The Call of the Thunder Dragon (24 page)

Illustration 6: The
Burma Range

Falstaff was relaxed, there was
no sign of the Japanese, surely they were nearly home and dry?

Towards Myitkyina and on to
Mandalay beyond, the Irrawaddy flowed through a well-marked valley.
They flew the last few miles at a slow, steady forty knots. Below
the bright blue river made its last loop, opening into a wide basin
to cut through the limestone rocks.

This defile was about ninety
metres wide at its narrowest and flanked by vertical cliffs over
300 ft. above them.

With Myitkyina in sight, Falstaff
trimmed the plane for landing. He loved flying boats and cruising
sea planes. He grinned as he approached the town, the advantages of
the flying boats were many, having ready-made landing strips and
bases all over the world, beside ports and harbours, there were
rivers and, of course, the islands of the south seas.

Looking down Falstaff tried to
get his eye in to judge their height. Unfortunately, the clear blue
turquoise, colour of the water, flowing without a ripple presented
a smooth mirror. Judging the depth or their height above the water
surface by eye alone was nearly impossible. He set the throttles
ready, just over half open, their speed down to 10 or 15 knots. He
kept straight and lateral as their speed reduced, inevitably the
engines started to cough. It was now or never.

He threw out their mooring rope
over the side so it dragged on the surface of the water, using this
to better judge the distance he took them down lower. He dropped
the nose hard for the last 200 feet, pulling up into a semi-stall
just as the rope cut the water. With nose slightly up the floats
cut the water and smoothly settled. The strong current caught
immediately and they gently drifted onward.

Quickly, Falstaff undid his belt
and strained inside the layers of coats to wriggle into the bow to
retrieve a pair of small canvas drogues. The steel hoops covered
with canvas, tapered almost to a point, with the end left open.

Falstaff swore and yelped, the
thick coat hampering his movement as he struggled upright. A glance
showed that the river was running fast, spinning them towards the
town and the first bridge. There were several bridges across the
river at Myitkyina and frequent rocky and sandy spits breaking the
surface of the fast flowing silvery blue river.

Zam gripped Falstaff’s woollen
overcoat, pulling it off his shoulders.

“Thanks, you know I’m really glad
I’ve got you along on this trip old girl!”

“Old? John-di-di? You joke!” Zam
frowned, her forehead wrinkling sharply.

“No, - not old – it’s just a
figure of speech; like dear or near friend?” Falstaff patted her.
“You know?”

“Yeah! I know!” Zam’s frown
hadn’t improved. She thought Falstaff was being too familiar, at
least by his figure of speech it seemed he was taking her for
granted.

Falstaff then climbed up onto the
nose. Dropping one drogue then another into the water. On either
side of the aircraft. The drogues filled with water and started to
drag along each side of the bow. Falstaff let out the line and
adjusted them so the drogues pulled the aircraft straight, instead
of spinning. The plane now accelerated forward with the river.
Falstaff then dropped a sinker, a smooth cylindrical weight that
would drag along the bottom from behind.

Hoping over the top of the cabin
he dropped back into the cockpit. Started and revved both the port
and starboard engines slightly. The air flowing through the
propellers backwards onto the tail rudders was just sufficient to
steer them straight. Just as they come to the first bridge.

Falstaff breathed a sigh of
relief and hoped the next bridge would be as broad. The wing span
were greater than the little narrow fishing boats were long.

As they entered the town, they
started to see amused onlookers and fishermen landing their catch
on the short jetties sticking out into the river.

“We’ve a way to go yet, right
around the next bend.” Falstaff pointed out the town to Zam.
“There’s the Myoti pagoda! And look there’s the top of what looks
like a railway station?”

He pointed towards the column of
steam and smoke in the air above a two-story building. A row of
trees stood between the river and the track where they saw
carriages slowly moving out of the station with a throaty whistle
that sent a burst of steam into the air.

Zam had never seen a train before
and told Falstaff so.

“I always wanted to see it
myself, it is so thrilling. Much better to ride in a carriage like
that instead of in the air without a roof!”

Rail first came to Burma in 1877
and extended to Mandalay in 1889 and then on to Myitkyina in 1898.
With the opening of this railway, a continuous 724 miles of railway
line ran from Rangoon to Myitkyina. Despite this, the outpost
remained one of the remotest, most western, point of European
influence.

“We could take the train to
Rangoon? You and me, you’d love the service in the first-class
carriage. I could rest, no more flying till my ribs are
healed?”

“You would like that wouldn’t
you!” She frowned, the wrinkle twitching on her brow. “You lying in
bed while I look after you?”

Falstaff grinned. “Oh yes, yes,
please! Do you know how much this rib hurts? My whole damn side,
all the left side is stiff, from neck to hip! You can’t imagine –
“

Zam “John-di-di, watch the
river!”

Falstaff sat back and
concentrated on steering. There was a sticky moment as they rounded
the bend and navigated a sand spit, which split the flow of the
river.

As the Caproni spun sideways,
Falstaff hauled in the port side drogue and let the starboard one
drag them around until they were clear of the island.

The roads and jetties of the town
gave way to trees and farmlands. Then engines abruptly died. There
was now silence, expect the gentle burble of the blue river.
Falstaff left off trying to start them. Their fuel was now fully
expended.

They drifted in silence. Falstaff
relaxed, letting the river take them. Zam pointed at the birds in
the trees, diving into the water at flies or rising fish. Falstaff
sat back and closed his eyes for a moment.

Zam began to worry, prodding
Falstaff urging him to stop. “Hey, wake up - that was the town
wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but once around this bend
the river continues around in a loop, we’ll moor up on that side.
There is another village on the map? Anyway – there’s an airstrip
marked serviceable over the other side. We might be in luck and be
able to get some help. We bloody well need it now!”

Pulling in the drogues, Falstaff
steered pull the aircraft almost up to the bank before he turned
the aircraft tail in. With Zam’s help, they pulled the Caproni up
onto the bank, so the ends of the floats rested on the sand. They
moored up by a tree stump and put the drogues away. Dropping from
the nose, they managed a few steps and flopped onto the grassy bank
exhausted. The late afternoon sun was warm and the skies clear.

After a moment of relaxation,
absorbing the sun, letting it warm his face Falstaff spoke.

“You’re a strong girl, you really
can pull your weight!” Falstaff admired Zam sitting beside him. She
was gazing up at the mountains to the west.

“That ridge? Is that where we are
going next? From here, it looks higher than any of the mountains we
flew over today? Will the machine do that?” Zam frowned. “I was
very scared today.”

“Don’t worry so.” Falstaff pulled
her towards him. “You shouldn’t frown. We made a great landing
today; we’re in Burma. China and the Japanese are far behind us
now. And who’ve you got to thank for that?” He grinned and pulled
her closer.

“I told you good old Falstaff
wouldn’t let you down! I could be famous you know, this journey,
the Japanese troubled aside, could be record breaking. I could
write a book! Oh, it’s clear I’m already a great pilot... I’m an
ace you know? In two wars, but an endurance flight like this? Worth
celebrating don’t you think?” He tried to pull her down onto the
grass.

“No, I’m tired and hungry! We
can’t lie about here!” Zam pushed him away. “We don’t have time
now!”

Falstaff checked his watch.
“You’re right it’s five o’clock! Let’s cover up and come back in
the morning.”

Taking one bag between them they
left the Caproni moored on the riverbank amongst the trees. A short
walk brought them out on the side of a field. Skirting the edge
they found a path leading to a dirt track road.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Zam
was uptight and wasn’t expecting their luck to hold. “Where are
we?”

“It’s fine, look there’s a
signpost ahead!” Falstaff found energy to drag the bag in one hand,
hugging his still painful ribs with the other. “There, the sign’s
pointing that way to the airstrip and that way to Kyet-Paung and
Myitkyina. There’s a couple of farm houses off to the left. Looks
like a busy junction by Burma’s standards!”

“Have you been here before?” Zam
asked, sinking to the side of the road. “Your jokes, your language
are sometimes nothing but utter profanities! How can I trust such
bragging? Is everything a jest to you?”

“Alright, I’m Sorry! Technically
no, I’ve not been here before. Nearest I’ve been is over that way
Assam, at least I flew over part of Assam once.”

Zam rolled her eyes.

“Honestly it's beautiful!”
Falstaff tried.

Cholon ‘Chinatown’ Hanoi,

French Indo-China

Ono Itchi was a Japanese agent, a
cold blooded, calculating killer. An assassin. He had a thin sharp
face and habitually wore circular, wire frame glasses with black
glass to protect his keen, sharp eyes from the glare of the
afternoon sun. His hair was long, tied at the back, hanging down
past his collar. Over his shoulder hung a case for a Guquin.
Inside, the hollow instrument was filled with many instruments of
death.

Ono crept into the modest temple.
The temple of many Buddhas, Hanoi. He had been following a Chinese
businessman, who for a long time had shared in the profitable
smuggling and transfer of goods to Japan, via businesses in
Hanoi.

The businessman had a simple
change of heart and saw that the Japanese business was no longer in
his long term interests. Business with the Chinese Nationalists in
Kunming could be equally profitable and less prone to reprisals
from his own countrymen. He had been foolish not to consider the
wrath of the Japanese.

Ono Itchi gave no warning, the
order was simple when it came, kill him. Ono had flushed the man
out of China Street easily. Waiting until for the man to emerge
from his offices, he started playing a game. Firstly, unsettling
him, frightening him with the unexpected. Just as Ono did in the
past when collecting Yakuza debt’s in Tokyo. Playing with the
victim, getting them where he wanted them to be. Hurting and then
scaring them. Using their own pain and fear against them.

He had started by making an
innocent business appointment to meet the businessman in his
office, then he simply failed to turn up himself. Instead, he sent
a boy with a sealed letter suggesting that the man went home to
look after the security of his wife and home? The businessman, of
course had panicked and left his offices in a great hurry. Other
Japanese agents, were tipped off and moved in immediately to strip
the office bare of information.

The panicked man had arrived
home, breathless and scared. His wife was already dead. His home
was ransacked. The telephone line cut. Not an accident nor a simple
burglary.

The Chinaman had fled on-cue,
directed like a frightened pawn deeper into Ono’s game. Ono had
been waiting for him on his front doorstep. Ono had allowed the man
to live long enough to flee. To seek refuge in the temple.

Ono slipped his P38, a long slim
barrelled pistol, into his pocket. He swung the Guquin case off his
shoulder. Pulling out a sword from inside. A ninjaken, the Japanese
sword of the shinobi or ‘ninja’. A shortened version of the
Japanese sword, a practical, straight blade with a square
guard.

Ono pulled his blade from a
rough, easily concealed wooden sheath, with matching grip, so the
whole ‘saya
²¹
’ resembled nothing
more than a wooden stick. Ono lightly deposited the Guquin case by
the temple door and slipped silently inside.

The Chinaman was hiding, trying
to play his own little game, thought Ono, the oldest game of all.
Hide and seek. He looked around the temple garden that at first
looked deserted. His keen eyes scanned the lines of golden statues
inside the wall, a hundred painted golden Buddha’s looking forward
into the courtyard.

Child’s play Ono thought. He
would feel the eyes of the frightened Chinaman on him. He ignored
the gaze of the hundred Buddhas. He spotted him, the shadow of the
third statue on the left was different. More rounded and shaking.
Ono thought with a smirk, perhaps the man was trying to say his
prayers? Begging for help, begging for mercy at the ear of the
Buddha? Ono smiled he knew nothing of mercy.

He turned so his own ear was now
turned towards the Chinaman. He heard the muffled frightened breath
of the target and he felt a thrill. The kill was close.

He transferred the sword to his
left hand and he drew his pistol. He listened again he could hear
the man’s feet shifting as he tried to squeeze himself further into
the shadows. Ono whirled firing one shot, it smashed into the wall
above the shadow. Shame, Ono thought he’d been aiming for the
Buddha’s head. Must keep calm and still he told himself.

The silence was heavy. The
Chinese man’s heart rate increased, fear taking over. Ono heard the
pounding of the man’s heart, and anticipated what came next. The
man ran. Ono’s second shot penetrated the Chinaman’s throat dead
centre. Without pause, Ono fluidly stepped across the courtyard
into the shadows where the body lay. His sword flashed in the
dark.