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Read Ebook: A Yankee Flier in the Far East by Montgomery Rutherford G Rutherford George Laune Paul Illustrator
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Ebook has 1189 lines and 39994 words, and 24 pages
"What are we waitin' for?" O'Malley cut in impatiently.
"One other thing I ought to tell you," Stan said. "The Japs will consider us outlaws and spies. If they catch us, they'll shoot us. This won't be the Royal Air Force, this is wildcat work and mighty tough."
"The Chinese Air Force needs a helping hand," Allison drawled in his most ironical manner.
Stan grinned. He had known all along that his pals would go with him. "We may as well step across into the gardens and meet Nick Munson," he said.
The three fliers stepped out of the mess and walked across a broad plaza. Outside the iron fence crowds hurried along a narrow street. There was a babel of races and colors and castes which the wealth of rubber and tin had drawn to Singapore from every part of the teeming East. People hurried past, some of them half-naked, jinrikisha coolies trotted along, their bodies gleaming with moisture, pulling carts in which perspiring passengers sat fanning themselves.
"'Tis no white man's country," O'Malley muttered as they crossed the street and shoved their way through the throng.
They entered a palm garden and Stan led the way across a lush lawn to where a heavy-set man stood talking to a laughing group of native girls. The girls seemed to be enjoying the white man's jokes and well able to understand him. Allison scowled but O'Malley grinned.
"Nick, meet your future buddies," Stan greeted the stranger.
Nick Munson turned around and looked at O'Malley and Allison. He was a dark-faced man with close-set eyes and a tightly cropped mustache. His eyes darted over the slacks and white shirts of the fliers. Stan made the introduction brief.
"This is Bill O'Malley and March Allison; Nick Munson."
"Out here for the rest cure?" Nick's lips curled just a trifle. "Jerries got a bit too hot, eh?"
O'Malley's grin faded and his chin stuck out. "'Tis not so good I am at hearin'," he said. "Would you be after repeatin' that remark?"
"No offense meant," Nick Munson answered quickly. "I hear you are both aces."
"We have been lucky at times," Allison said, his voice very soft.
"They are two of the best," Stan cut in. "You can learn a lot from them."
"I might and I might be able to teach them something. I'm signed up as an instructor to show the boys some of the new wrinkles we have developed over in the States." Nick Munson smiled a little patronizingly.
Stan looked at him thoughtfully. "I have had a bit of experience in the United States," he said.
Nick Munson did not meet Stan's steady gaze. "That must have been a while back," he said.
"Not so long ago," Stan answered, then added, "but we must be toddling along. I just wanted you to meet the men you'll be working with. See you later."
They turned away, leaving Nick to amuse the native girls. When they had crossed the street, O'Malley growled:
"That spalpeen better not try teachin' me any new tricks."
"He'll bear watching," Allison remarked.
"If he makes any more wisecracks I'll sock him," O'Malley threatened. "He made me mad first, so I get first whack."
Allison laughed. "Don't be a nut, Irish. He'll make a good man once he's been up the glory trail and has had some hot lead smacked through his ship. He may even learn a few new wrinkles the Americans have not worked out." He gave Stan a knowing leer. "Yanks are all a bit cocky at first."
"Nick isn't a fair sample," Stan said quickly. "Before you get out of China, you'll meet a lot of fellows who are right good men."
They walked across the grounds to headquarters and turned in. Wing Commander Beakin was seated at his desk. In spite of the heat, he was dressed in full uniform. He frowned heavily as he looked at them.
"Deserters?" he asked in clipped tones.
"No, sir, just recruits," Allison answered.
"China, eh?" The commander did not wait for an answer. "Well, boys, you can serve up there better than down here right now. We all know trouble is on the way. Japan is about ready to strike. The stronger China is, the safer we are down here. We have to keep supplies moving in over the Burma Road just as long as it can be kept open."
Commander Beakin's leathery face cracked into a smile. "Aren't you the pilot who brought in a new model German gun and laid it on the desk of my friend, Wing Commander Farrell?"
O'Malley squirmed uncomfortably. Allison spoke up. "The same man, sir. He herded a Jerry right down on our landing field."
Stan laughed. "We shall try to uphold the traditions of the service, sir," he said.
Commander Beakin cleared his throat. He pulled a sheaf of papers toward him and glanced at them. Then he shoved them across the desk.
"Lieutenant Wilson can take you to the Chinese general who will give you your credentials. These papers will release you and they will entitle you to return to this service without prejudice. I understand you are to report at once." His face had returned to its flinty hardness, but his eyes showed the pride he had in his men.
The three fliers gathered up their papers and about-faced. O'Malley seemed to have forgotten the heat. He set a brisk pace. Allison slowed him down.
"What's your rush? China will be still there when we get to Rangoon," he drawled.
They walked across town to the waterfront where the harbor was crowded with craft from every nation of the world. A mass of frail vessels marked the Chinese boat colony where several thousand Chinese, some of whom had never set foot on land, used boats for homes and as a means of livelihood. The waterfront was swarming with a motley crowd of races and colors, all jabbering and shouting and talking. Few white men were to be seen.
"Our man lives in a little shack down a few blocks," Stan explained. "He has his office in one half of a single room and he lives in the other half. But he has plenty of authority and Uncle Sam is backing him."
They hurried on through the colorful throng, hardly paying any attention to what went on around them. They were eager to be on their way to China and the skies over the Burma Road.
CHINA WINGS
Stan Wilson led his pals to a small shack on the waterfront and halted before a flimsy door of matting. Over the door and along the wall were Chinese characters painted in red. Below the characters was a faded poster showing a slender American girl in a riding habit and wearing a cocky little hat. The girl was holding high a glass of Coca Cola. Stan pointed to the familiar advertisement.
"Looks like home," he said.
"It sure does," Allison agreed. "Those confounded soft drink ads are plastered all over the world."
"Here is where you sign up. I was down yesterday," Stan said. "Still want to head for China?"
O'Malley eyed the dilapidated building, then his eyes moved up and down the street crowded with similar shacks.
"Sure, an' I'm struck dumb with admiration by the elegance o' their headquarters, but if they have planes and petrol I'm joinin' up."
"They have both," Stan assured him.
"Suppose we have a look inside," Allison suggested.
Stan tapped on the wall beside the door. After a brief wait the matting swung aside and a brown face appeared. Two glittering, black eyes regarded them. The doorman was a Malay, smaller than the average. His lips were stained red from chewing betel nut and his skin was a rich red-brown.
"Come," he beckoned softly.
Stan shoved O'Malley forward and Allison dropped in behind. They entered a small room lighted by yellow rays which filtered in through a screen covering a high window. The room was divided into two parts by a long grass curtain decorated with painted cherry trees and mountains. Against this backdrop sat a gaunt Chinese at a small desk. He wore a white jacket and a pair of billowing pants. His deep-set eyes peered out at the three fliers from unmoving lids. Slowly he lifted a bony hand to his chin and fingered its carved outline.
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