CHAPTER ONE
FEBRUARY 1942 RANGOON, BURMA
As Joe Stuart’s P-40 roared over Rangoon’s outskirts at treetop level, he relied on his peripheral vision to hold his position with Greg Boyington’s plane on his right. A moment’s inattention to the path ahead could plow his aircraft into any ground obstacle setting in their way. Despite this, his eyes shifted upward, searching for threats. Once satisfied nothing lurked overhead, his gaze returned to his flight path.
To save fuel, the P-40s left Kunming that morning without ammunition. Loaded, the aircraft couldn’t make it to Rangoon without stopping to refuel. Before take-off, Chennault assured them that the outlying Burmese airfields had none. The only reliable supply of gas or ammunition rested at their destination, Rangoon’s Mingaladon airfield. With luck, they would encounter no Japanese on their journey here. To increase their chances of arriving without problems, they hugged the ground, hoping to avoid detection by the marauding Japanese. Then, with the setting sun nearing the horizon, a flash above drew his attention skyward. Beneath the scattered overcast, six fixed-gear, single-seat planes headed on a course perpendicular to theirs. Despite their altitude, the Japanese red ball insignia visible on their wing’s underside. Had their luck run out?
Might as well spread the news, Joe told himself as he pressed the oxygen mask’s voice mike to his face. “Bandits ten o’clock high.”
“Fuck,” Greg Boyington growled over Joe’s headset. “No ammo and targets all over the place.”
Since meeting Boyington in Frisco, the big man made it clear to anyone listening that he needed money. Lusted after the promised bonus for destroying Japanese aircraft as bad as an addict seeking his next fix.
The P-40s’ altitude made the situation more desperate. Their training drove home the point. They must never dogfight with the agile Japanese fighters. When attacked, they must dive away. No way would that work at their current altitude. So now they sat in the worst position. Their best chance at this moment to pray and hope the Japanese failed to notice them.
Despite the need to watch for ground obstacles, Joe’s eyes drifted to the threat from above. His stomach churned. An icy fist clutched his heart. Would they slip by unnoticed, or would an alert Japanese pilot spot them? Too slow to escape the Japanese. Worse yet, too low to bail out if the worst happened.
Did one Japanese fighter’s wing dip? A signal he spotted the Americans below? Or had it been nothing? He asked himself. Despite the sinking feeling in his gut, he tore his eyes away from the threat from above to check his flight path. A real danger as well. No obstacles ahead. His eyes again rose to the enemy formation. He dabbed the sweat dripping down his forehead with his glove before it trickled into his eyes. He needed clear vision right now, more than anything else.
A quick glance skyward. The Japanese continued their present heading. Perhaps the one plane’s wing movement merely a momentary lapse in control. Not a signal to dive on the two helpless P-40s below. Instead, the Japanese broke formation. Two dove on the American planes while the rest circled above like buzzards, waiting for their chance at the carcass. One attacker headed for Boyington’s plane while the other swooped toward Joe. With a right rudder kick, he jinked to avoid the Japanese’s tracers streaming down in his path. Then, like a fireman directing his hose to a flame, the Japanese banked his plane again to intercept Joe’s new direction. But Joe’s path now placed him between a row of tall buildings. A course change would slam his aircraft into a building. His only option? To climb or belly onto the road below. Both suicidal.
Joe flipped the aircraft on its side with his ailerons, preventing the tracer stream from slamming into the wings. Once past the buildings, Joe righted his plane as the Japanese swooped up for another pass. As it climbed, black puffs from anti-aircraft fire appeared around the Japanese aircraft before it vanished in a blinding flash from a direct hit.
Above, black puffs blossomed around the fighters circling overhead. A wing separated from one, sending it tumbling to the ground, spurring the rest to flee. As they disappeared, Joe danced in his seat. Wanted to shout for joy and, in fact, hummed a few bars from When You Wish Upon A Star. From a kid’s movie, but Ann loved it.
“Watch that fuckin’ tower.” Boyington’s growl over his headset, ending his celebration. Almost reflexively, Joe eased back the stick; still, the tower loomed ahead. Wide-eyed, he lifted one wing, allowing it to clear the tall obstacle.
Once past, he settled back to flying the plane, no longer concerned with the Japanese fighters. Now he hoped the trigger-happy anti-aircraft gunners didn’t turn their guns on them as they roared overhead.
While scanning the city below, he wondered what Ann might be up to at this moment. Did her hospital remain safe from the bombing? Since the group’s arrival in China, he had been with her almost daily. But now? He needed to keep his head in the game if he intended to go back to her, but he vowed to write at least once a week. Not a gifted romantic writer. Merely a note to assure her he remained among the living.
As he swooped over a golden-domed structure, Mingaladon airfield appeared ahead.
“My low fuel light’s been on for at least ten minutes. How’s yours?” Boyington inquired over Joe’s headset.
“Unless it ain’t workin’, I should be good if you wanna set down first.”
As Joe banked to circle behind Boyington, the big man’s plane settled on the runway. With his low fuel light glowing and his engine sputtering, Joe descended onto the airfield. Uncertain about the dirt patches on the paved taxiway, he wove around them as he taxied to a spot next to Boyington’s plane. After removing his flying helmet, Joe brushed his sweaty, black hair back from his face as he rose to his feet.
As he climbed from the cockpit, Joe scanned the wreckage surrounding the airfield. Collapsed hangars, wrecked aircraft, and scrap heaps that at one time might have been vehicles. Their planes, the only undamaged items in sight.
As Joe joined Boyington beside the big man’s aircraft, Boyington planted his hands on his hips. Broad-shouldered, his prominent cheekbones announcing his warrior heritage, Joe had no trouble picturing Boyington astride a painted pony poised to ride down on Custer or some other hapless cavalryman. The big man sneered as he scanned the airfield. “God damn junkyard.”
Both turned as a Jeep skidded to a halt beside the planes. Newkirk, second pursuit’s commander at the wheel, beckoned them over. “First bunch in got sent out to the dispersal fields.”
“Dispersal field?” Boyington asked.
Newkirk nodded. “Landing strips, we set up out in the boonies.”
Boyington frowned. “What about the rest?”
“We got calls in on some a your guys that couldn’t reach here before nightfall. They had to put in at Magwe and Toungoo for the night.”
Boyington nodded. “We were damn lucky to make it in now.”
Newkirk stroked his chin. “Dispersal fields are unlighted, so you’ll have to spend the night here. We’ll gas ya up so you can be ready at daybreak.”
“They bomb at night?”
Newkirk answered Joe’s question with a nod before scanning the sky. “But not here. The city’s an easy target after dark. Since they like to hit stuff, they only bomb here during the day.”
As ground crew swarmed the parked planes, adding fuel and snaking in ammunition belts, Joe and Boyington tossed their flight gear and duffel bags into the Jeep. Loaded up, both men climbed aboard.
As he drove, Newkirk talked over his shoulder. “We’ll put ya up at the British officers’ quarters tonight, but tomorrow you’ll head out to a dispersal field. Your billets will be near them.”
Boyington’s eyebrows arched. “Limey officer’s quarters?” He nudged Joe. “Sounds like we’ve finally arrived.”
Newkirk snorted as he shoved his forage cap back on his head, exposing his short, black hair. “There’s room there cause the Brits won’t stay in `em anymore.”
Boyington scowled. “Why not?”
“You’ll see.”
After parking outside the British officers’ building, Newkirk turned. “After you two drop off your gear, I’ll explain the local procedures. Give you a head start on what you can expect, starting tomorrow.”
Inside the foyer, a British Sergeant sat behind a counter. As they approached, he greeted them with a scowl. “Buildin’s off-limits.”
Boyington dropped his duffel, pushed his flying helmet back on his head. “We were told we could spend the night here.”
The Sergeant snorted. “Whoever arranged that sure ain’t a friend.”
“You got rooms or not?” Boyington growled.
The Sergeant rose, turned to a key rack mounted on the wall behind him. After taking down two keys, he retrieved a flashlight from a desk drawer. “If you would follow me, gents, I’ll show ya to your lodgings.”
Boyington nodded at the flashlight. “No electricity?”
“Comes and goes, mate. Comes and goes.”
At the base of one stairwell, a bomb’s tail stuck out from a hole in the floor.
Boyington stepped back. “What the hell?”
“Unexploded bomb. Sappers promised to take care of it last week. But…” The Sergeant shrugged as he stepped around the bomb’s fins and climbed the stairs.
As Joe stepped around the bomb, he turned to the Sergeant. “Could that thing go off?”
“Hasn’t yet, but there are others. As a matter of fact, there’s one right between your rooms.”
After leaving their gear, Joe and Boyington rejoined Newkirk in the Jeep. He grinned. “Still impressed with your lodgings?”
Boyington scowled. “I’ve seen worse.”
Joe nodded. “At least there won’t be the snakes we had in Toungoo.”
As they pulled away, Newkirk chuckled. “How `bout I buy you a drink at the officer’s club?”
Boyington scrunched down in his seat. “Let me guess. It’s full a holes and bombs too?”
Inside the club, as the bartender mixed their drinks, he chuckled and shook his head. “I’m dyin’ to hear your guys’ story.”
Boyington scowled. “Whattaya mean?”
“First buncha, you Yanks had that naked woman with wings and horns painted on the side a their planes. Said they was the Hell’s Angels. Fit.”
Boyington shrugged. “So?”
“Then the guys that replaced `em had that cute little Panda Bear painted on the sides a their ships. Never figured that out. And now you two come in here with this apple with a snake wrapped around it, and in the center, some guy chasin’ a naked gal. What’s that about?”
Boyington rolled his eyes; Joe leaned across the bar. “When we first formed up, instead a squadron, they used the Army designation for a unit. Pursuit. We were the first pursuit, Pandas were second, and the Hell’s Angels were third.”
“So, what do you guys call yourselves, the Rotten Apples?”
Joe shook his head. “Nah, it’s Biblical.”
“Biblical?”
Joe nodded. “Yeah, the Adams and Eves.”
The bartender threw back his head, guffawed as he set their drinks on the bar. “Ah, that’s rich, the true first pursuit.” He shook his head. “How did you guys come up with them names?”
Joe shrugged. “Democratic method. Guys made suggestions, and then we voted.”
The bartender sneered. “You think that thing on your back is worth anything down here?”
Joe scowled. “The what?”
“He’s probably talkin’ about the blood chit,” Boyington replied.
The bartender nodded. “That patch with the Chinese writin’ on the back a your jacket there. Claimin’ you’re a friend to the Chinese offerin’ a reward for those helpin’ ya out.”
Joe shoved his cap back on his head. “Why shouldn’t it.”
“This here’s Burma. Probably nobody around could read it.”
Boyington leaned against the bar with his drink in hand, scanning the surroundings. “Why the dim lighting? Brits like a romantic ambiance?”
“You mentioned holes before?” Newkirk asked.
Boyington nodded.
“Japs strafed the hell outta the place. They only use candles in here now so they can extinguish `em quick if there’s a night raid.”
“Some a the guys from the Hell’s Angels claimed they didn’t get the word here when a raid was comin’. Different now?”
Newkirk shook his head in response to Joe’s question. “You watch for the two British Buffaloes take off. If they head West, then you know a raid is comin’.”
Boyington turned. “What?”
Newkirk shrugged. “The Japanese come from the East. The only way those two survive is to get the hell out.”
****
KUNMING, CHINA
After slipping her blond hair behind her ears, Ann Ross sipped her coffee. Steam rose from the pancakes stacked on the plate before her. Despite the aroma drifting in the air, she failed to attack the food. Instead, her fork drew lazy paths in the syrup. At the stove, her father glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “Busy day ahead. You will need a hearty breakfast to make it through the morning.”
After setting the fork aside, she rubbed her stomach, sighed. “Busy?”
“Outpatients, remember?”
“I’m feelin’ a bit queasy. Might be something I ate yesterday.”
“Or nerves.”
She turned to her father. “Is it that obvious?”
“Joe didn’t just fly out on one of their routine patrols. Instead, they headed for Rangoon.”
She hung her head. “Guess I figured they would be here the whole time. And since they drove off the Japanese, the danger would be far away.”
Her father shook his head. “I wish it were all that easy.”
He seated himself at her side, placed his hand on hers. After setting her cup aside, she put her hand on his. They sat for a moment in silence. Her father studied her face, again concerned not only for her feelings for the young man but worried about her suspected condition. What would the test reveal? He wondered. But these things have their own time.
“I didn’t have any bananas to put in those hotcakes like you used to love. Rose didn’t have any.”
She squeezed his hand, recalling how he made those special pancakes every year on her birthday before he went away. Left Boston for this exile. “Well, this isn’t my birthday.”
He gave her a slight smile. “I hoped they might cheer you up a bit, though. Even without the bananas.”
She gazed off, sighed. “Why does it have to be so complicated?”
“You mean, why can’t you be open about your feelings for Joe?”
“That’s right. If Mrs. Morgan ever found out, she might ship me back to the States. Or worse yet, ship us both out.”
He ran his hand over his shaved head as an image of Mrs. Morgan entered his mind. The all-powerful woman that chaired the Mission Society funding the hospital. He shrugged. Gazed off. “Don’t worry about me. I’m here because of the choices I made. I consider my actions in Boston justified, and now God gave me a chance to do good right here. So, for me, everything worked out for the best.”
“Really?”
“I hated being away from you for so long. Perhaps when the Mission Society sent me here, I should have brought you along, but it seemed so uncertain. Not the right thing for a child barely in her teens.”
“Dad, I missed you so much.”
“As I did you. But I wanted you to have a normal life like any other child in America. I never considered you would want to come here. To this land. To these people.”
Ann hung her head. “I know.”
“But you were always Daddy’s girl. I figured you might grow out of that. Reach that stage, most teenagers get where they are more involved with friends. That you would meet some good man back there and have a family life of your own.”
“And I had all those things. Well, not the boys. None I met back there compared with you.”
“But then you met Joe.”
Ann chuckled. “He’s nothing like you, but God, I’m certain I love him.”
“He is good-looking. Seems to care a lot about you and is a decent young man.”
“And instead of a doctor like you, he loves to fly. That’s dangerous enough, without the combat.”
“It doesn’t help to say he’s well trained, and all of it’s in God’s hands now, but it’s true.”
She bit her lip and nodded.
“And now, to add to all that, you had to make a pact with the Devil to get here.”
“Mrs. Morgan expects me to marry her son. That’s the only reason she let me join the group coming over. And now? If she thought it wouldn’t happen, what then?”
Her father nodded. “She has a lot of power. When others don’t meet her moral criteria, she gets their visas pulled.”
“And the society she runs provides the funds for this hospital. So, she could withdraw those as well.”
“So, you must continue putting her son off without letting anyone know about your feelings for Joe.”
“Dad, I’m sorry I brought this all down on your head.”
“Me? I’m an old man. Despite all the surrounding drama, having you here makes it one of the happiest times in my life.”
Wide-eyed, she lurched back. “Really? Even though it’s like sitting on a ticking bomb? Never knowing when it might all explode?”
He smiled. Squeezed her hand. “When is life not like that? There is nothing certain about it. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you can really enjoy what you have. You merely live in the moment God granted you right now.”
“I believe that too. Despite that, I worry.”
“Let God do that. For now, eat your pancakes, so we can get busy.”
As she took up her fork, her father leaned back. If he really believed all that stuff, he told her, why had he used that ruse to get her urine sample he injected into the rabbit? The answer? To prepare himself to support her if what he suspected turned out to be true.
