The Call of the Thunder Dragon (40 page)

The Japanese army was strong,
full of brutal or brutalized men. The treatment of conscripts and
privates was vicious and unrelenting. As an instructor, Goemon
himself had beaten men for laziness or for showing signs of
weakness.

However, what he saw Colonel
Haga-Jin doing in China no longer fitted with his idea of being a
soldier. It had long since been clear to him that China wasn’t in
chaos, blighted by bandits, or militarily oppressed by the foreign
European powers, or requiring freeing from civil war. These things
had been lies. Japan, itself, wanted only to expand and build up
her resources for a larger war.

Most of the conflict and
suffering in China came from one source. Japan, as the invader, the
rapist, the thief taking resources for her own empire and power.
Similarly, the Colonel’s reckless pursuit of Falstaff was violent
and malicious in nature. Lieutenant Goemon thought the code of the
officer class, to which he now belonged had a greater
responsibility, one honourable in nature and purpose. The foreign
pilot, Captain Falstaff wild was a pilot officer and part of the
same class. There was no honour in the surreptitious pursuit of the
man in order to kill or torture him, even if in revenge for
injuries caused. Soldiers fought each other every day because they
were ordered to, not to seek revenge?

He thrust the rake into the pile
of blood-red leaves and raked absentminded. Occasionally shaking
the fork into his sack. He repeated the action; remembering how he
used a bayonet to clear a trench full of Chinese rebels. The blood
red on his bayonet, running down the rifle onto his hands. He
glanced at the sack full of leaves. Blood red leaves rotting away,
he threw down the rake in frustration.

Abe and Ono entered the
Clubhouse, now smartly dressed in western clothes, posing as
Chinese Horse merchants come to see the racing and play golf.
Initially, the Club itself was out of bounds for Indians and other
non-Europeans, but eventually in 1929, Indian membership was
finally passed by a vote of 29 for and 14 against. The clubhouse
now hosted many events and for a decade had stood as a living
testimony to the rich culture and history of its members and of
Assam as a whole.

A Sikh trader, known to Maka as
being a private supporter of Indian Nationalism, sponsored the two
‘Chinese’ visitors. He did so without questioning Maca, whom he
believed was a Tibeto-Burman with sympathy to his cause. No
questions needed to be asked, it was a matter to be kept from the
Europeans ears and eyes and that was the end of their dialogue.

Falstaff cheered as the natural
features of the landscape and the man-made shapes on the ground
started to match his scant map. The rivers coming together, the
railway, the manicured club grounds, the historic tea research
station and a football pitch.

Jorhat was regarded as the nerve
centre of the tea industry in India, built up by the British with
the purpose of rivalling China’s tea production. During the 1860s
and ‘70s, the entire city was gradually dotted with tea gardens.
The town was a flourishing commercial metropolis all completely
rebuilt after being destroyed by a series of Burmese invasions and
instigated by the arrival of the British a hundred years ago.

The Tocklai tea research building
had been built in 1911. It came into view clearly below them
surrounded by gardens, next to the river and the railway. The
laboratory and its two bungalows were marked clearly on the map.
Falstaff gently banked, circling slowly over the bungalows, he eyed
the rivers. The Tocklai was nearer the clubhouse than the wider
Bhogdoi river, which was itself nearer the town. He spotted the
long straight asphalt road leading to the clubhouse. Midway up the
road sat a small hut and beside that a windsock stirred gently. As
the Caproni descended, Falstaff could make out a couple of small
single engined aircraft and a stock of oil and gasoline behind the
hut.

“We’ll land on the road, make
refuelling easier.” Falstaff said.

He turned the plane in a series
of ‘S’ turns ever lower towards the clubhouse. “I’ll bet we’ll be
rattling the Teapots with this noise we’re making?”

Zam looked on keenly. Not sure
what to make of the finely trimmed and ornately shaped gardens. She
looked at the short cut grass of the golf course and the uniform
flat curve of the racetrack. She’d never quite seen anything like
it. The Chinese tea terraces were just that; terraces of tea. Good
land used for decoration or recreation was a rarity in Bhutan, all
the river floodplains were used for crops.

Falstaff set the Caproni’s
controls in neutral. He held the plane steady and level, it was
slurring slightly to starboard. He adjusted the throttles and side
slipped to line up with the Club Road. A small crosswind was
stirring the windsock from his left. Falstaff cut down the
throttles and the Caproni started falling gently, he let the nose
dip slowly. He would have to put her down quickly the cross wind
was picking up.

They passed the Tea research
station again on the right, they had about a mile of road to land
on.

Falstaff concentrated hard, he
had to remind himself to keep his angle of descent as neutral as
possible or wind up burying the tips of the floats in the road and
messing up the landing completely.

The strip of black asphalt came
closer. He could see white fencing along one side of the road. He
continued to descend and then abruptly he saw someone standing
motionless beside the road right in their path. He pulled up
sharply and opened all throttles fully. His ribs flared in pain
from the sudden movement.

“Up we go!” Falstaff roared; he
glanced quickly at Zam, who’d already grabbed onto her seat in
response to the sudden acceleration. Falstaff left the throttles
fully open, they sharply accelerated, pulling up into a loop. In a
fraction of a second, they were vertical, climbing straight up.

Falstaff didn’t let up. His ribs
flared in pain and his feet jerked on the rudder. The controls were
pulled back, rudder and ailerons neutral, keeping the climb into
the half-loop straight, the Caproni tipped over on its tail fully
vertical and leaning over at the top of the loop.

The Falstaff took a breath and
applied pressure to the rudder, unsure how much he’d need to
complete the half-roll to get upright again. His ribs flared in
pain again, he kicked the rudder. Having the three tail rudders,
only a slight amount of rudder should have been required, but as
Falstaff’s foot fell heavy on the rudder, they spun over one and
half times before the rolling stopped. As a result, the Caproni had
changed course by 180 degrees but had lost all the altitude gained
in the vertical climb.

With the crosswind now from the
right, Falstaff found himself facing South. The gardener had found
his senses and moved. He cut the throttles right down. Just
managing to keep the nose from falling too sharply. Once levelled
out they fell gently, Falstaff put on a slight bank into the wind,
neutralized the rudder and pulled down the throttles. The Caproni
touched down on two wheels, the rear end of the floats dragging
slightly as they slowed. Falstaff pulled back on the yoke to
compensate. The nose lowered, they decelerated sharply, rolling
along to a halt on the road.

Falstaff turned to face Zam, to
comment on the manoeuvre when she punched his arm, squealing in
fright and annoyance.

“Are you trying to kill me? Were
you deliberately trying to drop me on the ground?” Zam balled
punching his arm again.

“I’m sorry, someone was right in
our path! We’d have all been killed?” Falstaff. “I was just trying
to avoid him that’s all! Damn ribs played up that’s all, no need to
break my bloomin’ arm!”

Zam flopped back into her seat on
the another side of the cockpit and turned away from him her lip
pouting as tears came to her eyes.

“Christ! Weren’t you strapped
in?” Falstaff gaped. “Oh, bugger! I should have thought of that
before now! Damn. By George, I’m sorry!”

“Is that how you dump a girl John
Falstaff Wild? Turn their heads with your fancy flying then dump
them out when you’re done?” Zam sat shaking in floods of tears.

“Look, I’m really sorry, let’s
have a cup of tea?” He patted her arm gently. Wary of the crease
knotted across her forehead. “I’d forgotten how fast this rate
climbs!”

Falstaff reflected on the
landing; they been very lucky. Not all aircraft are capable of or
certified for the manoeuvre he’d just performed, an Immelmann turn.
He hadn’t planned it and didn’t want to practise it again, not in
the Caproni anyway.

The Caproni certainly wasn’t
suitable, even if it could climb sharply, it had insufficient
engine power, however, as with most aircraft, - the design of the
engine precluded inverted flight. Falstaff glanced at the engines
that were running rough already as he taxied towards the hut and
other aircraft.

Piston engines usually have an open oil pan impeding
inverted flying, as with all three of their FIAT engines.
When properly flown through the loop, the aircraft should maintain
positive ‘G’ throughout the manoeuvre. That is to say, if done with
enough speed, with the loop completed quickly enough back to
correct orientation, the ‘G’ forces keep the oil where it should
be, in the bottom of the pan or in Zam’s case her posterior in her
seat.

Falstaff shook his head. “Bugger
it! I’m sorry, - we were very lucky!”

Reaching the hut on the grass he
shut down the engines, hoping no damage had been done. Zam sat
ignoring him. Holding his breath, against saying anything stupid he
climbed down from the cockpit and looked around. The hut was locked
but evidently contained a large workshop. Falstaff had a quick look
at the engines. From under the cowlings, there was a tell-tale drip
of oil on starboard and rear engine. The port engine was worse. Far
worse, running with hot black oil. The now familiar plug was lose
again.

Falstaff wondered how much more
he could really ask of the old engines. He patted the Caproni
affectionately. “Looks like you’ve blown a gasket?” He said
figuratively.

A battered Vauxhall Cadet Saloon,
with the top down, raced down towards them from the Clubhouse. It
passed the errant pedestrian in the road with a wave.

Something about the wave made
Falstaff grin, recognition filtered through, he cried out
cheerfully as the car stopped.

“Gibbons! By George, what the
hell?” Falstaff pumped the new comer’s hand vigorously as he
stepped from the car.

“Am I glad to see you?” Falstaff
sighed, wavering on tired legs. “I thought you’d be back home in
Yorkshire by now?”

“No, not thee, - when I’d worked
my ticket, I decided to stay on in India. But the heat down in
Calcutta was too much, so I decided to take a job up here! Much
more my cup of tea!” Gibbons grinned. He was about Falstaff’s age,
a former RAF pilot he’d servedwith in Afghanistan.

“I bought thee self this wreck,”
He patted the bonnet of the car. “And drove it up here. Took on a
sort of part-time job as a groundsman, don’t know much about
gardening, put I can drive the tractors straighter than the locals
and have I managed to sort out a roster that keeps the greens firm
and the racecourse soft! Also, I keep the flying club going, I am
the only real permanent Jorhat member, but there are plenty of
fliers coming in regularly for golf and cream tea at the Manor
House.”

Falstaff listened while his
eyelids grew heavy, he stripped off his leather helmet and goggles
and rubbed his face.

“Hey, sorry old chap! There I was
talking about thee self and there’ee be... Thou look reight worn
out?” Gibbons exclaimed. “But I say, that landing was magnificent!
We heard thou buzz over back at the clubhouse, thought maybe that
Chinese kite had come back and there you were about to run over our
new gardener! How’d you do that turn? Thee always woz in for the
fancy flying! I prefer to keep straight and level myself! Jump int’
the car and we’ll get some tea?”

“That sounds great, hold on,”
Falstaff turned towards the Caproni. “Zam are you coming down?”

Presently her face appeared. Two
hard dark eyes glared down from behind her goggles. She didn’t
answer.

Falstaff turned to Gibbons, then
loudly, with some inflection announced. “May I present thee, her
Ladyship... Lady Karma Zam! Princess Karma Zam of Paro; daughter of
Lord Lang Druk of Dzongkhag; travelling home to Bhutan from Yunnan
province in China, after conducting a trade mission to Pu’er!”

Zam peeped over the edge of the
cockpit and saw Falstaff bow. Gibbons gave a step back in
surprise.

“You stupid high-nosed horse!
Scram! Gunkai! Go to hell!” Zam called.

Falstaff winked at Gibbons,
“She’s rough around the edges, but I like her that way.”

“That your lass then?” Gibbons
asked.

Zam rubbed her face and slipped
off her overcoat and climbed down on the far side of the aircraft.
Pulled off her helmet and she swept her loose hair back behind her
ears. She approached coyly.

Falstaff looked around the nose
of the Caproni with a grin. “Come on old thing – the kettle is on!
I’m told and there’s bread and butter with jam?”

The clubhouse was more than a
haven of colonialistic idealism. White, clean, painted with fine,
thin lines of yellow and gold. Decorated with hunting trophies, and
pictures of hunters standing over dead tigers. Then there were the
sporting headlines framed, with photos of the races; mounted golf
clubs and balls rusting and fading from disuse; next to polished
plaques declaring the winners accomplishments. Even if most locals
could never afford membership; among the neatness, the green potted
plants and club’s lists of presidents and pictures, were
acknowledgements of Indians, Sikhs and even Assumes, winning a fair
share of races, golf trophies and cricket games.