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Our fifteen knots seemed painfully slow. Our schedule date of arrival in Lourenco Marques was August 27th. Half way across the Indian Ocean the British Staff of the Tokyo Embassy, who were traveling as exchanges, began to formulate questionnaires. Some of the lesser "dips" resented the presence of civilians on board, and would gladly have left "ordinary people" behind in concentration camps than cramp their style. There was much detailed work to be accomplished before we arrived. Repatriates had to be grouped according to their business connections, or organizations, or as simple units. What were future arrangements, if any, funds, if any. Some of the men of military age were mentally writing themselves down as indispensable material (executives -what, what!) for the various ministries, Information, Economic, Warfare, Transport, etc. No one filled in a form to join an infantry regiment. That was what was needed badly. There were many incumbent jobs with padded chairs and wrong information. At last August 27th dawned. This was The Day, The Place, Portuguese East Africa, - Mozambique. We arrived at sunset and docked, but no passengers were allowed to disembark until the forenoon. It was quite dark when we tied up alongside in Lourenco Marques. Only Portuguese officials and a few official British were permitted at the dockside. My ex-host Wood has made contact with the shore and discovered an "old Burglarian." Leave it to the old school tie to quietly do things. On the wharf was a British vice consul whom we both knew as he had formerly been in Canton. He told Wood that you and two children were in Lourenco Marques. You had arrived six weeks before and there had been a doubt if you would be allowed to disembark. What a relief to know you were alive, but did he say two children? My heart nearly stopped. Had the baby died in camp, or enroute? Two children? I shouted to Wood to ask if he was sure there were only two children. The official replied he was not sure.
"Is there a baby?" I yelled.
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