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  TO PARTS UNKNOWN

  A Novel

  John Anthony Miller

  Taylor and Seale Publishing

  To Parts Unknown

  John Anthony Miller

  COPYRIGHT 2014

  by John Anthony Miller

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical or mechanical, including photocopying, recording by any information, storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  Taylor and Seale Publishing, LLC,

  Daytona Beach Shores, Florida 32118.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Taylor and Seale Publishing, LLC

  Daytona Beach Shores, Florida 32118

  Phone: 1-888-866-8248 www.taylorandseale.com

  Table of contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Dedication

  To Cindy, Chris, Danielle, and Steffany — and the family and friends whose constant support is so much appreciated

  Special thanks to Dr. Mary Custureri and Dr. Melissa Shaddix at Taylor and Seale Publishing, Donna Eastman and Gloria Koehler at Parkeast Literary Agency, and the many advanced readers, all of whom worked diligently to make the manuscript the best that it could be.

  CHAPTER 1

  Singapore. February 6, 1942

  The howl of air-raid sirens greeted me on my first afternoon in Singapore. I knew the city was threatened, but I wasn’t prepared for a Japanese attack on the day of my arrival. I searched for enemy aircraft, wondering how the attack would be launched and how it might compare to what had happened in London.

  The streets began to fill with panicked people, shoving and pushing as they rushed for safety. If I had been home in London I would have known where to go. But Singapore was confusing, with few signs posted for bomb shelters and no directions on where they were. I was only a few blocks from my hotel where a shelter existed, but I wasn’t sure if I should try to get there. I watched as people swarmed through the streets, running in different directions.

  The door to a nearby shop burst open, the bell affixed to it dangling loudly. A butcher, still wearing his blood-stained apron, led two women into the street, their freshly wrapped meat under their arms. They started running towards a park just past a restaurant with outdoor tables. Other shops also emptied, and patrons joined pedestrians in a frightened mass that moved chaotically in a dozen different directions.

  I didn’t see an immediate danger. I heard no planes. No bombs were exploding. As people continued to scatter, I decided to return to the hotel. It was only three blocks away. In London the warning sirens sounded several minutes before the attack actually started. There was ample time to reach safety. But even then, not everyone made it.

  I walked briskly down Orchard Road, across the cobblestone streets, past the shops and street vendors’ kiosks, where everything from fresh vegetables to books to furniture to fish was sold on a daily basis. But I had gone only a few hundred feet when I realized the farther I went the emptier the streets became. A city that had been alive with people hurrying to work, shopping for gifts and life’s essentials, talking to friends, and idly passing the day, was now abandoned. Automobiles were deserted or parked haphazardly, some with their doors ajar, left by owners who valued their lives more than their vehicles. Street vendors left their wares on display, free for the taking should anyone be so inclined. Even the stray cats that wandered the sidewalks had suddenly vanished.

  I wondered if I had made the wrong choice. I should have sought the nearest shelter, started towards the park, where so many others had gone. But given how far I had walked, the park was now equally distant from the hotel. I continued on, breaking into a trot.

  I felt my heart pounding, its echo throbbing in my head. I had barely travelled a city block when I heard the drone of enemy aircraft. The sound of their engines increased slowly from a buzz to a roar, their distance from the city diminishing. Seconds later bombs exploded in a deafening blast. First one, then another, and finally a series of explosions scattered randomly across blocks of the city proper. Again I looked to the heavens, which were marred by only a few cottony clouds, but I saw no planes. I thought Orchard Road might be spared, just as specific targets had been chosen by the Germans when I was in London. Maybe the attack was centered on the docks, or the factories, the airport, or the naval base. Maybe it wouldn’t threaten me.

  After I had gone another block I slowed a bit, struggling to breathe. A plane appeared flying so low it skimmed the tops of nearby buildings. It sped forward with no specific destination; it was either in route to a target or departing from one. I could see the pilot in the cockpit, his face hidden behind a pig-like mask. And I saw markings on the fuselage, the Japanese flag adorning its wings, machine gun barrels protruding from its belly. It had been designed for one purpose: to deliver death and destruction.

  The rapid report of a machine gun sounded, and bullets burrowed into the street. A black sedan bore the brunt of the attack; holes appeared along the running board and up the passenger’s side door. A string of splintered bricks then danced across the boulevard, puffs of smoke and fragments of stone spitting into the air. Bullets moved across the street, and I felt the sting of stone shards biting my legs. The firing continued, raking the wall of an adjacent bakery and shattering the shop window, sending pieces of glass onto the display of pastries.

  I murmured a short prayer, then ducked into the doorway of a clothing shop. I was gasping for air. The bullets had barely missed me. My heart raced, my lungs burned, my muscles ached. I leaned against the wall, maintaining the smallest profile possible. The firing continued, spraying buildings and breaking windows. I had to think of a way to escape. If I stayed where I was, I would certainly die.

  I leaned against the wall, as far back in the vestibule as possible, my chest heaving. I waited another minute and then peeked from the doorway. The plane was gone. I started running as fast as I could, my legs burning with pain.

  Just as I reached Trafalgar Street, an explosion rocked the boulevard, louder than all that preceded it. I was blown from my feet, enveloped in smoke, dust and debris. I skidded across the cobblestone, scraping my elbows and tearing my shir
t and trousers. I was lost in a whirling kaleidoscope as signs and cars and trees and shop windows rotated around me in a dizzying display of destruction. Visions of my parents, the London fog, a rugby game in September, a college professor, Trafalgar Square, and my first-ever kiss with Sally Westgate flashed before me. And so did the night when Maggie died.

  The Malay Towers, a four-story apartment building, had burst into fragments. The front wall crumbled to the ground, falling forward in slow motion. I covered my head with my arms as it collapsed, and brick and timber and glass and bits of furniture rained from the sky. With one wall torn away, I could see the sagging floors of each succeeding level bending precariously. Fire raged from the structure, weak and distant at first, barely flickering, and then gathering strength and spreading, climbing the walls until flames licked the sky and blackened the horizon with smoke.

  As debris continued to fall, fragments of wood and stone pummeled my arms, legs, and torso before something much heavier hit me in the head. My vision dimmed and darkness slowly engulfed me. I wondered if this was death: a numbing sensation that very slowly spreads through your entire body, wrapping you in a cocoon of ever decreasing sensations until the body ceases to function. The sounds of the attack - plane engines, bullets bursting, and bombs exploding - all suddenly seemed dwarfed and distant. I could see Maggie, her image shrouded in mist, her hand outstretched. I reached for her, but she eluded me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t touch her. And then, as seconds passed, the sounds of battle grew gradually louder, starting with a muted whisper and growing in ever increasing decibels until the world returned with a deafening roar. Her image vanished.

  “Are you all right?”

  I raised my head, numb to my surroundings. A woman was leaning over me, a concerned look etched on her face. She was pretty but not beautiful, with a porcelain complexion and a mane of blonde hair that danced on her shoulders. She had an upturned nose, thin lips, and blue eyes that studied me curiously.

  “I think so,” I said, struggling to rise. “What are you doing here?”

  She smiled. And it was an amazing smile. As the corners of her lips turned upward, her eyes twinkled so brightly the skies lit in a thousand rays of color. “I was looking for someone,” she said. “But I found you instead.” She helped me up, and briefly checked for injuries. “You don’t seem badly hurt. Can you run? We have to get out of here.”

  As if to punctuate her statement, a bomb exploded a few blocks away. We both cringed and ducked, not knowing where it had fallen. A Japanese plane flew past, speeding to other targets.

  We started running down Orchard Road. I was bruised and dazed, but not seriously hurt. My nostrils stung from the acrid stench of gunpowder, and I choked on dust and smoke. As my senses sharpened, I realized that planes still swirled overhead, machine guns still fired, and bombs still fell.

  “Where were you going?” she asked.

  I pointed to the Victoria Hotel. “The bomb shelter,”I shouted.

  She nodded and kept running beside me. She had a satchel slung over her shoulder, which swayed in rhythm to her step, back and forth.

  As we neared the hotel, I heard a sputtering aircraft engine. An enemy plane was flying erratically, its altitude low. A string of black smoke trailed from one wing as flames sprouted from the engine, growing denser and thicker as it plunged towards earth. The speed of its descent increased; the pilot vainly tried to straighten the dive.

  I grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side of the road. We took refuge behind a delivery truck, its body neatly lettered: Fi Wong & Sons, Purveyors of Fine Foods. It was parked crookedly, its driver having disappeared, but it did offer some protection. Not much, but some.

  The entrance to the hotel was marked by an expansive lawn, bordered by beds of yellow flowers and marked by brick walls anchored by fluted columns. As we approached, the pilot tried to ease his descent, but the plane skimmed across the lawn, destroyed a bed of flowers, and broke in pieces as it bounced back onto the road. Parts of one wing and a section of fuselage slid past us, skidding down the street.

  The front of the plane came to rest directly in our path, battered and broken and bathed in gray smoke. As we moved around it I saw the pilot, still strapped in the cockpit, the glass shattered. The mask was torn from his smudged face, dangling from one ear, and his neck was twisted at an odd angle. Blood stained the front of his tunic and his forehead as it dripped down his face. His eyes stared vacantly forward, as if he could see his final destination, but it wasn’t where he’d landed. He was young, a man who would never know manhood. I thought of Maggie. She had died too young.

  I looked at the woman. She turned away, preferring not to see. She had an expression of complete revulsion on her face and looked as though she might be sick. I suspected it was the first dead body she had ever seen.

  I led her around the plane’s parts, pieces of wing, broken glass, and bits of fuselage that lay scattered on the lawn, and we reached the hotel entrance. The explosions continued, some distant and some near, interrupted by rapid bursts of machine-gun fire. I could hear the occasional burst of anti-aircraft guns; at least we were fighting back. And I had escaped.

  “Thank you,” I said to the woman. My lungs felt scorched; it was difficult for me to breathe. “I might have died if you hadn’t helped me.” I reached in my pocket and fished out a business card. I handed it to her. “My name is George Adams. I’m a reporter with the London Times. Let me know if I can ever return the favor.”

  “I’m glad to have helped. Are you sure you’re all right?” She pointed to my forehead. “You’re bleeding.”

  I was embarrassed that she’d had to rescue me. I should have been smarter and found a bomb shelter. I knew better. I had lived through the Blitz. “No, I’m fine. Thanks for your concern. Who are you?”

  She smiled, and I was again taken by the breathtaking beauty her smile brought to an otherwise ordinary face. “A guardian angel,” she said. Then she scampered down the steps and into the bomb shelter.

  I entered the basement and moved to the back where I collapsed on the floor in a seated position, my back against a sturdy column. She sat nearby, taking the satchel from her shoulder and plopping it on the floor beside her. A hundred hotel guests and employees were scattered about. Most were engaged in animated conversations, but I saw that some quietly prayed.

  I closed my eyes, thankful to be alive, and fought to catch my breath. I felt blood trickling down my cheek, and I noticed my trousers were torn and tattered. A knot on my head throbbed with pain. My left elbow was scraped but not bleeding. I was fortunate. It could have been much worse.

  I reached in my pocket for a handkerchief, withdrawing a pencil, a notebook, and Maggie’s photograph, but my hands were trembling so badly I dropped them all on the floor. I retrieved the notebook and pencil, but the snapshot had fluttered a few feet away.

  “Let me help you,” the man beside me said. “You’re hurt.”

  He picked up the photograph, looked at it briefly, and handed it back to me. Then he took the handkerchief and started dabbing at the blood on my face.

  “There are some small cuts on your cheek and forehead,” he said. “And a nasty bruise.” He pressed the handkerchief against the lacerations, stemming the dripping blood.

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s a bit tender.”

  I glanced at his face. He was engrossed in my minor injuries, dabbing at the cuts with the handkerchief, studying the wounds. I was grateful. No one else had paid any attention. The woman had avoided me after the rescue, but I didn’t know why.

  “The bleeding has stopped,” he said. “How about your legs?”

  I thought about my reception to Singapore. The London press reports were inaccurate. I would hardly describe the city as Fortress Singapore as it commonly was. The city was under attack, but the Allies were ill-prepared to defend it. The city was surprised and overwhelmed, confused and frightened. Victory would be difficult.

  I rolled up my torn pant
legs to the knee. Shards of brick were imbedded in several places on my calves and one larger fragment just below the knee.

  He examined them closely. “This may hurt a bit. Here, take a swig of one of these. The thermos is tea, the bottle is gin. Either one will help to calm you.”

  I opted for the tea. I took a sip, choking on the hot liquid before returning the thermos. I felt no pain, just an overwhelming sense of relief. I had survived. Nothing else seemed to matter.

  He removed the fragments of cobblestone, laying the shards on the floor. Then he poured some gin on the handkerchief and dabbed each of the entry wounds. “I think I got everything,” he said. “You’ll know if I didn’t. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I think so. And I do appreciate your help.” “Take another swig,” he offered the thermos.

  I put my lips to the container, taking a longer sip this time. It did help. I could feel the calmness coursing through my body. Still, although the pain was dissipating, the fear was not.

  I studied him closely. He was about forty years old, a good dozen years my senior, and the lines of life had just begun to etch the weathered skin of his face. His eyes, which were a sparkling blue, were his most striking feature. A two or three day growth of beard shadowed his face, and a yachting cap topped an uncombed mop of brown hair.

  “I’m Thomas Montclair,” he said. He thrust his hand forward, shaking mine firmly.

  “George Adams,” I replied.

  “That was worse than the last few attacks. They’re becoming more frequent. And more severe. Didn’t you hear the warning?”

  “Yes, but I was several blocks away. I just arrived from London a few hours ago. I wasn’t sure where to go.” It sounded ridiculous. There were probably bomb shelters everywhere. I could have just followed everyone else.

  He pointed to my notebook. “Are you a writer?”