CHINA WINGS
Stan Wilson led his pals to a small shack on the waterfront and halted
before a flimsy door of matting. Over the door and along the wall were
Chinese characters painted in red. Below the characters was a faded
poster showing a slender American girl in a riding habit and wearing a
cocky little hat. The girl was holding high a glass of Coca Cola. Stan
pointed to the familiar advertisement.
“Looks like home,” he said.
“It sure does,” Allison agreed. “Those confounded soft drink ads are
plastered all over the world.”
“Here is where you sign up. I was down yesterday,” Stan said. “Still
want to head for China?”
O’Malley eyed the dilapidated building, then his eyes moved up and down
the street crowded with similar shacks.
“Sure, an’ I’m struck dumb with admiration by the elegance o’ their
headquarters, but if they have planes and petrol I’m joinin’ up.”
“They have both,” Stan assured him.
“Suppose we have a look inside,” Allison suggested.
Stan tapped on the wall beside the door. After a brief wait the matting
swung aside and a brown face appeared. Two glittering, black eyes
regarded them. The doorman was a Malay, smaller than the average. His
lips were stained red from chewing betel nut and his skin was a rich
red-brown.
“Come,” he beckoned softly.
Stan shoved O’Malley forward and Allison dropped in behind. They
entered a small room lighted by yellow rays which filtered in through a
screen covering a high window. The room was divided into two parts by a
long grass curtain decorated with painted cherry trees and mountains.
Against this backdrop sat a gaunt Chinese at a small desk. He wore a
white jacket and a pair of billowing pants. His deep-set eyes peered
out at the three fliers from unmoving lids. Slowly he lifted a bony
hand to his chin and fingered its carved outline.
“Welcome,” he said in a soft voice. “Welcome and please sit down.”
The only place to sit was on a bench before the desk or upon one of the
many cushions scattered about on the floor. The boys seated themselves
on the bench.
“General, I have brought two men who hope to join the China Air Force.
They are the men Commander Beakin reported upon, and the same men I
told you about,” Stan explained.
“I am grateful. China is grateful. To have three aces from the Royal
Air Corps is indeed a great gift.” The general’s voice was smooth and
controlled, but his eyes were searching and watchful.
“There was to be another man. He should be here,” Stan said.
The thin, yellow lips parted in a smile. “Mr. Munson asked to come one
hour later. He informed me he had an engagement.”
“Sure, an’ I’m thinkin’ this Nick Munson is a bad one,” O’Malley broke
in.
The general beamed upon O’Malley. “It is good to be of a suspicious
nature. However, we have checked the credentials Mr. Munson presented
and find them eminently satisfactory. He boasts overmuch, perhaps, but
China has great need of instructors and pilots.”
“We’ll handle the spalpeen, General. We’ll break his neck if he gets
funny,” O’Malley assured the officer.
“He may well break his own neck if he does the things he tells us are
easy for him,” the general said without smiling.
“We are prepared to be watchful, that is what Lieutenant O’Malley
means,” Allison explained.
“I believe as much, and so we will get on with the few details which
must be settled. First, I must warn you that efforts are being made to
prevent recruited pilots from reaching China.” He smiled and went on
with hardly a pause. “You will be paid one thousand dollars a month in
American money for your services. You will be under the orders of our
renowned general, Chiang Kai-shek, as regular officers of the China Air
Force. I have made out the papers you will need to present at the air
base from which you will fly. Once you have reported you will not carry
these papers on your person. Should you be forced down behind enemy
lines or be in danger of capture, you will divest yourself of your
uniform under which you will wear Chinese clothing. This is for your
personal safety.”
“So the Japs won’t shoot us on sight?” O’Malley asked.
“They seldom shoot prisoners. They use them for bayonet drill, lashed
to a post.” The general’s eyes were hard and clear.
O’Malley straightened aggressively and started to say something
uncomplimentary about the Japs. Stan broke in.
“Thanks, General.”
O’Malley got to his feet and thrust out a huge hand. The general took
it and gripped it.
“Don’t you worry, sor. ’Tis no Japs will be botherin’ yer supplies once
we get up north,” O’Malley said gravely.
The general laughed. “You are most wonderful boys. I wish you good
luck, and, as they say, happy landings.”
Stan hesitated, then faced the general. “Where did you learn to speak
English, sir? Many of your phrases sound very familiar.”
“I come from San Francisco, where I was born. Like yourselves I am
a foreigner helping a great people resist an aggressor. When the
liberty of China is secure I shall return to San Francisco and my law
practice.” There was a twinkle in the eyes of the general.
March Allison laughed his old, cynical laugh. “A Yank,” he said and
snapped a smart salute which the general returned.
Out on the street a minute later he turned to Stan. “What is his name?”
“Tom Miller,” Stan replied.
O’Malley stopped and looked at Stan. “What sort of a country have you
got over there?” he demanded. “By the shades o’ St. Patrick, if that
general is Tom Miller, I’m Chiang himself.”
“We have Irish policemen, Chinese lawyers and Hindu doctors,” Stan
said without a smile.
“I’m going over there after the war,” O’Malley declared. “Just to have
a good look.”
At that moment the Malay boy who had admitted them to the presence of
General Miller appeared.
“Come, please,” he said.
They followed him toward the waterfront. At a small fruit stand they
met a short Chinese youth dressed in white duck pants and wearing a
flat, straw hat. Their Malay guide bobbed his head and spoke in Chinese
to the youth. The youth smiled at the three fliers, revealing two rows
of even white teeth.
“Welcome to the China Air Arm. I am Tom Koo, flight officer.”
“I am Stan Wilson. This is Bill O’Malley and March Allison,” Stan said.
“Allison will command our flight.”
O’Malley was looking closely at the soldier. Tom Koo was dressed the
same as a thousand other Chinese they had passed on the waterfront.
Suddenly he asked, “You come from San Francisco?”
“Yes,” Tom Koo answered, “but how did you know?”
“I’m an expert,” O’Malley answered. “Anyway, no man could fail to
recognize a Yank.” O’Malley grinned broadly and Tom Koo looked greatly
pleased. He turned to Stan.
“You, too, are an American?”
“I sure am, and we’ll show up the Irish and the British, Tom,” Stan
said very seriously.
The Chinese flier laughed softly. “That will be a very difficult thing
to do. You see, I am informed of the records of Majors Allison and
O’Malley.”
“It’s action we crave, Spitfires and Japs,” O’Malley broke in.
“Japs you shall have in large numbers,” Tom said. “And spies and crooks
and saboteurs to add to the excitement.” The smile faded from his face
and he looked grim. “But first you have a boat ride which will take you
to an island where we have a flying field. It is best that you do not
return to your barracks. Your bags will be forwarded to you.”
The three walked beside Tom Koo. About them milled shouting and
laughing Tamil and Hindu traders, expounding the value of their wares.
In the midst of such a group stood a fat Chinese. His shrill voice rose
above the tumult and the shouting. Tom shoved his way toward the fat
boatman.
The boatman did not seem to see them, but others turned to look. The
fliers wore street clothing and were taken for tourists who would have
money to spend.
“I will go on. You will speak to the boatman. Say you wish to take a
boat ride.” Tom Koo moved away after giving these instructions in a low
voice.
Stan was closest to the burly Chinese. “We want to see things. Have you
a boat for hire?”
The boatman turned and his black eyes fixed upon the three fliers. His
round, fat stomach bulged above the sash he had knotted around it. His
head was shaven and smooth and his face was wrinkled into a mass of
genial furrows. He was almost an exact copy of the little statues of
the god of happiness they had seen displayed in the shop windows. He
bowed stiffly and placed a huge straw hat on his head.
“You payee--big?” he asked.
“Sure,” Allison said. “American silver dollars.”
The fat man looked around, then headed toward a junk moored at the
wharf. The boat was high-pooped, square-sterned, made of carved wood,
and staring popeyes were painted on the bows. On its deck was mounted a
gun of a model which had been in use a hundred years before. Stepping
on board, the three fliers found deck chairs under a canvass awning.
Seating themselves, they watched the Chinese boatman maneuver his craft
into the bay by using a long pole. The junk slowly proceeded away from
the wharf, clearing the hundreds of odd-looking craft moored there.
A breeze fanned lazily over them and the boatman hoisted a huge sail.
The junk lumbered slowly out across the oily waters. Stan noticed that
the man kept watching the shore. He wondered what the fat boatman was
looking for. Junks and other craft were coming in or putting out, and a
motorboat darted out from among the moored vessels. The boatman grunted
and shrugged his shoulders as he gave his attention to his sail.
After that nothing happened in the bay, so Stan gave his attention to
the shore line falling away astern and to wondering if the American
instructor would get out to the island.
A number of small islands loomed ahead. The junk skirted the green
patches so closely that they could see the natives going about their
daily lives. The details of their tiny, palm-leaf shacks, standing on
stilts over the water, could be seen clearly.
The day was hot and steamy and the tide was running low. The receding
waters left vast, flat banks of slimy, stinking mud, alive with
crawling creatures chased by long-legged birds. Along the bank myriad
mangrove trees hugged the shore, their naked, crooked roots exposed.
“Reminds me of a basket o’ slimy, wrigglin’ snakes,” O’Malley observed
sourly.
“It all smells very rare,” Allison said with a grin.
Stan was not watching the shore ahead, he was looking at a motorboat
which had appeared off one of the small islands. It was the same boat
that had put out into the bay at Singapore. It was cutting toward them,
sending a white wedge of water foaming back from its prow. The Chinese
boatman saw it and burst into a high-pitched chatter.
“Looks like we might have our first taste of the stuff Tom Koo spoke
about,” Stan said.
O’Malley watched the oncoming boat with interest. “Sure, an’ we might
have a bit of excitement,” he said eagerly.
“We may have to make a detour to Rangoon,” Allison said softly.
“Our boatman is scared stiff,” Stan observed.
“If we had our service pistols we might have some fun,” Allison said.
“But all we have are our fists.”
O’Malley grinned wolfishly. He had gotten up and was leaning over the
rail. The motorboat circled the junk and came alongside. It was filled
with little brown men armed with long poles. A chunky fellow stood in
the prow. He shouted up to the boatman.
“Yer delayin’ the parade!” O’Malley shouted down at the man in the
prow. “Get that raft out of our way!”
The leader of the crew looked up at O’Malley, then turned and began
chattering to his crew. At that moment a white man appeared from a
little cabin in the rear of the motorboat. Stan and Allison got up
quickly. The man was Nick Munson. He stood looking up at O’Malley.
“I missed the junk and set out to overtake you. I’ll be aboard in a
minute,” he called to them. Ducking back into the cabin he came out
with a bag.
“Well, jest imagine that,” O’Malley drawled.
Stan looked over at O’Malley and suddenly his eyes narrowed. O’Malley
was sliding a service pistol into the ample pocket of his trousers. He
moved close to the Irishman.
“How come you filched a gun?” he asked. “We were to turn them in before
we left London.”
“I’m that absent-minded,” O’Malley said with a grin. “I got so used to
the feel o’ Nora snugglin’ in me pocket that I jest couldn’t part with
her.”
Allison looked at Stan and there was a glint in his eyes. “Sometimes
that Irisher shows a glimmer of brilliance,” he said.
Nick Munson clambered aboard the junk. Dropping his bag, he wiped his
forehead and sank into a chair. He spoke two words to the boatman in
Chinese.
“I reckon you learned to speak Chinese in a United States plane
factory,” Stan said, and his eyes locked with Munson’s.
“I picked up a few words along the waterfront in Frisco,” Nick answered.
The motorboat roared away and the junk moved on its slow course around
a small island beyond which they could see a larger expanse of land.
Stan sat back and watched Nick Munson who was giving O’Malley a big
line about dive bombers. O’Malley was taking it all in and grinning
amiably at Munson.
Presently they sighted low buildings on the island, then the gray and
silver forms of several transport and bomber planes rose into view.
As the junk moved closer they saw that the island was humming with
activity. Malays and Chinese ran about and many white men mingled with
them.
“Hudsons and P–40’s,” Stan said.
“Fine stuff,” O’Malley chimed in. “They got full armament.”
“China, here we come!” Stan shouted.
Allison leaned back and there was a sardonic look on his face. He
puffed out his cheeks as he watched.
“Not bad, old man, not bad at all.”
Nick Munson stood up, his eyes moving swiftly over the scene, taking in
all the details. His lips curved into a smile.
“Ideal spot for an attack, no cover, nothing.” He spoke slowly as
though pleased with the idea.