Equidistant from the Himalaya Mountains and the China Sea there is a little chunk of America. Made of 300 tons of good American steel and peopled by a handful of American sailors, it rides the yellow Yangtze River and dodges the whistling Japanese bombs. It is the U.S.S. Tutuila, gunboat of the Yangtze River Patrol, moored at Chungking, China.
Since 1938, when she brought Ambassador Nelson T. Johnson and his staff from Hankow, the diminutive Tutuila has been in Lungmenhao Lagoon, 1,400 miles up the river from Shanghai. Her job is to run the radio for the American Embassy and uphold United States’ prestige in Central China.
Once upon a time other western nations used to have gunboats at Chungking but only the Tutuila remains. The officers and sailors of the other boats used to poke fun at the American ship; they laughed at the Yankee methods for conserving fuel; they snickered at the rigid precautions which the American Navy doctor enforced on his men; they thought it was ridiculous that alcohol wasn’t served in the United States ship, and they viewed with disdain the way our bluejackets did their own manual ' labor instead of hiring Chinese who were willing to work so cheaply. Yes, the other nations’ ships laughed at us, but now they are all gone! The Tutuila is the only foreign gunboat in the Upper Yangtze, and very proudly she floats there, her engines ready to turn over, her guns ready to shoot, and with a cheerful, healthy crew.
A sailor who has been ordered to the Tutuila takes the steamer to Hongkong. From there he travels by airplane to the wartime capital of China. Because of the Sino-Nipponese hostilities the planes must fly at night (especially in murky weather when the planes of Nippon find it too risky to be out), arriving in Chungking early in the morning.
What a change in scenery greets the new draft! A few hours ago he was in modern, luxurious Hongkong with its good restaurants, cabarets, and big stores. Now he is in drab, bomb-scarred Chungking, a great naked hunk of wrecked rock honeycombed with dugouts. Sometimes the air-raid alarm is howling as the incoming plane lands and the sailor spends his first morning sweating in an air-raid shelter with more Chinese than he has probably ever seen in his whole life.
The sailor gets out of the plane. He has just left Hongkong where white man is king; where Chinese servants and public men kowtow to the white man in exchange for British protection and white man’s gold. At the Chungking airport the sailor finds that his fair skin and blue uniform is no shining armor of special privilege. The bluejacket has to stand in line to have his baggage examined by the customs. And if he doesn’t watch, some aggressive and hurrying Chinese may shove him out of line.
The customs give him entrance. A coolie grabs his luggage (about 60 pounds; to last for one year), takes it to the motor-pan which the Tutuila has sent up to meet the plane.
“Hello, sucker!” greets the coxswain in the traditional manner; “if I had as long to do up here as you I’d shoot myself.”
“Put the bag in the boat,” the sailor indicates to the coolie.
The coolie holds out his hand for money.
Cash first.
“How much shall I pay him?” thinks the sailor. He tries to recall how much he paid for a similar service in Hongkong: about five cents American money. But the sailor is in a generous mood; he will give the coolie ten cents—two dollars Chinese money.
The coolie shakes his head; he wants more.
The sailor makes a grab at his luggage.
The coolie gobbles and shouts. He wants five dollars.
The sailor hands him three. The coolie throws it on the ground, clutches the luggage tightly.
A small crowd gathers. There’s nothing which pleases the Chinese more than an argument over money. The sailor swears in English; the coolie heckles back in Chinese.
The sampan coxswain is enjoying the scene, the same thing happened to him six months ago.
Suddenly the air-raid siren begins to sob.
Time to end the show, decides the coxswain. He wrests the seabag from the protesting coolie, throws it into the boat, pulls the new sailor in, kicks the motor over and shoves off.
The coolie grins roguishly, and in triumph picks up the three dollars from the ground.
“The proper price,” says the coxswain, “is two bucks. But the Chinks think we’re millionaires and charge whatever the traffic will bear. They’ll holler like Old Harry even if you pay them ten times too much. And, strangely enough, the more you overpay them the greater a fool they think you are.”
“A tough lot?”
“You haven’t seen anything yet!”
The air-raid signal moans again.
“The second alarm. Hope we make the ship before the Japs come.”
The air-raid siren is a signal for thousands to leave the city. Although the dug- outs hold about 350,000 there are still many who prefer the safety of China’s green-gray hills to being confined in a hole in the earth. The Yangtze is black with ferry-sampans carrying people to the South Bank.
The motor-pan comes alongside the Tutuila.
The captain, a lieutenant commander, is on the quarter-deck waiting to greet the new draft. Probably no other vessel in the Navy practices this custom. It creates a personal tie between the officers and men, yet it does not diminish the necessary official distance. There is much esprit de corps in this handful of men isolated among the swarming yellow millions of Central China.
The emergency air-raid alarm sounds. The Japs are close by.
“Glad to have you aboard,” the captain says to the sailor. “In a few minutes the Japs will celebrate your arrival in real man-o’-war fashion.”
The sailor goes aft to the crew’s quarters. He is surprised. The men have not gone “Asiatic.” Everything is spotless and shipshape.
Before the newcomer has a chance to stow his gear, general quarters is sounded. This is no drill! Magazines arc unlocked, shells broken out, spring pressure tested. Watertight integrity is checked. All hands wear life jackets and steel helmets.
No one wants trouble, but everyone remembers the Panay. Airplane lookouts are alert.
The new sailor notes with concern that five Chinese are in the ship during battle stations. They are even donning U.S. Navy regulation life jackets and helmets.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
The Chinese answer with good-natured contempt.
“They say,” says the interpreter, “that they are boatmen; that they have been in the Amelican Navy more years than you are old. They have served in the Saclamento and Tulsa; they helped cally the wounded flom the Panay. They say that even though they get only one hundled and tlenty mex a month pay, yet they are more Amelican in spilit and loyalty than you are.”
Yes, the five Chinese boatmen are fine men.
But where are the planes?
There is a sudden stillness over Chungking. The Chinese are pushing into the dugouts.
“A drone to the north!” calls the lookout.
Several miles outside the city the antiaircraft guns commence popping.
“Planes sighted,” comes the captain’s cool voice over the voice tube. “Two squadrons, about 70 planes. Heavy bombers. Coming directly over the ship.”
The planes are now visible to the naked eye. Coming straight over the Tutuila.
“Altitude 8,000,” estimates the gunner’s mate.
“Altitude 8,000,” repeats the gun captain scanning the range table.
Chinese anti-aircraft batteries are firing furiously.
“I wish I had a chance to spot for those babies!” says the gunner’s mate.
The black puffs are overhead.
“Take cover!” orders the captain.
All hands take cover, yet are near the guns. Yesterday a Chinese walking on the beach near the ship was killed by falling shrapnel.
Seventy Japanese planes are now over the Tutuila. This is the trying time. Where will the bombs fall? Will there be another “Panay” incident?
About five Chinese pursuits are harassing the enemy.
Where will the bombs land?
There they come! Whirrr . . . whooosh! The whistling of tons of explosives as they hurtle down!
“By God,” says the new man, “they’re coming right at us!”
The Chinese boatmen with eighteen years in the American service smile to themselves. They know that all of the bombs sound that way.
The Chinese pursuits seem to be diving through the Japanese formation. Such foolhardiness is unique. Usually the Chinese planes disappear during the bombings.
Wham! Wham! Great loads of incendiary bombs flash as they hit on the other side of the river, about 800 yards away. The pursuits have evidently thrown the bombers off a bit, for many bombs land in the river. Wham! another crash of incendiaries. A great spout of orange followed by sheets of flame licking the wooden buildings on the river’s edge. Once more the entire southern tip of Chungking is a raging conflagration.
One bomber seems to shiver a bit in formation, a feather of smoke coming from his tail. Somehow the Chinese have got the word; thousands of them are pouring from the dugouts to watch. For months they have heard of smashed Japanese planes; here is the prospect of being a witness. The plane drops out of formation; the trail of smoke becomes bigger and blacker. The plane dives, its heart-motor crying out with a terrific roar—crashes violently into the Third Range. Five hundred thousand Chinese scream in frenzied joy, forgetting, in their ecstasy, their danger of being in the open.
“Keep under cover,” orders the captain, “more planes.”
A small group of 27 is exactly overhead. ’Way up, 14,000 feet; they are little black dots.
All hands are apprehensive. Anyone who says he isn’t scared is a liar.
Whiirrrr eeeeyyye! scream the bombs.
Bram! Wham! Vast geysers of water are blasted in the air about 500 yards from the ship.
Wooosh . . . wooosh! Everyone instinctively flops out, hugs the deck. Blowie! a sally of bombs earthquake into the river 200 yards off the starboard beam. The ship shivers. Medicines fall off the sick-bay shelves. Glass tinkles. The decks seem to buckle.
More bombs land on the other beam. Earth and rocks are blown into the air. A boulder falls on the ship. Everyone hears the thud. No one has seen it fall. The Executive Officer rushes aft to see if it was a bomb. The gunner’s mate stands by the magazine flooding system; the shipfitter brings shores and a portable pump.
No damage. Just a bulge in the main deck.
“Straddle,” says the gunner’s mate, “are they doing it on purpose?”
“Don’t think so,” says the cook, “they’re just too high to be accurate.”
The planes leave.
“Velly damn close,” says a boatman.
“Velly damn right,” says the gunner’s mate.
A sampan with a sleeping Chinese floats past the ship. Look closely; the sleeping man has a small ragged hole in his head over the ear.
“Another shrapnel case,” says the pharmacist’s mate as he sweeps the broken glass from the sick bay.
The “All Clear” signal sounds.
The captain calls for the new man.
“Now, son, you may consider yourself a full fledged Tutuila sailor.”
There are no more Jap planes; Chungking instantaneously resumes normal life. Of course there are fires to extinguish and streets to clear.
During the bombing season there are absolutely no means of entertainment in Chungking. The Chinese New Life Movement forbids it and the Japanese bombers enforce it. The only outlets which the American sailors have are hiking, riding (both limited because of the steep, hilly terrain), and movies. The Tutuila’s Bijou is a grand institution even though, during the summer, it has few movies, and very, very old ones at that. In July, 1941, the ship held a grand dinner to celebrate the “World Premiere” of its most recently produced picture; the date of it was 1938. The night previous, however, Ben Hur had been exhibited. The replaying of the films does not diminish their pleasure-giving value much. There was one film shown sixteen times (The Baroness and the Butler, I believe); on the sixteenth showing the sound track went out. The crew sang out the lines and the show went on.
Another source of pleasure for the sailors is the caring for Chinese war orphans. Several years ago a philanthropical radioman adopted five young Chinese. When he left Chungking the orphans were distributed among his shipmates; the custom is still popular, and the group of Tutuila children is growing. The sailors love their adopted youngsters in a generous but unostentatious way. Because the Chinese of Chungking realize what the crew of the Mai Guo Ping Chuan is doing, the adopting of these homeless children has contributed a great deal to the high esteem in which Americans are held in Central China.
Another arm of the United States Navy which has influenced the Chinese opinion towards Americans is the U. S. Navy Truck Convoy. The mission of the truck drivers is to haul Embassy and Tutuila stores from Lashio and Kunming to Chungking. This is a nasty, tough 1200- mile run, probably the most dangerous road in the world—the Burma-Chungking Highway. It is an accepted fact that the U. S. Navy trucks make this trip in approximately half the time of commercial vehicles; this is because of the intelligent manner in which the trucks are driven and the courteous treatment accorded the Chinese. A Chinese vice-minister said (in May, 1940): “The performance of the U. S. Navy truck drivers in the last year has done more to further Chinese-American friendship in Western China than twenty years of concentrated diplomacy.”
Every American who comes to Chungking calls on the captain of the Tutuila. Travelers say they drop in just to have the joy of stepping on American steel again. One missionary made an excursion (to Mecca, he called it) to the Tutuila so as to “listen to the men talk, and not forget the lingo of my youth.” The strongest attraction, however, is probably the fact that the Tutuila has a steady supply of good Yankee coffee, cigarettes, and dysentery- free ice water. Also it is the only place in Chungking, I believe, having both a shower and a flushing toilet.
Thus the sailors become acquainted with many interesting and well-known people. Ambassador Nelson T. Johnson (now Minister to Australia) was a good friend to all in the ship. Every man in the ship had dinner at the Ambassador’s house some time during 1940. The crew, entirely on their own initiative and without any assistance from the officers, gave several dinner parties for Mr. Johnson. What jolly successes they were! Tough Szechuan chicken was mesmerized into tasting like luscious American turkey. Apple pie, oyster stuffing, cheese, and other items considered rare outside of Shanghai and Hongkong were produced through Yankee seaman ingenuity.
The Tutuila’s men know almost all of the newspaper correspondents; from them, and from just being in Chungking, the average bluejacket knows a great deal more about what is happening in the East than the average student of this topic. Occasionally Lieutenant Colonel David D. Barrett, U. S. Army, Military Attaché to the Ambassador, and one of the greatest scholars of Chinese, gives résumés of Chinese history, past and present; this gives the bluejackets a good background in Sino-activities.
To maintain the Tutuila in Chungking is a difficult job, and Mr. John Sailorman must be very clever to accomplish this task. It takes months for supplies to reach the ship; therefore there must be another source, besides importing material, from which to draw replacements for machinery breakdowns. There is another source—Mr. John Sailorman’s ingenious brain. The crew of the Tutuila must often design and cast its own spare parts. A good many of the gadgets in the ship have been created in Chungking without blueprints or technical equipment,; yet that ship runs as well as any in the Navy.
Even though the Tutuila remains in Chungking all year, yet considerable seamanship is required; Old Yangtze is a tough guy. He rises about 70 feet a year; sometimes 20 in one night. Just staying moored often requires a complex and speedy seamanship technique.
Chungking used to be a fairly gay place; dirty, yes, but gay. Men-of-war liked to tie up there. There were many warships there from time to time. The British naval men were the social lions of the community; the French were the witty blades. The Americans were the plain old dogs of the place. Their table manners were never just right; they didn’t know how to drink; they spoke too loud and were unsociable. Too practical.
Chungking is no longer a gay place. It is gray and sullen; it has been burned and bombed to a frazzle; its people have taken to holes in the earth like animals. Times are hard. Yes, times are hard, and with the tough going the social lions and witty blades have shoved off. Only the practical, blunt-nosed Tutuila remains in Chungking, her crew healthy and cheerful; she has a good supply of fuel, her engines are ready to turn over, and, if necessary, her guns are ready to shoot.
* This article was written before Pearl Harbor.
Note.—The Tutuila was turned over to the Chinese Government in March, 1942.