_Warriors' Duty_
With a grin on his lips, and a happy song in his heart, Dawson rocketed
the Jap MK-Eleven across the sky toward the six P-Forties. And Freddy
Farmer half stood up in the rear cockpit and waved a wild greeting to
the Flying Tigers. The pilot of the lead plane waggled his wings in
reply, and then he and his five buddies swept by the MK-Eleven and
came about fast to take up escort positions. Dawson glanced over at
the leader and grinned broadly. The Flying Tiger returned the grin,
and then made signs with his hands to inquire how much gas Dawson had
left in his tanks. The Yank air ace took a quick look at the gauge and
gulped. True, he had some gas left, but not nearly enough to get him
to Kunming. In fact, he had only fifteen minutes or so of flying time
left. Unless there was a field within fifteen minutes range, he and
Freddy were still going to have trouble on their hands.
Turning his head toward the Flying Tiger in the leading P-Forty, he
lifted up his free hand and opened it and closed it three times. The
Flying Tiger nodded acknowledgment, gave Dawson a reassuring wave with
his hand and then pointed ahead and to the north. And just twelve
minutes later the pilot waggled his wings once more, dropped the
shark's-head nose of his plane, and went sliding downward. Dawson took
a look downward and swallowed hard. As far as he could see there wasn't
the sign of a field below. There was nothing but lush green jungle and
cliff and crag-studded hills and mountains. He knew they were over the
Burmese border, but at just what point he could only guess.
"I hope that guy isn't kidding!" he grunted absently. "You could break
your neck without any trouble landing in that stuff down there. Oh,
well. Here's hoping, anyway."
There was no need for Dawson to be worried, however. A little under a
minute later, the leading P-Forty eased off the angle of its glide, and
slid around the corner of a hill range and settled down onto a small,
level field, that looked like anything else but from the air. The
other five Flying Tigers went down in rapid succession to show Dawson
where he should land. And then, just as the Jap M-Eleven's engine was
sputtering out the last of its song of power, Dawson whipped off the
ignition switch, and coasted down the rest of the way.
No sooner had he touched ground than a couple of Flying Tiger mechanics
rushed out and waved him over to the side of the field where heavy
tropical growth grew like a solid green wall. They grabbed his wing
tips, and helped him wheel-brake the plane in under the edge of the
stuff. And when Freddy and he finally legged down onto the sun-baked
ground, there wasn't a single plane left out in the open for prowling
Jap eyes to spot from above.
"Wonder what this place is?" Dawson grunted, as he and Freddy watched
a dozen or so youths in American Volunteer Group uniforms come running
over to them.
"I think it's near Menglien, in Burma," the English youth replied.
"Between the Indo-China border and the Salween River. But what does it
matter? We're in very safe hands, and praise the good Lord for that!"
"Check, and double check!" Dawson echoed the statement. "Now, just one
more hop, and this crazy messenger boy job will be all over."
Freddy Farmer started to comment on that but checked himself as the
group of Flying Tigers arrived. They were all American boys, and a
warm, satisfying feeling flooded through Dawson. One of them, a tall,
dark-haired man with a major's insignia on his shoulder straps, flipped
a hand up in friendly salute and acted as spokesman.
"Welcome to Burma, Captains Dawson and Farmer!" he said. "How's one of
those Jap crates fly? And did you really swipe it in the Philippines?
Oh, yeah. I'm Major Brown, Fifth Group Commander. I'll introduce you to
the boys later. But welcome, anyway."
"Thanks, Major," Dawson said with a faint frown. "How come you know who
we are, and that we swiped this MK-Eleven in the Philippines? We didn't
think anybody knew it, except maybe some Japs."
"That's just the point," the major replied with a chuckle. "Some Japs
_did_ know it, and now the whole world knows it, maybe. At least, if
they've been tuned in on the Jap radio in this neck of the world.
Darned near the whole Jap Air Force has been looking for you for hours.
I guess some of them must have got close, eh, to force you this far
south. According to the Jap radio, you two were supposed to be headed
for Chungking."
For a couple of seconds neither Dawson nor Freddy Farmer could say a
word. Their feet, figuratively speaking, had been knocked right out
from under them. The fact that their supposedly secret journey to
Chungking had been publicized just about as much as Santa Claus' yearly
trip on Christmas Eve left them speechless, and gaping at the Flying
Tiger C.O.
"Jap radio, sir?" Freddy Farmer finally found his voice. "You mean, the
Japs have been broadcasting this thing?"
"Well, mainly for Jap Air Force consumption, I guess," the major
replied. "But anybody who tuned in, and understood Jap, could have got
the story. Part of it, anyway. We've got a radio here, of course, and
one of the boys understands Jap. So we learned that Captains Dawson and
Farmer are wanted plenty bad by the Japs. It seems they are believed
to have stolen a plane near Legaspi, in the Philippines, and are
undoubtedly headed for Chungking. All available Jap pilots were ordered
into the air from Hong-kong to the Burma border to find these two
wanted lads, and force them down and take them prisoner. _Force_ them
down, not shoot them down. Maybe you know why. I don't. Anyway, we were
out on patrol when our ground station relayed to us that the Japs had
sighted you, and where. Seemed as if you might get into trouble, so we
busted out a ways to help if we could."
"And how you did, Major, how you did!" Dawson exclaimed. "And thanks
from the bottom of our hearts. Yes, we do know why the Japs want us
alive. We--well, we've got an important date in Chungking. I can tell
you that much, anyway. But it sure is a shock to learn that the Japs
over here knew all about us. We'd been thinking we were pretty slick to
have given them the run-around."
The Flying Tiger C.O. grinned and shrugged.
"Things like that happen, and often," he grunted. "It sure does beat
all how secrets get around in this darn war. But they sure do. And from
my experiences with the Japs I've learned that Hitler's trick Gestapo
hasn't got a thing on the little brown slant eyes when it comes to
espionage and stuff. But here, here! You two must be about dead on your
feet. We can compare notes later. You'll be wanting food, and rest.
Or--or are you really in a hurry to get to Chungking?"
"Frankly, we are, sir," Dawson told him. "We began this trip from
London four nights ago, and---well, there's just one more hop to make,
and we'd sure like to get it over with, if you get what I mean? So we
were wondering if you could spare us gas for this MK-Eleven to get us
to Chungking?"
Major Brown scowled and shot a worried look up toward the clear blue
sky.
"We've plenty of gas," he said presently. "It isn't a case of that.
But this MK is a marked ship, Dawson, and there are flocks of Japs on
patrol between here and Chungking. You'd never make it unless some of
us went along as escort. And--"
"Well, could we borrow a couple of your P-Forties, sir?" Freddy Farmer
interrupted politely. "Then the Jap beggars probably wouldn't suspect.
And we'd bring them right back. Not necessary for us to remain in
Chungking for any great length of time, you know."
The Flying Tiger C.O. sighed heavily, and looked very sad. He gestured
toward twelve Curtiss P-Forties well dispersed about the edges of the
small field.
"Those are all the ships we have," he said. "And just enough pilots to
fly them. At any other time, I'd say take a couple and luck to you. At
any other time, too, I'd radio Kunming for permission to have us all
escort you up there, and you could fly the MK. But both of those things
are out now. Maybe this mission of yours is plenty important, but--"
The senior officer paused and shrugged again.
"But we've got an important mission coming up 'most any minute, too,"
he continued presently. "A matter of some twenty thousand Chinese
soldiers caught in a trap, and about to be slaughtered by the Japs.
Sometime today every A.V.G. unit within reach is going to try and fix
it so's those Chinese soldiers can get out of the trap. If they don't
make it today, they're sunk--every one of them!"
"Good gosh!" Freddy Farmer breathed. "Twenty _thousand_, you say, sir?"
"And maybe more!" the other said grimly. "Northwest of here, about
sixty miles. At a bend in the Salween River. The Chinese are on one
side, and a much larger Jap force on the other. A surprise move that
caught the poor devil Chinese cold. The river is shallow there, but
right behind the Chinese is a five hundred foot cliff. They came down
it by small road and foot path. Just infantry units, with no artillery
support at all. Meantime, the Japs had closed in on the other side of
the river, _with_ plenty of artillery. So the Chinese are caught both
ways. If they try to retreat up the cliff roads the Japs can pick them
off like flies. And if they try to cross the river and get at the Japs
with their machine guns and rifles, the Jap artillery can drown them
like rats--by the thousands. We _hope_ to ground-strafe and light bomb
the Japs so much they won't have time to let the Chinese have anything
before the Chinese have been able to force the river crossing and
can come to close grips with them. If we don't do that today, Chiang
Kai-shek's boys are lost. The Jap artillery will have all been moved
into position by nightfall. So you see--"
Major Brown gestured, and left the rest hanging in mid-air. Both Dawson
and Freddy Farmer nodded, and showed their understanding and sympathy
with their eyes.
"Well, in that case, sir--" he began, and stopped.
He stopped because at that moment three things happened all at the same
time. First, an A.V.G. orderly came pounding up on the dead run.
"Word's just been flashed, Major!" he panted. "Group take off and
proceed as ordered!"
The second thing that happened was the ungodly wail of the air raid
siren mounted atop a small shack on the far side of the field. And the
third thing that happened was the sudden, lightning-like appearance of
a lone Jap Zero wing screaming around the corner of the hill range, and
straight down toward the field.
Dawson had hardly spotted it before he saw the jetting streams of
orange-yellow coming out from the leading edges of its wing. It swept
down low until its belly was almost touching the field, and it came
straight for the group near the MK-Eleven. Dawson heard Major Brown
roar out for everybody to duck for cover, but the order was quite
unnecessary. Everybody had done just that, and as Dawson tried to bury
his own body deep in the sun-baked ground, his ears were filled with
the savage snarl of the Zero's gunfire. It was as though the plane were
sitting right on top of his head, and its guns pumping bullets straight
into his brain. And mingled in with the chattering roar was the sound
of fire from ground guns posted about the field. Then suddenly there
was silence, to be shattered almost immediately by a terrific explosion
just overhead.
Impulsively Dawson twisted over and stared up to see what was left of
the Jap Zero about six or seven hundred feet up in the air. Ground
gunners had obviously caught it cold, and its gas tank had blown it
into all those flaming splinters that were now arcing out far and wide.
Its dead pilot, however, had seemingly fulfilled his suicide mission.
As Dawson twisted over he saw that the MK-Eleven was on fire and
blazing fiercely. That fact snapped him out of his trance and brought
him leaping up onto his feet with a cry of alarm struggling up his
throat.
It was then, though, that he realized there was no gas in the MK-Eleven
for those raging flames to explode. And it was then, also, that he
saw the terrible look on Major Brown's face. Wild, seething rage, and
bitter, heart-crushing agony flamed on the senior officer's face.
Dawson leaped over to him and grabbed his arm.
"You hit, sir?" he shouted. "Where? Take it easy, and--"
"I'm okay!" the other snapped. "But Stevens, and Gregg. They caught
one. They can't go. That leaves only ten of us to do a big job. I
wonder if--"
"Ten nothing!" Dawson roared as he saw the two wounded Flying Tigers
stretched out on the ground. "You've _still_ got twelve. What do you
think Farmer and I do for a living? Drive tanks?"
"But, but Chungking!" Major Brown sputtered. "I can't ask you two to--"
"And you can't stop us, either!" Dawson cut him off. "Chungking?
Listen! Twenty thousand trapped Chinese soldiers are worth making
Chungking wait! Heck! You think Freddy and I would sit here and cool
our heels while all those Chinese lads are trapped? And by dirt rotten
Japs? Nuts! What two planes, Major? Point them out, and let's go!"
"Over there, numbers six and ten!" the Flying Tiger leader cried. "And
good--!"
"Same to you!" Dawson snapped and started running. "Come on, Freddy.
Shift it! We've got some _real_ flying to do for a change!"
Not over two minutes later twelve shark head-painted Curtiss P-Forties
went roaring up off the surface of that field, slid in close in
formation, and went cutting around and up toward the northwest. Flying
at number three on the right, Dawson turned his head and grinned over
at Freddy Farmer flying the same formation position on the left. The
English youth seemed to feel his look, for he turned his head and
returned the grin. They both nodded silently and immediately returned
their attention to the business of flying.
"Tough on those two lads hit!" Dawson breathed to himself as the
formation went ripping along over the uninviting terrain of North
Burma. "But what a break for Freddy and me. Once again going into
action with the Flying Tigers. Hot dog! And here's hoping that this
time things will turn out even better than that other time, which was
plenty, what I mean!"[3]
[Footnote 3: _Dave Dawson at Singapore._]
With a grim nod for emphasis, Dawson twisted the little button on the
stick to "Fire" position, and made sure that everything was set to
release the cluster of twenty small strafing bombs fitted to the under
side of the wings. Everything was in order now, and all that was left
was the passing of time, and the arrival at the objective.
And that arrival seemed to become a fact almost before Dawson could
blink his eyes and take a deep breath. As though by magic, three more
Flying Tiger Groups materialized in the Burma sky. And just ahead at
a hair pin bend in the muddy Salween River, the ground on both sides
was beginning to belch up flame and smoke. But most of the flame and
smoke came from the north side of the bend, from the heavily fortified
Japanese positions. And it seemed to be no more than a couple of split
seconds later that Dawson was wing-screaming his Curtiss P-Forty
practically down at the vertical.
In his earphones he heard Major Brown bark orders for two of the Flying
Tigers to stay top-side to ride herd and watch out for Jap planes. But
he didn't turn his head to take a look at the two who were to remain
aloft. He kept his eyes fixed on the picture below, and his blood
boiled with anger. Trapped was right! And how! It was like a small
edition of the beach at Dunkirk, during the British evacuation of
France back in 1940. Thousands and thousands of brave Chinese troops
were huddled in the shore growth with the suicide cliff at their backs.
And across the river's bend in the low hill, thousands and thousands
of little slant-eyed rats of Nippon were hurling death and destruction
into the midst of those Chinese. The foothills seemed to explode shell
fire every three or four feet in any direction. And trailing backward
along the narrow roads were columns of supply trains moving upward
with more horror and more death for those helpless Chinese.
All that and more Dawson saw and absorbed with his eyes as he went
roaring downward. And then he was within range of the Jap forces, and
all thoughts of everything fled from his brain. That is, all thoughts
of everything save the constant thought of hammering those hordes of
slant-eyed rats into the ground as long as he and his plane and his
guns could hold out. Here was a chance to pay back for some of the
things he had seen and had suffered himself. Here was a chance to fight
for a gallant nation; a nation that had held its own against the Tokyo
vermin for so many years. Chungking? Sure! Freddy and he would get to
Chungking presently. Right now, though, the lives of twenty thousand
Chinese soldiers hung in the balance. The lives of twenty thousand
Chinese soldiers, and some thirty odd shark-painted Curtiss P-Forties
overhead to do something about it!
"Don't worry, pals, we'll blast them out for you! We'll blast the
rotten bums out even if we have to come down and do it with our bare
fists! And how, pals! And how!"
Silly, crazy words? Certainly! But Dave Dawson's brain was afire with
the excitement of battle. And besides, words shouted and screamed
aloud are simply a warrior's escape valve in the heat of conflict.
Sure! Crazy, silly, inane words! But there was nothing crazy or silly
about Dawson's guns, or the light strafing bombs fitted under his
wings. Nor was there anything silly about the way he and the others
tore right down until their props were practically flipping off the
helmets of the Jap troops. And nothing silly about the way they blasted
ammunition truck after ammunition truck on the roads, and knocked
scores and scores of the little brown devils out of the world at
practically every tick of their wrist-watches.
Before those Flying Tiger P-Forties had arrived, the Japs had been
turning the opposite bank of the river bend into a smoking, blazing
graveyard. But now it was all very different. The graveyard had been
moved to the other side of the Salween's bend, and the Japs were
getting the savage, relentless back-fire of something they had started.
"So? Think so? Well, think again, but good!"
The words automatically burst from Dawson's lips as he caught sight of
two heavily loaded ammunition trucks rocking down one of the roads
straight for the river's bend. Chinese troops relieved from the
terrific pounding of Jap fire were starting to swarm across the shallow
river and get at close quarters with the enemy. Some Jap officer had
spotted them, though. Or perhaps it was just a suicidal idea of the
drivers of those two ammunition trucks. At any rate, the two trucks
were hurtling down to the river's bank to plow into the water among
those swarms of Chinese troops, and blow them all to bloody pieces.
That was the mad Jap suicide idea. But two steel-eyed eagles spotted
what was taking place. Two steel-eyed eagles who had been feasting
on juicy roast beef in London just four nights before. And down they
streaked like two man-made birds of vengeance straight for those two
trucks hurtling toward the river's edge. And when he was little more
than a few feet over the leading truck, Dawson dumped the last of his
light strafing bombs, and instantly nosed upward for altitude. On that
load of exploding death he could practically have dropped a lighted
match!
Hardly had his P-Forty started to prop-scream for the sky before the
whole of Burma below him exploded in a world-shattering thunder of
sound. He had purposely dropped down low so that he would be sure not
to miss his target. And so his zooming plane was caught by a thousand
invisible hands, spun around like a top and flung high and far across
the sky. Instinctively he tried to battle the helpless plane, but he
might just as well have tried to jump out into thin air and hold it
back with his two hands.
Earth, sky, fire, smoke, and sections of airplane spun around in a
mad race before his eyes. He saw the Jap hordes retreating from their
positions in mad, frenzied flight. He saw wave after wave of Chinese
soldiers swarming across the river and lighting out after the heels
of the fleeing Japs. He saw a section of his left wing let go, and
go sailing off into space. He even saw Freddy Farmer's P-Forty come
tumbling down past him. And a split second later his own plane broke
in two right at the cockpit, and popped him out into thin air as a pea
pops out of a pod.
In a dazed, abstract sort of way he knew that he was falling through
space. He knew also that his right hand clutched the rip-cord ring
of his parachute. He thought, but he wasn't sure, that he had yanked
the ring, and that the lifesaving white parachute silk was billowing
upward. He had just a vague idea that the parachute had mushroomed out,
and that his fall had been checked. However, there was no time to get
control of his neck muscles and twist his head around and up to look.
There wasn't time because at that instant jet black night sky seemed to
drop straight down on him--and he knew no more!