The Call of the Thunder Dragon (21 page)

His superiors were divided as to
how to respond. Most of their resources were occupied pounding the
area around Foochow into submission. Therefore, reinforcements were
required to ensure the security of the airfields. The docks were no
problem, the navy had come into shore and were bombarding the
terraces and businesses around the barracks that had briefly been
surrounded.

Despite the drive to punish and
quell the Nationalist rising, there was sympathy for Colonel
Haga-Jin or at least there was concern for reputation of the
Japanese people after the debacle. There the many wounded and all
but a hand-picked team of eight had flown back to Foochow.

The remaining team, under
Haga-Jin’s command, with Captain Soujiro and his best lieutenant
Goemon, a huge man, born in mountains of Hokkaido, plus eight of
the most reliable and loyal paratroopers
.

The flying boat boasted a pair of
machine guns in the bow and a twenty millimetre cannon in the tail.
The cannon was sweeping back and forth slowly covering the lake
shore and the market avenue. The remaining paras picked the best of
the weapons, as the wounded left. A heavy machine gun had also been
set up. The rest of the men patrolled purposely up and down the 40
meter strip of shoreline they now occupied. Snow gently drifted
overhead without settling. However, the chill wind bit into their
bodies, but they could endure it, for the glory of Japan.

Falstaff pulled Zam up into the
cockpit, they crawled into the nacelle, cramped, cosy and dim, it
offered adequate protection from the elements. Falstaff showed Zam
how to light the stove to boil water for hot water bottles and
tea.

Dropping down again Falstaff hand
turned the props ready to start. He then circled the Caproni
ensuring the flaps and covers were tight and taunt and the edges
secured.

Zam prepared by filling every hot
water bottle, securing the stove and water inside the cabin,
packing the spare water bottles against the radiator piping, that
looped around and across the back the compartment.

Falstaff was wearing a huge
padded woollen Chinese coat over his leather jacket. He had on a
number of vests and shirts, his leather boots, gloves and his
leather flying helmet and goggles. His face had been covered in
grease and wrapped over with another scarf.

Zam was similarly wrapped against
the elements. Falstaff had given her a padded paratrooper helmet
and goggles. From those discarded by the Japanese and claimed by a
young boy who’d demanded 12 coppers for them. Once settled together
in the cockpit an extra roll of bedding was unfolded across their
knees. An open cockpit in the winter was Falstaff’s least favourite
form of flying. After test flying float planes and catapults off
ships into the North-sea. Cold and wet, the worst combination he
cursed at the memory. Here he was again covered in grease and
wrapped in a dozen layers about to take off for Myitkyina in Burma
nearly 400 miles away.

Falstaff had known it to rain in
China, continually all day, winter or summer. The snow was
thickening. It was already the worst he had ever seen since being
in Asia. He hoped the snow would ease off or they’d be flying
through a blizzard.

Flying squirrels disturbed by
their preparations and the rattle of the wires and wings in the
wind dropped from the snow dusted treetops. Spreading the wing-like
skin between their legs to glide to the forest floor to search for
nuts, before racing away and up the pine tree trunks.

If the Japanese were going to
catch them on the ground they would have to be quick Falstaff
thought. He fired up the engines, which started, with great relief.
One, two, three. The forest floor swarmed with squirrels and birds
scattering in all directions. A bloom of snow and debris kicked up
by the engines rolled across the forest floor behind them. The
Caproni rolled forward, first on its wheels, then on the floats,
which skimmed the surface of the icy snow, frozen hard by the wind
coming off the lake.

As they hit the hard sandy slope
down to the lake, they built up speed. He could see the marks left
by the frequent use of the ramp by the fishermen with their boats.
Falstaff studied the slope and turned the tail rudders, so they
would hit the lake shore on a diagonal into the shallowest
water.

He gripped Zam’s hand. The noise
from the engines and wind drowned out his words, but she smiled
anyway. Then hunkered down into the layers of bedding.

“By George! I hope we hit the
beach with the nose up, or we’re going to get wet! Tell me brought
a swim suit darlin’!”

Colonel Haga-Jin clasped and up
clasped his hands. The cold wind was stinging his newly stitched
face. He pulled the thick overcoat tight against the stinging
buffeting wind.

Captain Soujiro, despite his
injury, had remained behind, keen to do his duty to the Emperor. He
was lying on a stretcher waiting on board the flying boat. His
wound was narrow, but clean through his foot. Falstaff’s knife, a
thin stiletto blade had been well hidden in the boots and had been
razor sharp.

“Bring me Falstaff’s body, that
is all we ask! This matter will be closed. Our purpose here was to
find these foreign terrors and put an end to their destructive
activities!”

“I am sorry Colonel.” The old
police sergeant spoke impatiently, he thought he’d been rid of the
Japanese man once before. Now he had returned as a beastly Colonel.
“I have conducted a search, your lieutenant accompanied us, - there
is no sign of the pilot!”

“He is dead!” Haga-Jin insisted,
“Where is his body?”

As if in answer, they heard a
rumble that turned to a roar. The Italian three engined Caproni
raced across the slopping gravel, into the shallow water across the
curve of the river bank opening onto the lake shore.

They all ducked. Colonel Haga-Jin
slipped falling to his knees into the thickening snow on the muddy
shore.

The Caproni barely cleared the
top of the huge Kawanishi flyboat, but Falstaff had the pleasure
seeing the Japanese scatter. Everyone on the ground ducking for
cover again once more, - Falstaff was airborne.

Illustration 5: Up
into the Snow Storm

The front gunner of the Kawanishi
was awake. Obviously sat attentive at his guns. A finger hot upon
the trigger. A line of tracer zig-zagged widely, then narrowed
towards the target.

Falstaff left the engines on full
throttle. Pulled the yoke back gently. The heavy, dense air lifted
them rocketing up out of range into the billowing snow.

“By Edward, Wallis and George! We
did it!” Falstaff roared. Taking one hand off the yoke, he reached
over to triumphantly take Zam’s hand. Squeezing her it, he shouted
to her to pass his notes and then breakout the Brandy.

The Police sergeant stood back
shaking his head. Never had the resort ever had such unwanted
guests. He hoped he’d never see the like again. Swearing to the
gods of the river. He would rather the town be drowned and taken by
the river than have to suffer such an invasion again.

Song joined him as he watched the
Japanese hurried scramble to board the aircraft and push off.

“Well, my husband? You did a good
job but couldn’t you have called in your boss earlier?” She scolded
him sarcastically, “And why did you let that filthy Japanese spy
out?! We knew who he was!”

The police officer shied away
from his wife, Song, taking cover behind Old man Bo.

“Well, that’s it, they’ve gone!
Took long enough!” Relieved that the town was free of the Japanese.
Who were unlikely to return unless the Japanese wanted to create
and fabricate another incident.

Song handed old man Bo the silk
handkerchief left by Falstaff. The ‘blood chit’ bearing General
Chiang Kai-Shek’s promise for reward.

“See I get the money, why don’t
you?” She flicked her nose and made a fist. Despite the slippers
and her hair in curlers, she was frightening and as sharp-witted as
ever. “The place is mess! I never want to see another Japanese in
my hotel!”

“Come on, he paid you didn’t he?”
Bo insisted.

“Yes, he did, very generously.”
Song opened her hand showing two gold bars. The original, plus
another – donated by the Japanese, via Falstaff’s pocket.

The snow was thick and
visibility poor. Inside the Kawanishi was chaos. The equipment and
machine guns had been thrown aboard, waiting on the floor to be
stowed. Instead the men pressed their faces to the windows,
searching the skies.

The rear gunner spotted the red
plane, buzzing the message to the pilot via the intercom. The pilot
swung the big aircraft around to bring the flying boat on a path to
intercept.

The intercom buzzed in the cabin.
“Colonel we have them in sight, are we to pursue?”

The Colonel pushed his way to the
cockpit, ordering additional men with binoculars to take watch in
the bow. The front gunner normally a lonely cold position, suddenly
he found himself penned in by two paras sent to watch the distant
red speck.

“Yes, pursue, I clarified our
orders, this man Falstaff is a known antagonist! He has initiated
trouble all over China, - he is wanted for interrogation by the
army and Navy! The kempeitai has extensive files on him. Stay on
his tail. I will be on the radio to Shanghai!”

The pilot watched Haga-Jin
go.

“Falstaff, eh?” He said to the
co-pilot. “Do you think he really knows what a devil that man is?
I’d rather fly into the farts of demon Fujin himself than tangle
with him!”

The Colonel shooed the radio
operator away, taking a new notebook he dialled in the frequency
for Shanghai. After half an hour of scribbling and four broken
pencils, he finally realised he was possibly on the tail of
Japanese’s number-one most wanted.

Chapter Six – The Journey Begins

Falstaff steered the course he’d
memorised, checking with Zam against the headings he’d written
down.

“I hope you know how to use that
compass?” He teased, leaning over to speak into her ear. Their ears
were covered against the cold and cutting wind. The padding just
adding to the difficulties of communication. Happily Zam gave him
thumbs up.

Falstaff pulled out his hot water
bottle then indicated the back of the nacelle. Zam nodded and
crawled through the narrow gap between the fuel tanks into the back
cabin to fill and changed the water bottles. Helping keep the cold
out, with heat from within. The nacelle was still draughty, but the
radiator pipes gave off plenty of heat.

Outside in the cockpit, Falstaff
struggled with the build-up of snow on his goggles. “Can’t a see
damned thing! Have they stopped firing at us yet? Darn snow balls
worse than the ack-ack guns over Madrid!”

Zam had originally wondered at
the necessity of the extensive preparations. She had to concede
Falstaff had been right; she’d learnt a lesson, having grossly
under estimated the time required to fly to Bhutan. The bitter
chill of the wind was like nothing she had known before. Even on
the mountain trails on the back of a horse she’d never felt such a
wind. She wondered at Falstaff’s determination to carry out the
task, having seen for herself his planned flight path.

She diligently watched the water
boil on the little stove, clamped to one of the support struts for
the huge engine. The stove and water juddered in sympathy with the
engines vibrations. The water was warm to start with resting on the
pipe work for the radiator. Zam looked under the thundering engine,
she reached out and touched it where she saw a shining black line
of slick oil.

Falstaff felt a nudge, looked
around to see Zam’s gloved finger thrust toward him. He saw the
black oil and quietly sucked in this breath.

‘Damn’, one of the pistons must
be leaking he speculated. He gave a thumbs up and cheery nod.

After Zam had gone he throttled
down on the rear engine, there was no point in pushing it too
hard.

Zam returned to the cabin and
felt a change in the vibration from the engine. Wiping her hand
clean, she filled the hot water bottles, then started to make tea
and rice. The water had boiled so quickly, she concluded it was
just as easy to reheat the rubber hot water bottles by leaving them
on the pipes.

Falstaff throttled down the rear
engine to half the revs on the pusher. It wouldn’t make much
difference to their speed since they were now on course and
descending. He wasn’t keen on stopping the engine altogether, in
case one of the other’s failed.

Falstaff’s face was numb with the
cold. His legs were beginning to chill, his feet already numb with.
He envied Zam being able to move around. He tried wriggling around
and bobbing about in his seat, but the whole aircraft reacted. So
he sat stock still holding the yoke and keeping an eye on the
compass and altimeter. Immobile he felt the wind cutting through
the layers. He silently thanked Zam for hot water bottles, although
he would have preferred to have her pressed against him instead. He
lingered on that thought, then realised he better start navigating
instead of leering over his passenger.