Rangoon

March 7, 1942

The radio crackled. "All ships ... Rangoon ... evacuate ... repeat ... all ... Rangoon ... immediately ... Japs advancing ... Repeat ... evac ..." The weak, intermittent radio transmissions coming from Calcutta, laced with blather about General Alexander's heroic retreat to India, consisted mostly of static, but the message was clear enough — get out NOW.

"Idiots," Captain Crooks growled. "We know all that. The bloody idiots are a week late with their goddamn advice."

Frantically loading its shipment of critical war material (tin ore and teak), Her Majesty's Merchant Ship, H.M.S. Stafford, rubbed gently against the pier in the suffocating heat — the last English ship in Rangoon. All the others had pulled out, including the last naval vessel, a corvette, the Shetland.

The day before, the Captain of the Shetland had scolded Crooks, "You're on your own now, Stafford. We can't give you any protection if you insist on sticking it out."

"We have orders," Crooks had snapped, "direct from The War Office, orders to bring back this bloody shipment of tin ore at all costs. It's supposed to be a vital alloy for some damn thing. I hope they know what the hell they're talking about, because the `all costs' they're yapping about may be our hides."

"Well, good luck, old chap. I don't envy you."

Now Crooks scanned the deserted pier and scowled at First Mate Griggs. "Do you hear that? Sounds like rifle fire."

Before Griggs could answer, Petty Officer Carter tore open the wheelhouse door and shouted, "Captain, the Japs are coming. I can see 'em on the far end of the pier."

Crooks ran out onto the wing. "My God, you're right. Sound the alarm."

He ran back into the cabin, grabbed the intercom mike and yelled into it, "Abort loading. All hands on board — on the double!"

The loading crew, which included Ensign Jeremy Wheatley and Second Mate Bradford, dropped the sling-load of cargo bins onto the pier. A bullet thunked into the side of the ship narrowly missing Jerry, and scattered shots began peppering the superstructure. The men ran up the gangplank like frightened mice and Carter immediately activated the winch to retract the plank even as the men were still on it.

"Griggs, Wheatley," Captain shouted. "Man the Bofors guns NOW."

Anticipating the order, Griggs had already started tearing off the canvas cover, while Ensign Wheatley grabbed a rack of ammo. In a matter of seconds, Wheatley had the twenty-millimeter Bofors bow gun loaded and cocked. He swung it around and fired a burst at a squad of Japanese troops advancing down the dock. A cloud of splinters from the wooden dock engulfed the men and the rifle fire stopped momentarily. When it started again, another burst from the Bofors put another temporary stop to the ship's advance.

Crooks shouted, "Cut the lines NOW."

The well-trained crew responded instantly while Crooks shoved the throttle to full power and shouted orders to the engine room. "MAX POWER!"

"Keep on 'em, Wheatley," the Captain yelled into the mike. "Carter, check on the crew. Tell 'em to keep their heads down."

The propellers thrashed the water, and Crooks turned the ship hard away from the dock though it seemed like an eternity before a few yards of water opened up.

Ensign Wheatley gave the Japs one last burst from the Bofors. "Cap," he yelled up to the bridge, "I can't bear on 'em any more without putting a hole in our bulkhead."

Busy with a rifle, the Captain ignored Wheatley. "Griggs, Bradford. Grab a rifle. We'll do what we can."

The Japanese fire resumed, while the three officers lay flat on the deck and fired back with rifles, neither side doing any real damage. When the ship slowly picked up speed and pulled out of range, the firing gradually petered out. Crooks asked Griggs for a damage assessment, and then turned to Ensign Wheatley. With a scowl that would frighten a tiger, he bellowed, "Now, Wheatley, what the hell is this I hear about you bringing a woman on board?"

"Sir, I can ex —"

"What in the goddamn blue blazes do you think you're doing? I should have you court-martialed or better yet, have you thrown over the side."

"Well, sir. If you'll let me explain, sir, I ... It's a long story, sir."

A long story, indeed.

London

One Month Earlier - February 7, 1942

Jeremy Wheatley III slouched in an oversized leather chair, staring at Jeremy Wheatley II, his father. He restrained a yawn. "I've heard this lecture a hundred times," he muttered to himself. "The family history is a terrible bore, and what the devil does it have to do with me, anyway? I'd rather make my own history."

In 1882, his grandfather, Major Jeremy Wheatley, had fought in the Third Anglo-Burmese War. His regiment had succeeded in capturing Mandalay, annihilating several hundred Burmese, who had put up a short fight with lances and a few rusty muskets against the British cannons and modern rifles. As a reward, he had been knighted, becoming Sir Jeremy Wheatley, and was granted rights to two thousand hectares of Burmese land "by appointment to the Queen." It turned out that the land near Mandalay on the Irrawaddy River contained some of the finest teak timber in the world. Worth a fortune, the teak soon made the Wheatley family exceedingly wealthy.

At this moment, however, Jeremy III, who preferred to be called Jerry, was mistaken. His father had a different lecture in mind. The elder statesman of the family cleared his throat and paced the floor, his hands clasped behind his back. His flabby, florid features and neatly trimmed mustache twitched.

"Son, the time has come to discuss your future, time for you to assume certain family responsibilities. You will turn eighteen tomorrow, and you will be called up to fight. Of course, you are fully aware of that, but the question is: what kind of fighting?"

Standing in front of the fireplace, he cleared his throat again and fixed a stern gaze on his son. Jeremy III remained silent, and studied the stuffed tiger head over the fireplace and the leather-bound books lining the walls, which he suspected had never been read.

"As our only son and heir," Jeremy II continued, "you are, of course, the object of concern on our part — that you survive this damnable war to carry on the family name and tradition. You are no doubt aware that I have some powerful friends in the War Office and can arrange something suitable. In fact, I have —"

Jerry interrupted, "No, father, I don't want any special favors. I plan to join the RAF where I'm really needed and —"

"Don't interrupt me, son. I haven't finished. If you want to get yourself killed, you can do it in a way that is more important than the RAF. Besides, they have far too many volunteers and not enough airplanes. "You may request the RAF, but you'll end up in the infantry where they are sending everyone your age now. So be quiet and listen."

"Yes, father," Jerry answered in a slightly condescending voice.

"This war is becoming a frightful bother. Making a bloody mess of London, isn't it? Not much we can do about it, is there? But right now, son, I want to talk about Burma. As you know, the Wheatley business in Burma has been running like clockwork for sixty years. We haven't had a thing to worry about on this end — just cash the checks and invest the money."

"I have the feeling you've been doing that quite successfully," Jerry muttered. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have sent me to Harrow and on up to Oxford."

Jeremy II frowned. "I asked you not to interrupt. Now, our manager out there, Alistair, he's been a real brick, a fine fellow. But we haven't heard a single word from him for two months — and no checks. Of course, the mail is all bollixed up — the war and all. Frankly, I'm worried. The Japanese have taken a third of China, all of Indo-China, and Hong Kong. They're knocking at the door of Siam, Burma and India. The Burmese natives don't like us one bit and are showing signs of teaming up with the Japs — hard to believe with all we've done for them. Frightfully, ungrateful. Frightfully. As you know, the Wheatley Enterprises are up north where we don't have much control, or rather no proper protection at all. General Alexander is pulling the troops back to India. He seems to be frightfully good at retreating — like Dunkirk. But I digress."

"Like you say, father, there's not much we can do about it, is there?"

"Don't interrupt, son. Now, let's see, where was I? Yes, northern Burma. As you know, Alistair has cut down all the teak — made a tidy fortune for us. Can't complain about that, can we? But, quite by accident, he discovered a fine tin mine when he uprooted all those trees — some of the richest tin deposits in Burma just sitting there, staring at us."

"Thank God for Sir Jeremy," Jerry mumbled.

His father ignored him. "It so happens that tin is a vital wartime metal, an alloy needed for certain metals used in armaments."

"So we're suddenly getting frightfully patriotic."

"As a matter of fact, we are. I started to say, before you interrupted, that I have a powerful friend or two in the War Office — Admiral Badgely, to be specific. I have spoken to him about you, about tin, about Burma. He understands the vital contributions of Wheatley Enterprises to the war effort."

Jerry opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.

His father continued, "I have discussed with him the best way to approach the situation. He agrees that something must be done, but he says there is no way to divert troops to northern Burma. He says the army is not cooperative — not cooperative at all, in fact — and he does not have much influence there. As a matter of fact, I don't either. Now, here's what he's offered to do. He will see to it that you are commissioned in the Royal Navy as an Ensign. I told him about your fine performance at Harrow — captain of the rugby team, cum laude, senior prefect, admitted to Oxford. I'm right about all of that, aren't I?"

"Yes, but I —"

Jeremy Wheatley II puffed out his chest and stood ramrod straight like a Swiss guard, looking a bit ridiculous. "There's a war on, son. We have to take shortcuts. Can't wait around. Have to take action. So, like it or not, you're going to Burma, leaving next week. It should be a simple, straightforward operation. All you have to do is join a convoy to Rangoon, then hire a flatboat to take you up the Irrawaddy River, contact Alistair, and bring the shipment of ore down to Rangoon, where a freighter will take over."

"Sounds to me like a lot of things could go wrong. For one, there must be some reason you haven't heard from Alistair. And where are the Japs? If Alexander's left, they can't be far behind."

"Nonsense. Admiral Badgely has assured me that the Japs haven't even set foot in Burma yet. And remember, we've been doing business in Burma without a hitch for sixty years. You will be given plenty of money to work with. Money always does the trick, son. Don't ever forget that."

"Uh huh."

"It happens that you will be joining the Navy tomorrow, son — on your eighteenth birthday — and shipping out eight days after that. This is an order son, not a request. Consider it as coming from Admiral Badgely. This is a chance for you to distinguish yourself, help the war effort, and incidentally help Wheatley Industries."

Jerry touched his forehead in a half salute. "Yes sir," he said, sitting up a bit straighter. "I'd rather you used all that influence to get me in the RAF, but I guess I don't have a choice, do I?"

"No. You don't."

"So what do I do next?"

"You'll report to Admiral Badgely at his home in London tomorrow night. He'll fill you in. As I understand it, you'll be given a one-week officer's indoctrination and then commissioned forthwith. You will travel to Rangoon on a supply ship as part of a naval convoy, leaving eight days from today, February fifteenth. It's the only safe way to get there. The ship will be routed to Gibraltar, through Suez, to Aden, and on to Rangoon. You'll return on the same supply ship, a converted merchant freighter, loaded with tin — Wheatley tin — and maybe some teak."

"Will there be a convoy coming back?"

"Frankly, I don't know whether the navy will be able to provide convoy protection on the return. Badgely could not promise anything. He tells me Suez is so jammed up, you may have to sail around Cape Horn. Badgely will issue orders to the freighter's captain, giving you discretion and priority as to the tin ore on the return. The freighter will be delivering war materials on the way out, and there will be no other cargo besides tin, and possibly some teak, on the return."

"Don't I have to go through some real military training? I don't even know how to shoot a shotgun. And I certainly don't feel right, being made an instant officer at eighteen."

"Badgely is aware of all that. He pointed out to me that there are plenty of less intelligent and less well-educated young men being thrown into positions of leadership. You were always a leader in school and a good student. You'll just have to do the best you can."

"Will anyone meet me in Rangoon? Will I be completely alone?"

"I'll try to set up someone to meet you and work with you, at least up to Mandalay. But with the war on, it's very difficult communicating half way around the world. I'm afraid telegraph service is poor. And so far, I haven't been able to reach Alistair or our Barclays branch manager in Rangoon. However, you can count on absolute cooperation from the bank. They owe us a lot. The manager there is Mr. Rupert, a rather stodgy fellow, but he jolly well should do handsprings to help you. I will provide you with a letter of credit which will give you plenty of resources to work with, and a letter to Alistair."

"Do you know anything at all about the situation in northern Burma?"

"No. All I know is that the army has pulled out but the Royal Navy will be there — much better at protecting the colonies than the army. In the north, you'll be pretty much on your own except for Alistair. But I have it on good authority that the Japs are still a long way away from the area. You have no doubt heard of Chenault's Raiders, the American volunteers who are flying over the hump to China. I understand they're flying out of Rangoon. Then there's the work on the Burma Road to China, which starts to the west of Mandalay. So there's still some Allied military presence there. But like I said, up north it'll be an easy wicket. You'll have all the help you need from Alistair."

Jerry couldn't sleep that night. He paced the floor and muttered to himself, "Bloody dictator. My father could give Hitler a lesson or two. This is a hair-brained scheme if I ever heard one, and it jolly well doesn't sound all that simple to me. He's more interested in the bloody company than in me — or the war effort for that matter. I've heard the Japs are into Burma and he doesn't consider that Alexander might possibly know what he's doing. Sounds to me like the RAF or the bloomin' Army'd be a safer place than Burma."

Portsmouth

February 15, 1942

Ensign Wheatley stood alone on the fog-shrouded wharf, studying the H.M.S. Stafford. She looks tired, he thought. A few streaks of rust showed through the two-tone gray camouflage paint. Even the Union Jack hung limp and tired from a short mast at the ship's fantail. Sitting low in the water, the ship appeared to be fully loaded. He noticed the loading boom lashed in place and stacks of crates tied down with canvas covers. The Stafford was ready to sail.

A single crewman, an officer by the look of his hat, leaned on the rail at the top of the gangway. With his canvas seabag on his shoulder, Jeremy climbed the steep ramp and saluted. "Ensign Wheatley reporting, sir."

"Welcome aboard, Wheatley. We've been expecting you. Second Mate, Bradford here." The Second Mate grinned and returned a sloppy salute, then reached out to shake hands. "You know, we're not regular navy here, just Merchant Marine — or what's left of us — not a lot of spit-and-polish nonsense."

Jerry grinned back at the friendly face which was mounted on a solid, six-foot frame. "Sounds good to me. I'm not very regular myself. Only been in your navy for eight days."

"Never mind the "sir" stuff on this bucket — except for the Captain. You can just call me Brad."

"I'm Jerry at home, though everyone called me Wheatley at school. Take your pick."

Jerry took an immediate liking to Brad. To Jerry, the wide features and broad smile spelled good nature and a sturdy, reliable sort, in spite of the casual manner.