‘Batman?’ Mao enquired.

       ‘A soldier servant,’ Mountbatten explained.

       ‘Ah, I see.’ Mao nodded enigmatically and turned to Campbell. ‘The Highlands of Scotland, am I right? A strange people. The English put you to the sword, turned your people off their land and yet you go to war for them.’

       Ian Campbell said, ‘I am a Highlander, flesh and bone, a thousand years behind me, Laird of Loch Dhu Castle and all around, like my father and his before me, and if the English need a helping hand now and then, why not?’

       Mao actually smiled and turned to Mountbatten. ‘I like this man. You should lend him to me.’

       ‘Not possible, Chairman.’

       Mao shrugged. ‘Then to business. I have little time. I must make the return journey in no more than thirty minutes. What do you offer me?’

       Mountbatten glanced at Stilwell, who shrugged, and the Admiral said to Mao, ‘Our American friends are not able to offer arms and ammunition to you and your forces.’

       ‘But everything the Generalissimo needs they will supply?’ Mao asked.

       He stayed surprisingly calm and Mountbatten said, ‘I believe I have a solution. What if the RAF flew in ten thousand tons a month over the Hump to Kunming, assorted weapons, ammunition and so forth.’

       Mao selected a cigarette from an old silver case and the young officer lit it for him. The Chairman blew out a long plume of smoke. ‘And what would I have to do for such munificence?’

       ‘Something’ Mountbatten said. ‘I mean, we have to have something. That’s only fair.’

       ‘And what would you have in mind?’

       Mountbatten lit a cigarette himself, walked to the open door and looked out at the rain. He turned. ‘The Hong Kong Treaty, the lease to Britain. It expires 1 July 1997.’

       ‘So?’

       ‘I’d like you to extend it by one hundred years.’

       There was a long silence. Mao leaned back and blew smoke to the ceiling. ‘My friend, I think the rains have driven you a little crazy. Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek rules China, the Japanese permitting, of course.’

       ‘But the Japanese will go,’ Mountbatten said.

       ‘And then?’

       The room was very quiet. Mountbatten turned and nodded. The Corporal clicked

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