THE PINK LOTUS

  Garrett Hutson

  This book is a work of fiction. Aside from historical figures, names, characters, events, and places are the works of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Warfleigh Publishing first edition January 2023

  This book copyright © 2023 by Garrett B. Hutson

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover design by Steven Novak

  For more information, or to book an event, please contact the author at www.garretthutson.com

  ISBN 978-1-953846-03-7 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-953846-15-0 (eBook)

  ISBN 978-1-953846-13-6 (audio)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  For Paige, who inspired me to do better

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  EPILOGUE

  Also by Garrett Hutson:

  About the Author

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Sign up for Garrett Hutson's Mailing List

  Also By Garrett Hutson

  About the Publisher

  For Paige, who inspired me to do better

  1

  Monday, March 28, 1938

  Subic Bay Naval Base, Philippine Islands

  The whir of the helicopter’s rotors accelerated into a steady ‘chuff chuff chuff,’ and a moment later the contraption lifted off the ground, its blades creating wind sufficient to lay the tall grass flat.

  Commander Douglas Bainbridge clasped his hand on his hat and looked down, blinking his eyes rapidly while moisture streamed from them, driven across his cheeks by the force of air.

  “Seventy-five horsepower engine!” shouted Commander Morris Whitburn, the visiting Research and Development officer.

  At twenty feet off the ground, the experimental craft shifted gears and moved forward.

  Doug and the three men beside him—Intelligence Officers assigned to the U.S. Asiatic Fleet—watched the strange metal craft circle the giant clearing in the jungle in less than a minute. Its nose was shaped like a bullet, and the pilot sat in an open cockpit like a single seat airplane, just four feet below a giant rotating blade that resembled a horizontal fan. The craft’s tail was a tapered open frame, with a smaller vertical blade spinning at the rear.

  “As you can see, unlike the autogyro the Spanish Navy uses, this Sikorski prototype utilizes powered transverse twin rotors for both lift and propulsion,” Whitburn shouted. “Like the Spanish autogyro, it will be able to take off from and land on the deck of a ship. And those pontoons will enable amphibious takeoff and landing.”

  The pilot brought the experimental craft down in the center of the clearing some fifty yards from the observers, and powered down the engine.

  Whitburn continued. “Besides the obvious search and rescue possibilities at sea, we believe the Sikorski prototype will enable long-distance scouting for cruisers outside of carrier groups.”

  “But how will it defend itself?” Doug asked, pointing toward the sleek silver shell encompassing the front and sides of the craft. “There’s no gun turret, and no room to mount one in front of the pilot.”

  “It’s not like the Japs will let us watch their fleet from above without firing on the damn thing,” one of Doug’s companions agreed.

  “That’s one of the issues we’ve asked the engineers to solve,” Whitburn said. “We expect significant design changes before this prototype becomes operational.”

  “How soon do you think that’s gonna be?” one of Doug’s other companions asked.

  “We’re optimistic that the Sikorski can be operational in one to two years.”

  The four intelligence officers exchanged a doubtful look. One let out a low whistle. Doug shook his head.

  Whitburn’s lips tightened, but he gave no other visible reaction. “The latest cruiser design already incorporates space for one of these babies. Every cruiser coming out of dry dock starting next January will have a launch pad right on deck, at the stern. The Spanish autgyro’s been taking off from their ships since ’34, and the Secretary’s determined for us to catch up.”

  “How soon do you expect the design changes?” Doug asked.

  Whitburn’s lips turned down in thought. “I can’t pin that down too precisely, you understand—but I would expect modifications to be approved this summer.”

  “And you’ll get copies of the new designs to us then?”

  “That’ll be my top priority,” Whitburn said.

  Doug highly doubted it but kept that thought to himself.

  “Any other questions?” Whitburn’s gray-blue eyes held Doug’s in a way that might have been meant to convey confidence, or it might have been meant to intimidate.

  “Let’s see it go again,” Doug said.

  **

  Port of Manila, Philippine Islands

  Doug stepped off the wharf at one PM, raising his hand to the front bill of his cap to shield his eyes from the blazing sun, and looked up at the five-story gleaming white Art Moderne building before them. The Marsman Building, the fleet’s HQ. The intelligence officers had a lunch appointment with Admiral Yarnell at his office on the fifth floor.

  Doug had been here before, though this would only be the third time he’d met Admiral Yarnell. The anticipation still gave him butterflies in his stomach.

  A lieutenant on the fifth floor showed the four intelligence officers into a spacious dining room with giant windows looking over the port. Doug could tell the others were nervous, as well; everyone walked around, fidgety. He went to the window and looked across the bay at Cavite Naval Station, where the Valparaiso was docked.

  A side door opened, and Admiral Yarnell entered from his office. All of them snapped to attention and saluted, but the admiral waved them off. “As you were.” He looked toward a Filipino waiter in a white jacket. “Bring lunch in now, Angelo.”

  The waiter nodded without a word, and stepped outside.

  “Have a seat,” the admiral said, taking the chair at the head of the table. “We’ll begin lunch, and once everything’s set you can brief me on this morning’s demonstration.” A moment later, the waiter Angelo returned pushing a cart with five silver trays, plus a silver pitcher covered in condensation. He set one tray in front of each of them, and poured a glass of ice water from the pitcher.

  Once Angelo had departed, closing the door behind him, Admiral Yarnell said, “Alright, let’s hear about this prototype demonstration.”

  **

  “Bainbridge, I’d like you to remain a moment,” Admiral Yarnell said after the lunch, when they stood near the door. He turned to the other three intelligence officers and thanked them for the briefing.

  Doug’s heart leapt into his throat while he watched the others leave. Once the door was closed, Yarnell told him to take a seat.

  “With spring here, we expect the Japanese to resume their offensive in China any time now.”

  Doug nodded. “I agree, sir.” Where was the admiral going with this?

  “A few years ago, ONI had a man in Shanghai who ran Chinese agents in and out of Japanese ports posing as fishermen, observing their movements. His identity is still secret, but we know he’s no longer in Shanghai. I don’t know what became of his network of agents.” Yarnell leaned back, tenting his fingers in front of his chin. “Bainbridge, we’d like you to rebuild that network. Chinese laborers digging ditches, fishermen trawling the rivers—whoever would be innocuous to the Japanese. If we piece together enough tiny pieces, we can get some idea what those bastards have planned.”

  “So the aim is to fill the gaps in our intelligence—where and when the Japanese are going to attack next?”

  “Exactly. And with what forces. Can you do that, Bainbridge?”

  It was exciting, the thought of building a network of Chinese agents to spy on the Japanese navy and marines. But it would also test his abilities in ways he wasn’t entirely confident.

  “Yes, sir.”

  **

  Cavite Naval Station

  Manila Bay, Philippine Islands

  Doug stepped off the gunboat at three PM, after a brief run from the Port of Manila. He stifled a yawn as he took off on foot through “Cavite City” toward the building where he had temporary quarters. It was only mid-afternoon, but it had already been a long day.

  He’d risen before dawn to take a gun boat from Cavite station to Subic Bay, a forty-two nautical mile trip that took two hours. Half of the Asiatic Fleet’s ships were docked at Cavite, which jutted into the southern part of Manila Bay and guarded the entrance to the capital city and its port; and the other half were stationed at the much larger Subic Bay base up the coast. He’d met the other three Intelligence Officers there at eight o’clock, and they’d ridden in a truck seventeen miles into the forest on a dirt road that made a giant loop through the massive naval base. A guard shack manned by three Marines stood at the entrance to a trail through the jungle, and the Intelligence Officers had proceeded alone on foot, to the top-secret demonstration in the secret clearing.

  After the demonstration they’d done all of that in reverse, except the gunboat took them to Manila for the meeting with the admiral. Although the briefing went well, Doug was keyed up and exhausted by the time lunch ended.

  And now his mind was preoccupied with the task the admiral had given him.

  At least the two-hour boat trip from Subic to Manila had afforded him time to draft the report about the Sikorski prototype that he’d give to Captain Jansen upon his return to Shanghai. His work was done for the day, so when he walked past the USS Valparaiso—the cruiser to which he was assigned—he didn’t board and instead walked toward “home” in one of the concrete block buildings that housed officers.

  The breeze coming off the bay billowed the sheer white curtain on either end of the giant window and alleviated much of the heat and humidity. Two items lay on the cool tile floor of the airy room overlooking Bacoor inlet. Doug picked up an envelope addressed to him in Lucy’s handwriting, postmarked Shanghai, plus a smaller unmarked envelope.

  He sat on the end of the bed and opened Lucy’s letter first.

  March 23, 1938

  Dear Doug,

  Not much news since my letter last week, except that I got confirmation that Mother arrives on the 15th of April, and will be staying with us for two months.

  I can already hear your groan over all this distance. I know it’s going to be a challenge, for both of us, but I can’t tell her to leave sooner. She’s my mother, after all, and I haven’t seen her in almost two years. And you know as well as I do we can use her help once the baby comes. Of course we can rely on Bao, that’s not a question, but it’s going to be a new experience for him as well. I think having the benefit of Mother’s experience will be a god-send.

  And before you say anything, Abbie has already promised me that she and Kenny will drag us out of the house at least once a week to be with our friends. You know Mother won’t want to come along on those nights. She might insist on joining us for dinner, but she won’t want to go to any nightclubs. Yes, I know she might make comments, but we can ignore that, can’t we?

  I miss you terribly. I know I said this in my earlier letters, but I’ve gotten to be as big as a house, and it’s tiring trying to do anything outside of the house. Bao has been a tremendous help, so don’t worry about me. Just get home on time. In ten days I’ll be back in your arms and all will be right.

  Your loving wife,

  Lucy

  The letter brought a broad grin to Doug’s lips. He held the paper to his nose, and thought he could detect a whiff of her perfume. Chanel Number 5.

  He’d been gone from Shanghai almost three months—the longest absence since he was posted to the Valparaiso last May. Following the fall of Nanking in December, their ship had been sent after the first of the year to patrol the Chinese coast to guard American ships in the sea lanes, from Tianjin on the Yellow Sea in the north, down along the East China Sea all the way to Guangdong—Canton—on the South China Sea. After two months on patrol, the Valparaiso put into Manila Bay for their semi-annual visit to fleet HQ. They’d been docked at Cavite for the last month.

  But he would see her soon. He refolded her letter and put it back in the envelope. Then he turned his attention to the smaller unmarked envelope and removed the slip of paper inside.

  A bunch of us have gone to Long Beach for the afternoon. Come join us when you get back.

  Scott

  Doug looked at his watch—it was almost three-thirty. By the time he caught a rickshaw down there, it would be four o’clock. And it would be so nice to take a nap instead...

  He took his swim trunks from a drawer, grabbed a towel, stuffed them both in his shoulder bag, and headed out the door.

  **

  Long Beach

  Cavite City, Philippine Islands

  Doug spotted dozens of crewmembers from the USS Valparaiso when the rickshaw stopped in front of a bathhouse on the edge of the beach, four miles south of the base. At least a couple hundred other American men frolicked in short swim trunks on the sand or in the waves, representing the crews of several ships in the fleet. A group to his right played a vigorous game of touch football, their torsos glistening with sweat.

  He waved to several men who called his name, and walked into the bathhouse. He closed the door of one of the changing rooms and got out of his white uniform and into the pair of dark blue light woolen swim trunks he’d bought a few months after arriving in Shanghai. That first beach outing with Kenny and Abbie and their friends—now his friends as well—in September 1935 had been an exercise in letting go of inhibitions.

  The swim trunks in style in 1935 were a bit shorter on the thigh than the swimsuits he’d grown up with in the ‘20s—a four-inch inseam instead of six-inch—and the A-top had a deeper neckline; plus, the top was now separate and detachable. Doug had left it buttoned on, and Pete, George, Fred, and Stuart had laughed at him. Kenny had been nicer about it and whispered “I know that’s part of the suit, but no one under forty wears it.” So Doug had reluctantly braved a bare torso in front of Abbie, Julia, and Betty, and it took most of that first day to get comfortable with that.

  He wasn’t sure why he’d thought of that, but nowadays he would have felt far more awkward with a top on walking out onto the beach full of bare-chested men in trunks. How things can change in just two and a half years.

  “Doug, over here!” Scott Farnsworth waved at him from a beach towel, grinning, propped up on an elbow. Doug smiled back and spread his towel next to Scott’s.

  And then averted his eyes from his friend’s new trunks—super short, and awfully form-fitting—but not before he saw Scott’s grin widen. Then Scott rolled onto his left side, facing Doug, bent his right knee and pulled his right foot up behind his left knee.

  Showing off.

  “You like my new swimsuit? I found it in Manila a couple weeks ago. The latest style.”

  Doug only glanced at him before looking back toward the waves. “I see a bunch of our men out in the water.” He concentrated on counting the familiar faces. He was definitely not thinking about the curve of Scott’s thigh, golden from the sun. How short were those damned trunks? Did they even have a one-inch inseam?

  Scott chuckled and looked toward the water. But he didn’t shift back onto his back, Doug couldn’t help but notice. “I went out there a little while ago. Played in the surf. Today’s our last chance.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “It’s nice here in the sun.”

  “I’ll be glad to get home,” Doug said, furtively glancing at Scott’s upturned face from the corner of his eye.

  Scott looked back at him. “Of course you are. You’ve got that baby coming soon.”

  Doug nodded. “In about four weeks.”

  “I bet you’re excited for that.”

  A flutter swept through Doug’s belly. He couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, I am.”

  Scott was quiet for a moment, looking down at the strip of sand between them. “What do you think it’ll be like when we get back there?”

  “With the Japanese occupation, you mean?”

  “Yeah. With the Japs in control of the whole area now, the international concessions are surrounded. What’s that gonna be like? I mean, we haven’t really spent much time in Shanghai since the city fell. Is it gonna feel like being under siege?”

  Good question. “I don’t think so.” Lucy’s letters hadn’t said much about it, so Doug could only assume things in the International Settlement and French Concession were the same as before. He couldn’t rely on his own observations, since they’d been called away a couple of weeks after the Japanese took the final Chinese strongholds in Shanghai and rushed to Nanjing to help protect the American embassy during the Japanese assault on the Chinese capital.

  What they’d seen there would haunt Doug’s nightmares for the rest of his life.

  Doug closed his eyes and shook his head to clear the grisly memories. They’d returned to Shanghai in time for Christmas but had to leave a couple of weeks later for coastal patrol. And they’d been gone almost three months. Any number of things could have changed in that time.

 

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