Dave Dawson with the Flying Tigers

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Blood In The Sky "Skip it," Dawson grunted, and got up onto his feet. "The thing for us to do is to make tracks away from here, before we both get carved up into small pieces. Now, let's see, which way, I wonder?" "I suggest south, Dave," Freddy Farmer spoke up quietly. "I think that Zero field is in that direction. Fact is, while I've been here I think I've heard air engines toward the south. So?" Dawson grinned at him, and winked. "So we think alike, pal," he grunted. "We haven't got anything to fly now. And it's a long swim, and a long walk, to Chungking from here. Right, Freddy. The least we can do is take a look to see if the Japs can help us out any—without knowing it." "Yes, it's a hope, though a blasted small one, I fancy," the English youth murmured. "First, though, there's this jungle. Dash it all! I never saw stuff grow so close together. Looks like it would take us days to go a mile." "Then let's get started," Dawson said, and took one last look back at the burning plane. "Remind me, Freddy, to send Air Forces Command at Hickam Field a letter of apology for washing out their ship." "Right you are," the English youth promised. Then, with a half-chuckle, he added, "And I'll be delighted to deliver it in person , if you know what I mean?" "Way ahead of you, kid," Dawson replied. " You just remind me to write it, I'll take care of the delivery angle—I hope!" With a grin, and a nod for emphasis, Dawson turned toward the south and started to push and squirm and wiggle his way through the dense, steaming jungle growth. Two year-long hours later Dawson stumbled over a hidden root for the umpty-umteenth millionth time, and let his weary body sink down onto the soft ground. Freddy Farmer, right behind him, sank down too, and for a couple of minutes neither said a word. As a matter of fact, neither had the breath to spare for spoken words. Their uniforms were ripped and torn in half a hundred different places. And there were just about as many tiny cuts on their faces and hands. And to top it all off, they were drenched with jungle swamp water, and plastered with sticky yellow mud from head to foot. "How about taking turns carrying each other piggy-back, pal?" Dawson finally broke the silence. "And you carry me, first." "Suits me," the English youth came right back at him, "if I don't have to go more than two or three yards. But, gosh, I am tired. And if you want to know my opinion, Dave, I've had the tiny little fear this last half-hour or so that we've been traveling in a circle." The half-grin on Dawson's dirty face faded, and a grave, somber light stole into his eyes. "I know, Freddy," he said quietly. "The sun has touched all four sides of us at least once in the last half-hour. I don't think we made so much as a quarter of a mile in a straight line south. In short, Freddy, you and I are very definitely lost." "Yes, definitely," the English youth echoed with a faint catch in his voice. "However, there's no use crying over the fact, I fancy. The only thing we can do is to rest up a bit, and then keep pushing on southward. This is the Legaspi area, I'm positive. We're not on one of the smaller islands. So if we keep at it long enough we're bound to—" A lightning-like warning gesture of Dawson's hand stopped Freddy Farmer cold. Both youths froze stiff, and locked eyes as they listened to the sounds that came to them through the jungle growth to the right—sounds that neither of them understood. But they didn't have to, because the sounds were the sing-song rising and falling intonations of Japs talking with one another. "Close!" Dave breathed softly into Freddy's ear. "Too darn close for my liking, pal. Got your gun ready?" The English youth didn't answer. He simply nodded slightly and fixed his eyes on the wall of jungle growth that separated them from the little brown butchers of Nippon somewhere beyond. CHAPTER THIRTEEN Blood In The Sky As Dawson crouched there motionless at Freddy's side, and listened to the Japanese speaking voices that seemed not to come closer, nor to retreat, a crazy impulse caused him to glance down at his wrist-watch. The crystal had been smashed in the crash, and the minute and hour hands were gone. The second hand was still in place, however, and ticking around its little graduated dial. Yet it seemed to stop and wait after each tick as though that were the last, and there would be no more. Then suddenly it would jump around to the next graduation mark, and pause and wait again. Of course, it was actually moving all the time, but because of the terrible suspense that held him rigid, his eyes and his brain played him crazy tricks. And then suddenly the grip of Freddy's hand on his arm dragged his half hypnotized attention from the watch. The English youth put a finger to his lips for absolute silence, and then pointed ahead and to the left. Dave bent forward to sight along the pointed finger, and caught his breath sharply. He was staring through a small opening in the heavy growth, and there not more than twenty yards away were five squat, chunky, slant-eyed Japs. Each was armed with one of the deadly Jap sub-machine guns, and the expression on each face was that of the lustful desire to kill, and maim, and torture, for the sheer diabolic pleasure of so doing. The little group had come to a halt and were all sharing something that one of them portioned out from a bag he carried slung over one shoulder. In a dull abstract sort of way, Dawson guessed it was the daily handful of rice that keeps a Jap soldier going when on the march, or on the hunt. However, it was no more than a half-hearted guess, because his attention was not fixed on what they were doing, but on what they looked like. The uniforms they wore, and the branch of service insignia on their uniforms. And though the uniforms were dirty and shabby, and much the worse for constant wear, he knew in a flash that that little group of Japs were aircraft mechanics. And an instant later when he twisted his head around to meet Freddy Farmer's eyes, he knew that the English youth had recognized that fact, too. Freddy was grinning, and there was the light of wild hope in his eyes. He leaned forward quickly so that his lips were against Dawson's ear. "No doubt chaps sent out to inspect the crash, Dave!" he breathed softly but with tingling excitement in every word. "And that they've stopped to have a bit of their blasted rice must mean that they're on the way back to their field. Right?" "Dead right!" Dawson breathed back with a grim nod. "Sure wish I knew the Jap lingo. I'd give a lot to know if they think the B-Twenty-Five's crew burned up in her. But we've just got to hope that's so, and trail them back. Okay by you, Freddy?" "Where they go, we go!" the English youth replied. "Only I hope it isn't far." "Something tells me that it isn't," Dawson said with a little gesture. "Just a hunch. Okay, we tag along behind. But watch it! Those little tramps have plenty sharp ears, and our guns can't outshoot what they're carrying." "You watch your big feet, and I'll watch mine!" Freddy assured him. "Don't worry. And—There! They're moving off, Dave. And, say! I can see it, now. The blighters are following a path. Praise the Lord for that. Make it easier to keep up with them. Come along!" As the English-born air ace spoke the last he got swiftly and silently up onto his feet and began virtually to squeeze his way through the heavy tropical growth. Dawson followed along right at his heels. And just that, too, for it took all of his efforts to keep Freddy Farmer's heels in sight. The English youth was like a shadow, and just about twice as silent, as he melted forward. In fact, Dawson came within a hair's breath of plowing right into his back when Freddy finally reached the narrow beaten path and came to an abrupt halt. Crouching down low with his pal, he strained his ears for sounds ahead. The sing-song jabbering reached his ears in almost no time at all, and after taking into consideration what heavy jungle growth does to the travel of sound, he judged the enemy patrol to be a good hundred yards ahead. Freddy Farmer figured the same distance and formed the words silently with his lips as he looked inquiringly at Dave. The Yank air ace nodded, and then started stealthily along the beaten path. For almost an hour they followed the winding course of the path through the dense jungle, pausing every so often to hug the soft damp ground and listen to the incessant jabbering of the Jap patrol ahead. The last time they paused they also heard other sounds. Sounds, however, that were not distinct and clear. In fact, it was a sort of rumbling murmur that made Dave think of storm waves pounding against a rock-bound coast. He glanced back at Freddy, but the English youth was equally puzzled by the sounds. However, a few moments later when Dawson turned around and started forward again, he suddenly felt Freddy's hand grip him by the arm and jerk him down flat. He squirmed around with an angry questioning look in his eyes. But Freddy's finger to his lips, and the brittle glint in his own eyes, checked any words that might have spilled from Dawson's lips. Then Freddy put his lips close and whispered softly. "Just a little ahead, there's one of them, Dave!" he said. "Left to stand guard, is my guess. So that means we must be near their field. And—Hear that, Dave! That's what the sound is! Aircraft engines being revved up. This darn jungle blankets sound until you're right on top of it." "Left one behind?" Dawson echoed, as little shivers began to ripple up and down his backbone. "You spotted him, Freddy?" Young Farmer didn't answer at once. He motioned Dawson up to a half crouching position, and then pointed a stiff finger ahead, and nodded for Dave to sight along his arm. Dawson did that, but for several seconds he could see nothing but the greens, the browns, and the faded orange of jungle foliage. But all the time he could hear the rumbling murmur somewhere ahead. And he realized at once that Freddy's statement was true. The sound came from revving aircraft engines, but it was muffled and dulled in note by the thick jungle. Suddenly, though, as he strained his eyes at the twisted mass of jungle growth, he saw something move no more than thirty-five yards from where he crouched. Had he not been peering intently he would automatically have taken it for a tree branch or jungle plant leaf being stirred by a puff of air. However, being on the alert both mentally and physically, he told himself at once that there could be no puffs of air in the thick of the jungle. Only heavy pungent smells that hung motionless in space. And then an instant later his eyes picked out the head and shoulders of a Jap. The little brown man was facing off to the left, and his face was in only one quarter profile. But Dave could see the man's jaws champing up and down on the dry rice he had stuffed into his mouth. And by straightening up just a little, Dawson could make out the butt of the deadly sub-machine gun that the Jap held in the crook of his right arm, ready to whip it up and fire at an instant's notice. For a long minute Dawson studied the "picture", as a hundred and one conflicting thoughts raced through his brain. Was that Jap simply manning his guard post located close to the field? Or had that Oriental discovered that nobody was aboard the crashed B-Twenty-Five, and was that Jap up ahead but one of many posted here and there to be on the look-out for the survivors of the crash? Those two main questions tormented Dawson's brain, for the simple reason that he could only guess at the answers. But one thing was very certain, though. There stood an armed Jap between them and an enemy flying field ahead. If they were to get closer to the airfield ahead, that armed Jap had to be put out of the war for keeps. That fact uppermost in his mind, Dawson took his gaze off the munching Jap and looked at Freddy. The English youth returned his look, grinned, tight-lipped, and nodded. "Remember that Commando show in Occupied France, Dave?" he whispered. "Well, Jap or Jerry, it shouldn't make any difference, eh?" [2] "Same thing, pal!" Dawson chuckled softly, and slowly closed the fingers of one hand into a rock hard fist. "Let's see if we've forgotten any of that sweet technique. Okay, kid!" With a grin and a nod for emphasis, Dawson twisted around and started along the path again. Compared with their "travel" now, they had been making a noise akin to that of a herd of elephants on the rampage. Like blending shadows, and twice as silent, they eeled and snaked their way forward. Each leaf, or twig, or plant stem was moved cautiously to the side, and held there until they had slid their bodies past. Then, another few inches forward, and another few. Bit by bit creeping closer to the armed Jap, and with no more sound than that caused by the pounding of their hearts. However, though they advanced completely wrapped in a blanket of silence, the Jap was perhaps possessed of that premonition of danger that science has named the sixth sense. Or perhaps his Nipponese ears were tuned to thumping human hearts. At any rate, when Dawson and Freddy Farmer were but a scant two yards in back of him, the Jap spun around and threw up his sub-machine gun. He was fast, lightning fast, but those two air aces had been trained to throttle lightning on the loose. They both moved even faster. Dawson's outflung arm was like an iron rod with a ball of steel on the end of it. And that "ball of steel" flew straight to the Jap's Adam's apple to cut off his wind, and paralyze the nerve center at the base of his brain. However, that one blow alone would not have been sufficient, and neither Dave nor Freddy Farmer were counting on it to do the trick. At the same time Dawson slashed down with his gun hand and knocked the sub-machine gun downward. And while that was taking place, Freddy Farmer's flying body caught the Jap across the knees. On the football field that little bit of blocking would have caused the penalty of plenty of yardage. But this wasn't the football field. It was a jungle battle field. And the player to be "taken out" was a ruthless, butchering little brown rat of Hirohito's brood. And he was taken out , and very definitely so. When Dawson and Freddy got quickly up onto their feet again, and Dave even had the sub-machine gun in his own hands, there was no need to give the Jap more than a passing glance. He was out! He was not only out of the war, but he was out of his heathen world as well. A broken neck is a broken neck, whether it belongs to a Jap or anybody else! Dawson looked at Freddy, but didn't say anything. Whatever might be said was said with their eyes. They simply exchanged looks, nodded grimly, and then stared once more along the winding path with ears tuned to the rumbling murmur ahead that grew louder and more pronounced with every foot forward they advanced. And so it was that at the end of ten or twelve minutes of cautious advancing, they finally reached a point where the jungle stopped, and flat, sun-baked ground began. The pair stopped just a few feet inside the jungle and peered silently out at the sight ahead. It was one that caused wild hope to blossom within them. But it was also a sight that weighed down their hearts with bitterness and angry helplessness. Though Dawson had been suspecting it all along, it was not until he stared out onto that triangular-shaped patch of sun-baked ground that he knew definitely that Freddy and he had finally reached what had no more than forty-eight hours before been a Yank and Filipino-held emergency airfield. But it was all Jap now. And the only traces that it had once been Yank-Filipino were the fire and bomb-marked wrecks of American planes caught on the ground by overwhelming Jap bombers, and the gutted hangars and buildings that lined one side of the field. And that it was all Jap, now, was obvious from the Nipponese planes of all types that were lined up on the other two sides. Planes, and Jap pilots and mechanics, and ground troops strutting about. A sight to make any Christian's heart weep blood. And the bitterest touch of all to Dawson and Freddy Farmer was the way the planes were lined up. They were not even dispersed about the field. And that could mean but one thing. That there were no more Yank bombers left in the Philippines to roar back and give those little slant-eyed brown men a taste of their own kind of war. No, the bombers that would some day do that little thing were thousands and thousands of miles away. And a great number of them were still just working blueprints in American aircraft factories! Yes, a sight to make Christians weep, but also a sight to fan the flickering spark of hope and determination into a mounting flame! CHAPTER FOURTEEN Beware The Sharks! "The dirty swine! Blast their rotten hearts! Gosh! What I'd give to lead a patrol of bombers right now! Dash it all! I'd even be willing to settle for Hawker Hurricanes!" The words spilled softly and tonelessly off Freddy Farmer's lips. His eyes fixed on the captured field were bright and brittle, and he was unconsciously thumping one clenched fist into the palm of the other hand. Dawson glanced sidewise at him, grinned, and nudged his arm. "Check, and double check, pal!" he whispered. "But wishing for the impossible won't help a bit. Besides, we haven't got time to jaw around on such things. Take a look at that spread of Jap planes, Freddy. Which one do you figure should be our baby, when we get it?" " If we get it!" the English youth muttered grimly. "Of course, I'd much prefer one of those Zeros. But we couldn't both ride in the same plane. Besides, they don't even carry enough gas to get us across the China Sea, to say nothing of up to Chungking." "Not a chance in a Zero," Dawson grunted with a shake of his head. "And those Mitsubishi bombers over there are out, too. Take too long to get one of them off. So that brings up the important fact, pal." "Only one important fact?" Freddy Farmer groaned. "For the present, anyway," Dawson whispered with a grin. "In other words, with what we manage to steal from these little rats, we wouldn't be able to make Chungking non-stop. Our best bet, and the shortest hop possible, is to skip across the northern part of Indo-China, and reach Kunming." "Suits me perfectly!" breathed Freddy Farmer, his eyes lighting up. "Kunming is H.Q. for those Flying Tiger chaps. We may spot a few of them on patrol to escort us in. Also, to send the Jap johnnies on their way. The ones chasing us, or ones we're bound to run into, I mean." "Sure, easy as pie!" Dawson snorted. "When we meet Flying Tigers on patrol we simply yell at them that the Jap ship we're in doesn't mean a thing, huh? And they'll catch on, quick? Listen, pal, those Flying Tigers are hot stuff. They don't bother asking Jap pilots for their names and addresses. They just sail in guns blazing. And, bingo! Hirohito has a few less. See what I mean?" "Well, what do you plan, then, Master Mind?" Freddy growled. "Nothing," Dave came right back at him. "Once we're in the air, all we can do is hope that we can outfly the Japs chasing us. And that we don't bump into any of the Flying Tiger boys on the prowl. So I guess that baby over there is the one for our money. It's the closest, and those Jap mechanics wheeling that gas dollie away means that it's just been fueled up. What do you think?" Freddy Farmer peered in the direction of Dawson's pointing finger and silently eyed the plane indicated on the near side of the triangular-shaped field. It was a Mitsubishi "Karigane" MK-Eleven two-place, low wing monoplane fighter. It was powered with an eight hundred horsepower radial engine of copied American design. And it was reputed to be one of the fastest, and longest ranged two-place planes in the Far Eastern theatre of war. And so Freddy had only to take a good look to be satisfied. "We should just about make Kunming in it, with luck," he said to Dave. "However, there's the small detail of stealing her, you know. There's plenty of Nips standing around over there. And they all look armed to me." "They are," Dawson grunted. "But this isn't any walking stick I've got in my hands, pal. Seriously, though, Freddy, I think we can surprise those bums out of that plane without much trouble. Look at how cocky they're acting, will you? Well, it's my guess a few well placed bursts from this machine gun could throw the place into a panic. You fast on your feet, kid?" "Fast as you are if I have to be, I guess," Freddy replied gravely. "But just what do you plan to do? Rush them from here? It's sixty yards, if it's an inch." "You think I'm that dumb?" Dawson growled, and shook his head vigorously. "No, not rush them from here. Get them to come rushing over here!" "Eh, what's that?" the English youth gasped as his eyes popped and his jaw sagged. He started to say more, but Dawson stopped him by pointing at the little path that turned sharp right and skirted that side of the airfield, just inside the jungle growth. It had obviously been used by soldiers on guard duty. In short, they had used it to reach their posts, instead of crossing the field in the face of planes landing or taking off. It could also be used during a bombing raid when it wasn't good sense to show oneself out on the open field. "There's where we run, Freddy," Dawson said. " After I've blasted a few bursts back in the general direction of that Jap sentry we hauled down. My guess, or my hope, is that those over there on the edge of the field will come a-running, figuring his post has been attacked. Well, when they start cutting across the field we'll start down that path, but fast. The jungle growth will hide us, and we can get to a point right behind that two-seater before we'll have to break out into the open. And then—" Dawson paused, and a tight, hard smile stretched his lips. "Maybe even then we'll have to knock a few of them off," he said grimly. "But so what? That'll make just less Japs, that's all. Well, okay by you?" Freddy Farmer shrugged, and gestured with his hands, palms upward. "Why not?" he grunted. "It's just as insane and foolhardy as anything I could think up. Right you are, then. But let's get on with it. I don't fancy hanging around here any longer than I have to." "You think I'm in love with the place?" Dawson snorted, and slipped the safety catch off the machine gun's trigger. "Okay, kid. On your mark! Here goes!" Dawson's last whispered word hadn't even been swallowed up by the jungle silence before he had pointed the sub-machine gun back along the path in the direction of the dead Jap sentry, and pulled the trigger. Three, four silence-shattering bursts leaped out from the gun's muzzle, and a bit of the jungle growth in the line of fire promptly looked as if it had been whizzed through a fine meat grinder. But Dave didn't pause to admire the fire power effect on the jungle target. As the last bullet sped clear, he spun around and snapped a quick gaze out across the field. And for a crazy instant it was all he could do to stop from laughing out loud. Every blessed Jap on the field had frozen stiff, and some of them in the queerest, most unnatural positions. However, they did not remain that way for long. A high-pitched sing-song voice hit the air, and it was as though many invisible strings had been jerked. The Japs snapped up straight, grabbed for their side arms, or caught up their rifles or machine guns, and came tearing across the field, screaming at the top of their hideous-sounding voices. But by the time the first of them had taken one step, Freddy and Dave had taken two steps along the hidden path. And they kept right on adding more and more driving power to their legs. In almost less time than it takes to relate it they had covered those sixty odd yards of jungle path, and were directly behind the two-seater Mitsubishi MK-Eleven that they figured on "borrowing." Yes, directly behind it, but they still had some fifteen yards more of open ground before they could reach the plane's cockpit. Just the same they didn't hug the ground and waste time contemplating that final dash across open ground. They simply waited long enough for Dave to sprint in front with the sub-machine gun, and then off they went on the final lap. Final lap? It was only fifteen yards to that MK-Eleven. Four good running broad jumps would cover the distance easily. But to Dave those fifteen yards seemed more like fifteen hundred. As he had half expected, and half feared, not all the Japs in that corner of the field had gone tearing over to investigate the mystery of the firing machine gun. A half dozen or so of them, all mechanics, had remained where they were. And it so happened that their sharp eyes caught sight of Dawson the very instant he broke out into the open. Blood-curdling screams of rage smote the air, and were instantly punctuated by rifle fire. But also in the same instant Dawson had dropped to one knee and was sweeping his bullet-spitting machine gun to left and right. A couple of the Japs instantly went flat to the ground, and right out of the war and the world forever. And the others spun around and leaped for the protection of a nearby bomber's fuselage. That was okay by Dawson. It was just what he wanted. He slammed a short burst under the bomber's belly, and yelled to Freddy. "Jump for it, Freddy!" he cried. "Into the rear cockpit, and be ready to catch this gun and cover me as I pile in. Get going!" The last two words were quite unnecessary. Freddy Farmer wasn't taking precious split seconds out to do any arguing this time. As a matter of fact, he had already leaped past Dave as the Yank ace shouted the order. And in another couple of leaps he had reached the side of the MK-Eleven and was virtually throwing himself into the rear cockpit. Dawson saw Freddy make it out the corner of his eye, and slapped one more burst to kick up dust under the bomber's belly. Then he sprang to his feet, and dived for the MK-Eleven himself. As he reached its side he threw the sub-machine gun straight at Freddy. The English youth caught it in his hands, and was pumping bullets over at the bomber, behind which the Japs were attempting to hide and fire, in the single bat of an eyelid. In what was practically a continuation of a wild leap into the pilot's cockpit of that Jap MK-Eleven, Dawson whipped out one hand to knock up the ignition switches, and stabbed the other thumb on the starter button, and kicked off the wheel brakes with his foot. As the Jap-copied American aircraft engine caught on the first time over, and roared up in a full throated song of power, he blessed the odd simplicity of Jap instrument panels and engine gadgets. There were not more than six or seven of them, and though they were printed in Jap sign writing, it was easy enough to guess their uses and functions. And so as the MK-Eleven quivered and trembled for a brief instant and then went rocketing out across the field like a comet gone haywire, he did not jab or pull one wrong thing and put an end to their little bit of war thievery right then and there. On the contrary, he was able to nurse the last ounce of maximum power from the roaring engine, and Jap-fired bullets had hardly begun to twang and whine past his ears before he had the wheels clear and was hauling the speedy little craft straight up toward the sun-flooded Philippine sky. And he kept it going right on upward until he had more than enough altitude under him. Then he whipped over and around onto even keel with the nose pointed diagonally across the northern reaches of the Philippines toward the South China Sea beyond. Then he turned around and grinned happily at Freddy Farmer. "Just like robbing the cradle, hey, pal?" he bellowed. The English youth made a wry face and flung a pointing hand toward the south. "Not quite over yet, old thing!" he shouted back. "Here come some of the blighters, for a starter. Too bad we didn't also steal their blasted radio station!" CHAPTER FIFTEEN Aces Think Fast As Dawson swung his head around the other way and stared to the south, he saw the swarm of Jap wings prop-clawing along on a line intended to cut him off from in front. A second glance, however, told him that his stolen MK-Eleven held a slight edge. Told him, also, that his path and the flight path of those other Jap planes would cross at a point several miles out over the South China Sea. "But those bums are going to cross our path behind us, if I've got anything to say about it!" he told himself grimly. "I've got enough worries about whether this crate will make Kunming, without having those bums give me grey hairs!" With a savage nod for emphasis, he shot another look toward the Jap planes boiling up from the south, twisted around to give Freddy Farmer a reassuring grin, and then turned front and concentrated every effort on getting every ounce of speed out of the MK-Eleven. Some fifteen minutes later, when he took another look at the Jap planes, a tight grin stretched his lips, and he gave a little nod of approval. He had managed to gain on them considerably, and it looked now as if the little brown men of Nippon were just wasting gas and oil. And in addition to that helpful fact, cloud banks were beginning to form in the heavens ahead. Just let him reach them, and the whole darn Jap air force could try to hunt him out, if it wanted to. "And so that is just what we'll do!" he murmured softly to himself. "We'll beat those little tramps to the clouds, and—" A sharp rap of Freddy Farmer's fist on his shoulder cut the rest off short. He jerked his head around and started to bark the obvious question, but the English youth was already talking, and pointing. "I fancy the Japs back on Legaspi have been using their blasted radio some more , Dave!" Freddy shouted. "Look up there to the north! More of the blighters. Guess they must come from Jap air bases on Hainan Island. Up to you, old thing. Can we still make those clouds?" Dawson didn't answer at once because at that moment he had impulsively glanced to the south-west. And there in the distant sky he picked out more Jap planes racing up to join the other two enemy forces. He studied them for a moment longer, and then turned front, eyes hard and lips pressed into a thin grim line. "We not only can," he grated presently, "but we're going to, if this thing'll just hold together. They figure to pull the old three-way squeeze on us, but the bums have got another think coming. Hang onto your hat, Freddy! This air buggy is going to go places, but fast!" And then began a sky race against overwhelming odds. With the heel of one palm jammed hard against the already wide open throttle, Dawson hunched forward and kept his eyes glued on the clouds ahead. To reach them he had to sacrifice precious speed by gaining altitude. But there wasn't anything else he could do about it. To out-race the Japs cutting down from the north was just plain out of the question. If they didn't pile down into him eventually, the Japs coming up from the south-west would. So his only hope lay in reaching the safety of the clouds ahead, in gaining altitude, and slicing into those clouds before any of the enemy planes could get within range. It was nip and tuck every foot of the way. And when the most optimistic of the Jap pilots opened up with long range fire, every crack of their guns was like a tiny little knife of frozen ice jabbing into Dawson's heart. Not once, though, did he take time out to glance at the diminishing distance between the planes. He kept every bit of his attention riveted on his own aircraft. When the Japs got too close, the yammer of Freddy Farmer's rear guns would tell him that it was time to forget the race, and concentrate on fighting for their lives. However, Freddy Farmer's rear guns did not speak once as Dawson sent the MK-Eleven ripping through the air high above the South China Sea. And then, when it seemed that at least ten years of his life had come and gone, the plane reached the first of the clouds and went prop-clawing into them, and out of sight. "Cheers for you, old thing!" Freddy Farmer cried as the fleecy whiteness closed in all about them. "We made it, for fair!" "But only just!" Dawson called back to him. "And don't thank me. Thank this Nip sky wagon. Okay, start navigating, pal. We stick right to our original course. Ten to one they'll think we'll try to fool them by doubling back. Kunming! Here we come!" As Dave yelled the last there was a smile on his lips, and the warmth of great happiness in his heart. The end of their journey halfway around the world was almost in sight now. All that was left was the small matter of sitting down at Kunming without getting shot down for a surprise raiding Jap plane, gassing up there, and racing on to Chungking. At Kunming he'd have word flashed ahead that they'd be arriving in a Jap plane. Or perhaps it would be better to borrow a Flying Tiger ship at Kunming and not run the risk of being taken for a Jap. However, that was a minor point. Just one more landing, and then Chungking next stop! "And it won't make me mad to get a little rest from barging about the sky!" he grunted with a nod. "Yeah! It will be all to the merry to feel how it is to walk on the ground for a spell, and not crawl on hands and knees, or wiggle around like some darn snake. Nope, I won't mind it a bit." And with those and other very pleasant thoughts rippling through his brain, he sent the MK-Eleven charging dead ahead on course through the clouds. Every so often they came to a hole in the stuff, and they could look down through and see patches of Japanese-occupied Indo-China. And on a couple of those occasions Freddy Farmer was able to accurately determine their position from land marks below. And each time it was proved that they were right smack on course. Two, three, four hours dragged by, and then suddenly the Mitsubishi MK-Eleven ripped out into clear blue air just as suddenly as it had gone ripping into the clouds. The instant they were out in the clear both Dawson and Freddy Farmer made a swift study of the rugged and most uninviting terrain below. However, its ugliness did not beat down the great satisfaction that swelled up in them. They were dead on course still. Some fifty miles ahead was the China border, and about as many miles to the left was the point where the borders of China, Indo-China, and Burma met. A little under an hour, now, and Kunming would be under their wings. Yes, it was a very wonderful and soul-satisfying realization, but it lasted just about long enough for them to stop looking at the terrain below and make a searching sweep with their eyes of the surrounding sky. It was then that the gods of war screamed with laughter and the heart-stopping truth was revealed. In short, there was a swarm of Jap planes to their right, another one to their left, and a third one directly behind. True, all of the enemy aircraft were well out of range, but it took only a flash study of their angle of approach to realize that the enemy pilots would reach the China border long before they did. Reach it and form a winged barrier of flame and death-spitting aerial machine guns and cannon. "Blast them!" Freddy Farmer's voice thundered in Dawson's ears. "Go right through the blighters, Dave! We've got to. It's the only thing we can do. Blast through them, Dave, and I'll keep the beggars at a distance!" Dawson heard the words, but he paid little attention to them. He was studying the Jap planes closing in from three sides, and with heavy heart he realized that these planes were new. That is, they were not the ones that had taken up the chase originally. And that fact confirmed what he already believed to be the truth. The Jap forces in the Far Eastern theatre of war had practically gone nuts with the radio, and summoned every Jap plane over an area of thousands of square miles to hunt down the thieves of a single Jap MK-Eleven. But its meaning held more than just that for Dawson. It seemed almost insane to credit it as truth, but facts pointed to the obvious: that the Japs here, halfway around the world from London, knew who Freddy and he were, knew the object of their mission, and knew where they were headed. Yes, it seemed incredible and utterly fantastic. But hadn't that little adventure with one Herr Miller in the middle of the North Atlantic seemed equally so? And that close brush with death when they had been ambushed on the way to Hickam Field with General Stickney? It just went to prove for the umpty-umph millionth time that anything can happen in war. And that the smart soldier should expect it, and be ready. Perhaps it took all of three seconds for those and other thoughts to whip through Dawson's brain. And then in the fourth second he saw something that made a decision for him. That "something" was a small group of dots at a point in the air right smack over the Burma border. They were several miles away, but Dawson's eyes were sharp enough to pick them out for what they truly were, and an unconscious shout of joy spilled from his lips. "Lifesavers, Freddy!" he howled back at the English youth. "Over there! See? That's a patrol of Flying Tigers! Those are shark's head-painted Curtiss P-Forties, or I'll eat my shirt. Take a deep breath, Freddy! Everything is going to be okay!" "Yes, I see them!" the English youth shouted back. "But they don't know who we are, you know. Head for them and they'll blow us to bits before we can even flash them a sign. Good grief! What are you doing now?" The last was because Dawson had deliberately hurtled the MK-Eleven around toward the south and was tearing full out straight for the nearest of the Jap planes roaring up from that direction. "Our best bet!" he yelled at Freddy. "Get set with those rear guns. We'll give those Flying Tiger boys a sign that'll leave no doubts that we're not Japs. We smack one of them down, Freddy. Make it two. That'll tell the Flying Tiger boys as plain as writing them a letter. Okay, pal! Make it perfect as I tear in and out. Here we go!" To any unsuspecting observer, that lone MK-Eleven racing straight toward a swarm of Jap Zeros must have looked like a sheer suicide maneuver. At least, it must have looked that way to the Zero pilots who knew who was in that MK-Eleven. At any rate, the suddenness of the mad attack threw the slow thinking Japs off balance for a few split seconds. And for two sky warriors such as Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer a few split seconds is sometimes as good as a whole lifetime. And that was so in this particular case. While the brains of those slant-eyed sons of the Rising Sun groped for the true meaning of this unexpected maneuver, Dawson cut the MK-Eleven in at the leader at rocket speed. In the last second allowed he feinted as though to bank around and retreat. And that little act was curtains for the already befuddled brain in the leading Zero's cockpit. Its pilot started to pull over, but Dawson cut right back in again and jabbed the trigger button on his stick. The savage bursts from his guns caught the Zero broadside, and the Jap probably never even knew that he was dying for his so-called Heaven-born Emperor. At least he didn't know it until he was dead, and was falling earthward in a ball of raging flame. Nor did a second Jap Zero pilot who happened to "get in the way" of Freddy Farmer's rear guns. The only difference was that he didn't go earthward in a ball of flame. Freddy's first burst caught his fuel tank. There was a sheet of mounting flame, and great belching gobs of black-smudged white smoke. And then there was just a shower of pieces going downward. The time it took for all that to happen was perhaps no longer than the time it would take you to blink one eye. In fact, almost before both planes started down out of the war, Dawson had sheered off at lightning bolt speed, leaving the rest of the Japs still brain-groping and automatically fanning their guns at thin air. As a matter of fact, practically all of them had unconsciously swerved off in the opposite direction, and so when Dawson finally straightened out they were no longer to the south of him. They were behind, and well out of range. And six Curtiss P-Forties with their shark-painted noses were less than a mile dead ahead. "Start waving, just to make sure, Freddy!" Dawson roared, as he booted the MK-Eleven toward those gallant American eagles who had come thousands of miles to fight and to die for China's great and worthy cause. "Stand up, and start waving. They might think it was just some dizzy Jap trick." "Not a chance, I fancy!" the English-born air ace shouted back. "Those Jap yellow beggars have seen them ! Take a look for yourself!" Dawson gulped, "Huh?" as he jerked around in the seat. But that's all he said, because in the next second he was bursting with laughter. He was, for the very funny fact that every Jap-flown plane in the surrounding skies had about-faced and was making tracks for any place that would be far away from those dead-aim pilots who flew those terror ships of the Chinese Air Force. At least a hundred Jap pilots were streaking for safety from six hard-eyed, steel trigger-fingered knights of the air. Just one more proof that though Jap pilots fly in bunches, they know they will die the same way if they make the mistake of getting too close to the guns of the Flying Tigers! "Boy, oh boy! Look at them scoot, will you!" Dawson chuckled. "Praise be to Allah for the Flying Tigers. It's just about all over but the shouting, Freddy. Better start brushing up on your Chinese, pal, if you know any!" The English-born air ace laughed at that remark. But so did the gods of war up in their unseen high places. Not, however, for the same reason. They laughed because they knew that Death was only taking a breathing spell; that Death would return again, and soon, to claim its victims! CHAPTER SIXTEEN 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] 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!

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