MacArthur's Spies: The Soldier, the Singer, and the Spymaster Who Defied the Japanese in World War II - Softcover

Eisner, Peter

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0143128841 ISBN 13: 9780143128847

Publisher: Penguin Books, 2018

Synopsis

"MacArthur's Spies reads like Casablanca set in the Pacific, filled with brave and daring characters caught up in the intrigue of war—and the best part is that it's all true!" —Tom Maier, author of Masters of Sex

A thrilling story of espionage, daring and deception set in the exotic landscape of occupied Manila during World War II. 

On January 2, 1942, Japanese troops marched into Manila unopposed by U.S. forces. Manila was a strategic port, a romantic American outpost and a jewel of a city. Tokyo saw its conquest of the Philippines as the key in its plan to control all of Asia, including Australia. Thousands of soldiers surrendered and were sent on the notorious eighty-mile Bataan Death March. But thousands of other Filipinos and Americans refused to surrender and hid in the Luzon hills above Bataan and Manila. MacArthur's Spies is the story of three of them, and how they successfully foiled the Japanese for more than two years, sabotaging Japanese efforts and preparing the way for MacArthur’s return.

From a jungle hideout, Colonel John Boone, an enlisted American soldier, led an insurgent force of Filipino fighters who infiltrated Manila as workers and servants to stage demolitions and attacks.

“Chick” Parsons, an American businessman, polo player, and expatriate in Manila, was also a U.S. Navy intelligence officer. He escaped in the guise of a Panamanian diplomat, and returned as MacArthur’s spymaster, coordinating the guerrilla efforts with the planned Allied invasion.

And, finally, there was Claire Phillips, an itinerant American torch singer with many names and almost as many husbands. Her nightclub in Manila served as a cover for supplying food to Americans in the hills and to thousands of prisoners of war. She and the men and women who worked with her gathered information from the collaborating Filipino businessmen; the homesick, English-speaking  Japanese officers; and the spies who mingled in the crowd.

Readers of Alan Furst and Ben Macintyre—and anyone who loves Casablanca—will relish this true tale of heroism when it counted the most.

About this title

About the Author:

Peter Eisner, a veteran foreign correspondent and political editor, has worked at the Washington Post, Newsday, and the Associated Press. Eisner is the former managing director of the Center for Public Integrity. He is the author or coauthor of five previous books, including The Pope’s Last Crusade, The Italian Letter, and The Freedom Line, winner of the Christopher Award.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright © 2017 Peter Eisner

World on Fire

Japanese-Occupied Manila, Philippines, January 1, 1943

The woman they called Madame Tsubaki sashayed onto the nightclub floor after dark in a spotlight that cast her exotic silhouette against creamy drapes. She began to sing a tune from America, a song of love and longing:

I don’t want to set the world on fire

I just want to start a flame in your heart

She searched the eyes of the men around her—officers of the Japanese occupation, businessmen, and the Filipinos who did their bidding. Many spoke enough English to understand, though her gaze and the husky sound of her voice served well enough.

I don’t ever care to rise to power

I would rather be with you an hour

She could look around with satisfaction as she sang. Tsubaki Club was packed; they had turned people away. Everyone wanted to see the floor show at the Tsubaki—the name meant “camellia,” a rare, delicate flower in Japan. The club was at a busy intersection across from the Luneta, a romantic downtown park where palms and acacia leaves rustled, not far from Manila Bay. Outside on San Juan Avenue nighttime and the gentle wind softened the tropical heat that had stifled the city during the day; streetlights cast shadows at the entrance of the two-story wooden house set back from the street.

At the start of the evening, Madame Tsubaki had welcomed each of the guests at the head of the long, winding staircase. As they climbed to the second floor, the slit in her long, elegant gown made an alluring line from her ankle to the lower part of one thigh, intoxicating as the experience of entering the club was intended to be.

For the things that one can buy

Are not worth a lover’s sigh

She led them to one of the cocktail tables around the room or to rattan chairs on the periphery, where they could lounge and drink and relax and watch the show. When it was her turn to sing, they all were close enough to breathe her scent and admire the curves of her clinging dress. So she looked into their eyes and they all tended to fall in love.

In my heart I have but one desire

And that one is you, no other will do

Beautiful Filipina hostesses circulated in the room; each approached a table, bowing respectfully, as one must, and then waited to be asked to sit down. So sweetly they accepted offers of a drink. Yes, they could join them; the men smiled and the young women sat with them as if they were geishas ready to serve. A waiter would glide from table to table—beer, wine, whiskey, rum, gin, or some snacks. The men ordered, and the waiters bowed and returned. All for a fantasy, because whatever the women asked for, they drank only lemonade. The men received real drinks and paid a premium along with tips for their favorite hostesses; the women laughed and everyone smoked, a haze floating among them. All the while the band played with a Hawaiian lilt that sounded perfect in the Manila night.

Why not dream about an alluring singer and her song? It was a night for celebration—January 2, 1943, marked the first anniversary of the Japanese occupation and the ouster of the Americans. The puppet Philippine leader, Jorge B. Vargas, was exultant as he declared one year of “benevolent” rule by the Japanese: “The day is one of thanksgiving, especially for the residents of the City of Manila, because on that day they were enabled to resume a life of peace.”

Why not be festive? The war was going well enough. The Japanese officers had a chance to relax and dream far from the front. Some led the original occupation force, and some were bureaucrats fortunate to have safe administrative jobs beyond the line of fire. Others had rotated in for a while. None of them knew how long it would last, but for now they could brag of their victories this past year. If the Japanese soldiers blocked out the embarrassments—Doolittle’s raid on Tokyo and the Battle of Midway— they could focus on the fact that Japan controlled a swath of Pacific territory from Manchuria to Indochina and south to New Guinea. Early still in the war, a Japanese officer could take pleasure in such an evening in Manila, having ushered in a new Asian Empire of the Rising Sun: “Asia for the Asians.” Madame Tsubaki smiled and shimmied just a bit as she sang:

I’ve lost all ambition for worldly acclaim

And with your admission that you’d feel the same

I’ll have reached the goal I’m dreaming of . . . believe me

While she sang, Madame Tsubaki could look around the room: A full house meant good money on the night—more than enough to pay the bills, perhaps enough alcohol to loosen the tongues of the homesick, lovesick men. Madame Tsubaki had trained the alluring young women to be ready to ask questions.

Darling, the dew-eyed women would ask their Japanese guests. Why must you leave so soon? Where are they sending you? Can I write to you? When will you come back to me?

Soon. I will come back soon, the officers would say, innocent as it was, speaking to a beautiful girl, even if they never came back: off to New Guinea, or to bomb the Americans from a carrier, or to a submarine patrol. And they would say, As soon as I fight the Americans and shoot down their planes and sink them in the sea, then I will come back.

Banzai! the men would shout, raising their glasses. Banzai! And Madame Tsubaki and the young women would shout, Banzai! Banzai! with them and salute the defeat of the Americans. And Madame Tsubaki would keep singing, beseeching:

. . . Believe me

I don’t want to set the world on fire

I just want to start a flame in your heart

Midnight curfew approached and some of the men would want to take the lovely young girls with them and would offer them money. A few of the young women went along; it was good business and good money. A hostess could make tips, but if she went off with a customer, she could earn many times her salary at the club. Some of the women would just escort the young Japanese officers to a side couch for a bit of privacy. They could make extra tips that way and ask more questions. How long will you be away? Where can I write to you?

At the end of the evening, Madame Tsubaki said good night to the last of the guests. Women could be seen leaving arm in arm with their soldiers of the night. The Luneta and the Great Eastern Hotel were just a short walk away.

Madame Tsubaki retired to her dressing room, took off her gown, and wiped off her makeup. Some nights she had to fight men away from her own door. Most nights, though, she was quickly out the back door and down the steps in time to beat curfew, hoping to avoid a possible soldier with an attitude who might slap her for breaking the rules. She and everyone else under occupation knew that Japanese “benevolence” tended more to random stops on the street, a slap in the face for not bowing or not bowing deeply enough or making an unintelligible remark under one’s breath. People preferred to avoid such encounters, but it could happen. Once in the street, Madame Tsubaki became Dorothy Fuentes—one of her many aliases. But if by chance she was stopped on the five-minute walk home, she could mention the name of an officer or bow and smile or hope that someone else on the street—some Japanese officer—might know that this was the gracious Filipina hostess who had entertained his fellow troops at Tsubaki Club.

It was three blocks home; only there could she relax quietly, hoping not to wake up her two-and-a-half-year-old adopted Filipina daughter, Dian. She might smoke a cigarette, have a real drink, and hope to fall asleep. The next morning she would go to the club after breakfast and gather reports from all the women. They collated the names of the men and their units and, if they were lucky, the destinations of their ships, their ports of call, and the times their ships were leaving port. A runner from the hills or one of the waiters could then hide the report in the fake sole of a shoe or in the lining of a shopping basket, then bring the latest intelligence to their American guerrilla contacts in the hills. Before long, Madame Tsubaki would prepare for the next performance that evening, hoping to set part of the world on fire.

Life Before the War

Manila, September 20, 1941

Why had she come back to Manila? Claire never had a good answer. Her best friend, Louise DeMartini, awaited her at Pier 7 at the Port of Manila when the Swedish ship SS Annie Johnson edged into the harbor. The vessel nestled slowly into port guided by U.S. Navy vessels, weaving through the minefields that had been laid that summer. The tense passage was emblematic of the battle to come.

Claire came down the gangway carrying Dian, her eighteen-month-old foster baby. Louise, twenty-nine, an American from the West Coast who also lived in Manila, was shocked and said she didn’t understand. Americans were leaving the Philippines if they could. The newspapers said that war with Japan would break out soon. What was Claire doing going in the opposite direction?

“That’s newspaper talk,” Claire said. “The Japanese threaten and bluff, but I don’t think that they will ever fight us. They are not that crazy.”

Claire gave only vague answers. “Call it restlessness, fate, wanderlust, or the whirligig of chance,” she wrote much later. It might have been that it was easier for her to find work in Manila than back in the States, where her singing career had never taken off. Maybe she was running away from something, or running toward something. She never explained. Claire had many secrets and life had never been easy.

Claire sometimes would tell people that she had run off to the circus when she was around sixteen years old and worked with a snake charmer; others heard the story that she had signed on with the Baker Stock Company, a traveling vaudeville show organized by notorious showman and longtime mayor of Portland George L. Baker. She also said she toured the Northwest and learned to sing and dance, and she certainly switched and experimented with first and last names all the time. Whatever the real story, she was mostly a bit player and a chorus girl in the Baker shows that barnstormed the Northwest in the 1920s and 1930s.

She had been born Clara Mabel De La Taste on December 2, 1907, in Harvard City, Michigan, the second of three daughters of George and Mabel De La Taste. Early on, the family moved to Racine, Wisconsin, where her father was a barber. He was injured in a freak train accident while riding a passenger train north of Chicago in December 1909, just after Clara’s second birthday. A loose rail tore through the floors of several train cars; two people were killed, and George and three others were injured. George De La Taste died when Claire was about five years old, which would have been 1912. Mabel De La Taste moved Clara and her sisters, Eva and Georgina, to Boise, Idaho, after that and then in 1914 to Portland, Oregon, where she married Jesse Snyder, a marine engineer who worked in the Portland shipyards. Clara took the name of her new father and attended Portland city schools. Everything seemed straightforward up to that point. Clara Snyder was listed in the Portland Oregonian as being freshman president of the Girls’ League at Franklin High School for the fall term of 1922. That would have carried a degree of commitment and school spirit and indicated that she was popular and had friends at the school. Yet the young girl quit high school and left home around the time of her sixteenth birthday.

Sometimes she was Clara Snyder, using the last name of her stepfather. Sometimes she used the family name of her birth father, De La Taste, often switching among the names Clara Maybelle (instead of Mabel), Maybelle Clara, and Claire De La Taste—sometimes writing her family name as three separate words, others times as Delataste. Claire said she never liked the name Clara—at some point she altered it to make it sound more Anglo.

Throughout her life Claire changed her name so many times that even the FBI and the courts couldn’t keep up with her. She appeared to be concealing something. One constant: Claire always attracted many men, hauled them in for a while, and then cast them off. She was married at least three times in seven years, mostly to men much older.

She was still sixteen years old when she married Harmond W. Collier on September 5, 1924, in Vancouver, Washington, just across the Columbia River from Portland. His age is not known, but Collier legally could not have been younger than Claire was, and he was probably older. Claire was less than a year out of high school. She signed her name that day on the marriage certificate as Maybelle C. De La Taste.

Claire was still a teenager three years later when she married once again, this time in Salt Lake City, perhaps one of her stops on the vaudeville and carnival circuit. Her new husband was Edwin George Flinn. He was thirty years old and a World War I army veteran; she was nineteen. Their marriage certificate, issued on August 31, 1927, in Salt Lake City, Utah, gave her name as Clara Delataste and her marital status as divorced.

That second marriage could not have lasted long; Claire’s third known husband was Joseph V. Enette, a thirty-seven-year-old African American tailor from Louisiana approaching twice her age. They were married in Seattle on December 12, 1929, just after Claire’s twenty-second birthday; this time she signed as Clara M. De La Taste. That marriage lasted longer than the first two; she stayed with Joe Enette for a time. Joe and Clara Enette were living at 1017 Weller Street in Seattle, Washington, at the time of the 1930 census. The census form had a column for race, and that column listed both of them as “neg.”—that is, Negro. Claire was not African American, but Washington was one of a number of states with miscegenation laws that made it illegal for people of different races to marry. Joe and Clara Enette would have been subject to arrest with a possible prison term and fine if Clara had declared herself as white. While census takers were not officers of the law, an official who reviewed the census-canvassing sheet could have taken action. In any case, Clara might not have had to present herself at the door when the census taker stopped by. Clara and Joe were listed in a 1933 mail directory as living in Everett, Washington. Biographical details during the mid-1930s are scant after that.

However, Claire appeared on the Seattle police blotter in May 1933, having been picked up for vagrancy and identified at the time as Dorothy Smith. She might still have been married to Joe Enette afterward, because when she left the States for Asia she was carrying a life insurance policy as Mabel C. Enette. County records in Washington, Utah, and Oregon show no record of Claire having legally divorced any of these men. A cynic might ask whether they survived their marriages to Claire. In the case of George Flinn and Joe En...

About this edition

• Publisher: Penguin Books
• Publication date: 2018
• ISBN 10: 0143128841
• ISBN 13: 9780143128847
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 368