Please Enjoy Your Happiness by Paul Brinkley-Rogers

Author:Paul Brinkley-Rogers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Touchstone

Chapter 15

WHAT IS MY JOY?

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain

—Edna St. Vincent Millay, from “Sonnet XXX,” in Collected Poems

The Shangri-La sped south by southwest, past the main Japanese island of Honshu, past the smaller island of Kyushu, where Nagasaki was located, down the long string of tiny island jewels leading to Okinawa, and then to the Taiwan Strait, where the great mass of China loomed on one side and the island of Taiwan hid in the fog on the other. It was a journey of 1,400 miles. The People’s Republic of China was fiercely, theatrically anti-American. Just a few months earlier in 1958, “Red China,” as we called it, had unleashed deadly artillery barrages against Quemoy, Matsu, and other small islands within sight of its coast. The islands had been fortified by the Chinese Nationalist regime on Taiwan, which the Americans supported. It was the task of the Shangri-La to turn back any invasion by the mainland: that is why the ship had an arsenal of nuclear warheads. I did not have much sophistication when it came to understanding politics or making war, but you said, Yukiko, that I did know the difference between right and wrong.

Both the mainland and Taiwan claimed loudly to be China’s legitimate government. Both governments were dictatorships. The mainland government called the Nationalist government “the running dogs of the US imperialists.” The Nationalists called their foes “murderers” and “lackeys of the criminal Soviets.” I struck a neutral pose and tried to keep an open mind—an attitude that infuriated most of my superiors. They said I was disloyal. I was naive. I was sleeping with the enemy. I was red, a Communist, for sure. But you said when we talked about China—because, after all, you were born there—“Do not believe in propaganda. Believe only in yourself. You can be a very young and nice boy. You don’t have to be old and ugly to know what is true or false. And make sure you believe in me,” you added, laughing.

Then you recited what sounded like a short poem, in Mandarin Chinese. And then you sang a little children’s song in what sounded like Russian and while you did that you stared at your face in the mirror, tied your hair in pigtails, and said in English: “This is how I looked when my brothers were killed and my father was murdered. Yes. This was me. I was an innocent, like you. You will not always be innocent. Enjoy your youth, your glory, while you can.”

The fighter pilots who flew F-8 Crusaders from the Shangri-La sometimes told me how, when their mission took them near the Chinese coast, small groups of MiG-17 interceptors with red stars painted on their tails would challenge them from a distance. Then, without firing a shot, the Chinese jets would wiggle their wings, spin round, and zip back to the mainland. One flier said a Chinese pilot once gave him a

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