Once More the Hawks (27 page)

‘All I’m askin’,’ Father O’Buhilly said, ‘is for the little ones to be saved.’

Dicken looked at Johnson. ‘Can we raise an aeroplane?’ he asked.

‘Sir,’ Johnson said. ‘Right here in China there aren’t any airplanes nobody wants.’

‘What about those old Tupolevs? They can’t be used against the Japanese. They probably can’t be used for this even, but it might persuade the war correspondents to get a story out to the rest of the world. If they did, we might get something better.’

‘Do we have anybody who knows how to fly these goddam Tupolevs?’ Foote asked.

‘I’ll fly one,’ Johnson said. ‘I’ve flown one already. George Moreno’ll fly another. He’s a buddy of mine. And he’ll know other guys. They’ll be glad to do something instead of sitting on their asses here.’

‘What about petrol and ground crews?’

‘I’ll get ’em,’ Foote promised. ‘The General will swallow this whole. The poor guy’s eating his heart out at not being able to do anything worth while.’

The Chinese were avoiding any mention of the disaster and the commander at the airfield was nervous about using his aeroplanes without permission, so that it took hours of arguing to persuade him.

He still remained uncertain that the old Tupolevs could land, despite everything that Father O’Buhilly said, but in the end he produced the ancient Hawker Hart and offered it to Dicken to fly in to find a landing area.

There was a saying among airmen that an aeroplane that looked good was usually good to fly and the Hart was no exception. She had been built as a light day bomber, converted because of her high performance to a two-seater fighter and finally developed through a number of variants. In Sweden, where she had been used as a dive bomber with such success that even the RAF had been aroused by the techniques, she had maintained a diving angle of 80-85 degrees, what the US Marines had called ‘When we say down, we mean
straight
down.’

She still looked a thoroughbred, despite the fact that the canvas wings and fuselage were covered with sewn-up tears and there were oil smears on the cowling. Though the guns had been removed, the heavy armadillo turret was still in place. In 1932 she had been considered an excellent machine, elegant, clean and capable of carrying 500lb of bombs beneath the wings and fuselage. At the moment she didn’t look capable even of getting off the ground. But when they checked the old Kestrel engine it still seemed to work and Dicken looked at Babington.

‘You’ve flown with me in some bloody funny aeroplanes, Bab,’ he said. ‘Are you willing to have a go in this?’

Babington studied the automatic turret. ‘We used to say that with that thing the gunner had more control of the aircraft than the pilot. And the trouble with them was that when the aircraft banked, they ran away and you found yourself hanging head down, staring at nothing.’

The old machine struggled into the sky over the peaks of the hills and within half an hour they could see the broad expanse of water where the river had overflowed. Descending near Changjao, they saw ruined villages and the drifting wreckage of houses and barns. The river bank showed a gaping hole through which the water was still flowing in a trickle.

They found a raised road from Changjao and followed it northwards, eventually seeing what appeared to be a large island, flat and almost treeless, lifting just above the water level. At one end was a group of buildings, one of them larger than the rest, fluttering above it a white flag with a red cross in the centre.

With no idea what the ground was like, Dicken flew low over the patch of isolated land, looking for a suitable landing strip. Eventually he found what appeared to be a large field surrounded by paddles and, with no idea what the surface was like, lifted the nose and let the machine drift in. She settled gently and ran barely twenty yards before she came to a stop.

Immediately, from the group of buildings people started to run towards them. As they climbed down, the crowd surrounded the machine, chattering in their high-pitched dialect. Eventually they parted and Dicken saw Marie- Gabrielle approaching. Her face was alight with hope but when she saw him her face became bleak, shut-in and wary.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you. I haven’t changed my mind.’

‘I didn’t come to ask you to,’ Dicken said shortly. ‘Father O’Buhilly asked for help. I’ve come to bring it. I gather you’ve got a lot of children here.’

She frowned at his tone, and gestured to the buildings behind her. ‘Around five hundred.’

‘We’re hoping to fly them out.’

‘They’ll need adults to help.’

‘We can take a few. Even you, if you choose to go. Foote’s organising transport to Chungking. Let’s have a look at the driest part of this place.’

She led the way, her robe flapping in the wind, her feet lumps of muddy clay. At the other end of the stretch of land the ground was higher and better drained, and seemed hard.

‘It’s rock underneath,’ she said. ‘That’s why it’s never been cultivated. If it had been reasonable soil – or for that matter
un
reasonable – they’d have grown something.’

For an hour or more Dicken and Babington walked backwards and forwards, every now and then thrusting a stick into the earth where it seemed dangerously soft. Standing at the end of the field they were able to plot a landing area with only a small clump of trees and a line of brushwood in the way.

‘Can we get those moved?’ Dicken asked. ‘We’ll also need the rocks lifting and the holes filled in.’

‘It can be done.’ Marie-Gabrielle still sounded wary. ‘There are enough people here and most of them have tools. Those who haven’t, have their hands.’

Within minutes, the field was swarming with men and women. The first of the trees was down in a quarter of an hour and stones and rubble were being pushed into the hole it left. More people were hacking at the brush and a long column of women was bringing baskets of soil to fill other holes. More blue-clad figures were pushing barrows and chopping at the earth, yellow ants with strange medieval tools, hacking yard by yard at the length of the strip they had chosen. A shallow ditch that ran across it was filled, the men shovelling to the sound of a pre-arranged rhythm, and by late afternoon they could see the strip taking shape.

Foote hadn’t been idle. By the time Dicken returned, he had the General’s promise of help and had collected cartons of American canned and packeted food.

‘He said “Thank God there’s something useful we can do at last,”’ Foote grinned. ‘He’s right behind us and the war correspondents see it as a good story. We’ve contacted the nurses at the US Hospital and they’re ready. The US ground crew chiefs on our side, too. There’ll be no Liberators or anything like that but we’ve got two of the Tups ready and there’ll probably be a third tomorrow.’

The first Tupolev took off early the following morning, piloted by Johnson, followed soon afterwards by the other, piloted by his friend, the dark-haired spaniel-eyed pilot called Moreno. They were five-to six-seat heavy bombers with four BMW engines, old and out of date, their best performance – which they hadn’t achieved for years – in the region of 124 miles per hour, their ceiling only 10,000 feet, their range no more than 620 miles. They had undercarriages like inverted tripods, each side with two wheels, and their noses looked like gazebos. With Father O’Buhilly in the rear cockpit of the Hart a scarf wound round his fur cap and crammed down low behind the armadillo shield, Dicken was already waiting in the air, and the Tupolevs lined up behind him.

Babington had been left behind at Sushan to light smudge fires to give the wind direction and Dicken slipped down and landed, quickly turning off the airstrip out of the way of the first of the bombers. The big machine floated in behind him, its propellers turning slowly, bounced gently, settled, and rolled to a stop. Immediately, dozens of people marshalled by Babington formed up round it and dragged it out of the way so the second could land.

The Chinese were yelling and chattering in their high-pitched sing-song voices, some of them so excited they were standing on their hands and turning somersaults. Then, suddenly, the uproar died. One of the men pointed. Their heads turned and, as they did so, a car appeared from behind the buildings. It was followed by a second and a third. They were full of Chinese officers and Dicken recognised the man alongside the driver of the first car as Colonel Kok. He faced Dicken, smiling.

‘How clever of you to think of aeroplanes,’ he said. ‘It will save us a long and dreary journey by road.’

‘These aircraft are for the rescue of children,’ Dicken snapped.

Kok gestured. ‘Children can’t save China and those are Chinese aircraft. Have you my government’s permission to use them for this purpose?’

The authorities in Chungking had maintained only a sullen silence, but Dicken lied that it had, and he saw Father O’Buhilly lift his hand, two fingers raised, in a gesture of absolution. Just beyond him, Johnson, his cap with its broken visor crushed on the back of his head, stood with Moreno and their co-pilots, their faces angry.

Kok obviously didn’t believe Dicken. ‘I need those aeroplanes for myself and my staff,’ he said. ‘Step aside.’

As the Chinese began to move forward, Dicken yanked his revolver from its holster and shoved the muzzle against his head. The click as he pulled the hammer back was loud in the silence and he saw Marie-Gabrielle’s hand go to her throat. One of the Chinese reached for his weapon.

‘He’d better not use that thing,’ Dicken said. ‘If he does, you’ll sure as hell die as well.’

Kok’s eyes swivelled but he didn’t move his head. He gestured to the officer whose hand dropped to his side.

‘Tell your men to throw down their weapons, Colonel. If one of them makes a move, you’re dead. Very dead. This is a .38 and they make a mess at this range.’

For a long time Kok stood stock-still, then he spoke in Chinese. The officers turned from the aircraft and grouped themselves by the cars.

‘Now their weapons.’

As the officers threw down their weapons, Dicken gestured. ‘Pick ’em up, Bab.’

Helped by the other airmen, Babington started to collect the revolvers and swords and Dicken saw that Marie-Gabrielle was helping too.

‘Now get back in your cars,’ he said. ‘When this is over you’ll find your weapons where you dropped them. Go.’

As the cars vanished, the first children were brought from the buildings and were pushed into the aircraft. Immediately the singing started, high-pitched and monotonous, and they could hear it even as the engines revved up and the Tupolev began to taxi down the field. As it soared over Dicken’s head, trailing a plume of grey smoke, they were already pushing children into the second machine.

The airlift went on all day. During the afternoon, when they were beginning to wonder if they could get more than they had expected out of the island, the incoming machine brought Foote.

‘Old Dogleg’s creating trouble,’ he said, his face grim. ‘He claims we’re using petrol to save useless lives. He says his army needs the Tupolevs and he wants to know why we refused to lift out Lee’s staff. The General’s handling him.’

‘I hope he can go on handling him just a bit longer,’ Dicken said. We’ve got most of the kids out. If we can just hang on a little longer, we can get the sick out too.’

The Tupolevs continued to come in at two-hourly intervals until dark. The last one brought Foote again.

‘We can keep going tomorrow,’ he said. ‘But the General’s in a wrangle with Chiang who’s mad enough to bite the heads off nails. That goddam Kok signalled him from some place down the road. I reckon you’re finished, boy.’

As Foote flew off again, Dicken walked towards the hospital. Father O’Buhilly was just ushering the remaining children in to a sparse meal.

‘You’ve got to leave tomorrow, Father,’ Dicken said.

The priest turned. ‘This is where I live, boy,’ he pointed out gently.

‘Not any more. Father.’

The priest led him into the little room where he slept. It was as bare as every room Dicken ever remembered him occupying, nothing but a bed, a table, an upright chair, and a shelf where he kept his missal, his breviary, his New Testament, and the works of a few favourite saints.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘Chiang’s raising hell and claiming the Tupolevs back. Foote thinks General Loomis can stave him off until tomorrow night. But it’s the end for me. I’m held responsible. They’ll also hold you responsible. You’ll never be able to carry on here when it’s over.’

The priest shook his head slowly. ‘Sure, I’ve never believed in Hell,’ he said, ‘but I’d like to, if only to see people like Chiang and Lee and Colonel Kok there.’ He nodded. ‘Very well. I’m ready to go. What about Marie-Gabrielle?’

‘She’ll have to go too.’

‘Who’s going to tell her?’

‘I will.’

Father O’Buhilly sighed. ‘I’ve prayed for you both.’

‘Perhaps,’ Dicken said, ‘God’s a bit hard of hearing.’

Marie-Gabrielle looked up as Dicken appeared in the doorway of her office. Somehow, he sensed a warmer attitude towards him and wondered how she would react to his news.

‘I’m grateful, Dicken,’ she said. ‘You haven’t changed. I always thought you were brave and honest. You still are.’

‘I’m not all that honest,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve known something for some time that I haven’t dared tell you.
You
’ve got to go, too.’

She frowned and he hurried on to explain. ‘Father O’Buhilly’s also got to go. I’m in trouble, it seems, but I think this place will be in worse trouble. You’ll never be allowed to stay. I’m sorry.’

‘Where can I go? I haven’t got anywhere.’

‘You have if you want it.’

She gave him a quick glance and was silent for a moment before she spoke. ‘I’ve lived here too long.’

‘They can use nurses at the American Hospital in Chungking. They’d even fly you to India if you wished, and there’s one sure way of making them. They’re going to declare me
persona non grata
. If I had a wife she’d doubtless have to be flown out, too.’