The Call of the Thunder Dragon (6 page)

“Sam, old thing! Well, that’s
damn good timing! I could do with a lift old fellow?” Falstaff
tried to wave but winced holding his side. He attempted a smile,
rubbing his eyes with his blackened hands. His face was blackened
with soot, streaked with oil and blood, except for the white skin
around his eyes where his goggles had been.

“Welcome, my friend, you ‘rucky
brugger! That’s anot’er three I owe you!”

Wu Wong was General Chiang
Kai-Shek ’s trusted agent with their mobile air unit, that was now
destroyed by the Japanese attack. The three aircraft bounty
represented a fortune, more than a year’s wages for the average
Chinese peasant.

“Yeah, - and don’t you forget
it!” Falstaff stabbed his finger towards Sam as he patted his
pockets. Finding his crumpled packet of cigarettes, he struggled to
light one with shaking hands.

They helped him up onto the back
of the truck that turned back to the main road. Behind them, they
could see the burning munitions factory and beyond it the town.
More Japanese bombers were arriving to destroy what was left of
it.

“I don’t suppose there’s any hope
that you’ve got the cash on you now is there?”

“You come to Kunming! You get
pay… We have much gold wait for you!” Sam winked, his English may
have been bad, but his intent was clear. “There is also many pretty
girls. Cold this time of year, Kunming is. Good girls, - pretty
girls, can keep you warm!”

“So it’s on to Kunming then and
don’t spare the horses!” Falstaff inhaled from a cigarette and
burst into a fit of painful coughing. “Damn that hurts! Pardon me,
I think my ribs are broken?” He winced and flicked the cigarette
away, fumbling with the other hand in his pocket to produce a
dented silver hip flask full of Brandy.

The truck bounced onto the road
over a pothole and started up the track into the mountains.

“I don’t suppose young Ivan made
it did he? That was a pretty nasty prang back there?”

Ivan had been his friend. Now
just another pilot lost in China. A white Russian made homeless by
war and revolution, who had turned mercenary for his adopted home.
Willing to risk his life for the Chinese.

“My sorry. He said, ‘say you
greedy bastard’, you should forget flying and settle down with a
nice woman? He gave this to give you.” Wu handed Falstaff the
Russian’s pocket watch. “His bounty will go to his mother in
Shanghai now.”

Falstaff took the silver engraved
timepiece and popped open the lid with a grin. Inside were two
naked figures, the female figure bending to receive in perfect
perpetual time - her male counterpart. “Nice piece that, he had it
specially made in Minsk I think?”

Falstaff swallowed, running his
tongue around his teeth. Another friend with whom he had shared
danger in the clouds was gone. “You know I’ve never been to Russia.
Not sure I’ll ever go now.”

He sat silently contemplating the
watch until the truck hit a crater in the road. “Oh, damn it! Tell
the driver to take care will you?”

The townsfolk walking alongside
the truck suddenly scattered into the fields disappearing into the
rows of tea bushes growing on the slopes. The winter tea bushes
were white grey bony sprigs, just leafless skeletons offering no
cover, hiding nothing. The white shrubs themselves snagged at the
running peasants, clawing at the refugees, hampering them
further.

Yet more Japanese bombers swept
overhead. Machine gun fire echoed across the fields. A Mitsubishi
Ki-51, ‘Type 99’. An assault Plane used for reconnaissance and
bombing. The gunner inside wildly swung his machine gun, spraying
the tea fields with lead. The refugees had little chance died in
the fields.

The truck stopped abruptly, the
Chinese ground crews leapt, abandoning the truck for the safety of
roadside ditches. Falstaff winced with pain as he spun round to see
two more Japanese bombers relentlessly returning to destroy the
town. He tried to move as the truck rolled on out of control before
it went off the road, turning over into a thicket of trees.

Falstaff reckoned he had only
been unconscious for a few moments. He felt like a mountain had
fallen on him. There were still a few refugees drifting along the
road accompanied by wisps of smoke from the now burning truck, but
there was no sign of the ground crew or Sam Wong.

He stood, brushing himself down
while he looked around. He had been thrown clear of the ruined
truck. Now there was no other way to get to Kunming to join the
rest of the Nationalist army. He was wondering if he was going to
have to walk there to collect his pay when he noticed that a young
woman had stopped. She was now staring curiously at him.

She was tall for a Chinese; she
wore her hair long, plaited in two beautiful long pigtails.
However, Falstaff was taken in by her dress. Silk Turquoise
pantaloons, and bright, colourful check woollen coat, finished with
fur. It seemed extraordinarily fine for a farming town. Then there
were her large bashful eyes, shining alluringly from her soft round
face.

Falstaff could not help himself.
He smiled slightly and politely with a mock bow. Before giving the
woman a full Falstaff grin. The woman turned away embarrassed but
touched by the cheerfulness of the Englishman’s smirk.

“Pardon me, but I wonder if you
might lend me a hand here, ah gently, there... I think that’s
broken!” He swung his arm over her shoulder as they started up the
track together. He tried her in Chinese. “I don’t suppose you know
where we could find a hot tub do you?”

The girl looked at Falstaff
mutely. She blinked her big brown eyes. Then offered her arm and
took his weight on her slight frame as he limbed along. “You are
dirty aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry. I should explain.”
Falstaff smiled to himself. He wasn’t going to explain about his
wish. The promise he’d made to himself if he survived the plane
crash. “I was told about these lovely hot springs? I never got to
see them and you’re right I probably am dirty?” He said in
English.

Falstaff realised he was indeed
filthy, covered in black engine oil. “I’m sorry your coat is
getting dirty and I don’t even know you?”

“Coat is no problem. I mean you
are ‘seh lang’
¹
, dirty pervert!” She
whispered in a hiss. “But if I clean you up maybe you are hua hua
gongze? A flower-flower prince!”

“What do you mean? Damn your
eyes! I’m covered in soot and oil!” Falstaff complained.

“Your smile is, how do you say?
Smile is a window to the soul. It shows true meaning in thoughts?”
She stumbled over the words in English.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Falstaff
muttered in surprise.

They continued walking up the
hill together. The girl willingly and gently helping Falstaff,
guiding him around potholes and deep puddles of cold black
water.

“Your English is excellent. Did
you study it? Is that why you helped me?” Falstaff huffed
painfully.

“I see you are pilot? You have
hood of leather and ‘yan’ to help you see in the clouds?” She
pointed at his goggles hanging over his shoulder still attached to
his flying helmet.

“Yan? Oh, your mean ‘eyes’... My
goggles? Why, are you looking for a pilot?” He wheezed. “Oh lord,
that’s getting painful! I must stop.”

The girl held on to him as
Falstaff tried to lower himself to the ground. “No! You must come
this way!” She insisted haughtily.

Falstaff looked around. He
realised the girl was leading him away from the higher tree covered
peaks where the rest of the town were heading. Dodging among the
terraces of tea trees looking for shelter.

Zam pulled at his arm again,
Falstaff felt his muscles protest.

“Ow! Careful that hurts? What’s
the deal anyway?”

She let go suddenly, letting
Falstaff fall. He yelped, rolling over as he tried to protect his
left side, where his ribs felt increasingly like they had been
crushed by an elephant. Catching his breath, he chuckled to
himself, he’d taken the girl to be some common trollop who had
escaped a bordello at first, but there seemed to be more to the
girl.

The girl stood over him, speaking
now in a stern voice. “I command you, you come!” She said. The tone
of her voice was something like a child trying to sound like their
father. “I am Princess Karma Zam of Paro, daughter of Lord Lang
Druk of Dzongkhag! You must take me home!”

“Duck zong-ka?” Falstaff blinked.
“I’m sorry your English is good, my Mandarin is not bad – even my
Tibetan isn’t too bad – but what are you saying?”

“I am speaking the language of
the Ngalop people,” Karma Zam squatted down delicately, avoiding
the mud. “It is a language of Bhutan. Dzongkha is the language
spoken in the fortress. My father’s fort is in Dagana District,
which is part of Paro in Bhutan. This is where I am from. I have
been taught Mandarin, Cantonese, Sanskrit and a little
English.”

“Should I bow?” Falstaff joked.
“A princess, eh? How old are you – if I may ask?”

“I am twenty, youngest of my
three sisters.”

“What do your sisters call you?”
Falstaff sat up, pulling out his flask of brandy, which he
drained.

“Zam! They call me Zam, it means
join. It is the name given to me by the monks of the temple. You do
know where Bhutan is, don’t you?”

Falstaff recovered his composure.
The warming influx of brandy denting his pain. “Bhutan? Of course,
way over to west, - over the southern range of the Himalayas! A
long way from here that’s for sure. West, over the mountains, the
‘Tea and horse trail’? Is that why you need a pilot? Do you have an
aircraft?” Falstaff thought quickly, his hopes restoring.

“Please, we fly from the lake on
‘Shu-mahe’
²
river, when Japanese
come from the heavens and cut us down!” Zam explained.

“Help me up – show me. If you’ve
got a kite then I’ll help you.”

“There is many baths in
Pu’er
³
, if you
like I show you? Hot water will help the sick man grow strong yes?”
Zam answered, enthusiastically taking Falstaff’s arm and balancing
his weight on her shoulder. “Comfy?” She asked.

“I can’t complain!” Falstaff
chirped.

Chapter Two – On the Edge with tea

Zam led them around the
mountain, following the same row of grey leafless shrubs around the
ridge to the south. There sat precariously on the crest of the
highest terrace was the flying machine.

“Here is your kite!” Zam said,
“Master Garcia consented to fly us home to Bhutan.”

Zam ducked under the bi-plane’s
wing and pointed her finger shaking towards the cockpit at the
front.

“See, Juliano! Master Garcia –
Juliano! He is dead!” She whispered tensely.

Falstaff followed, watching his
footing on the edge of the terrace. The aircraft balanced on the
edge of the embankment forming the top most terrace. Above rows
upon rows of the tea bushes. There were many broken and snapped
branches. Ripped up and tangled in the wake of the aircraft.

Falstaff blew out his breath.
“What a mess? Look at him, another one.” His lip trembled, he
gripped the pocket watch tightly in his hand thinking of Ivan.
“Shit...”

He shook his head, no. He
wouldn’t think it. No, this couldn’t be how his father had felt,
seeing his squadron die.

Falstaff knelt respectfully and
inspected the still, cold body lying beside the plane. A quick look
at the cockpit confirmed his suspicions. Tell-tale holes in the
canvas around the cockpit showed where they had been hit. A
Japanese aircraft, probably one of the type 99’s he seen earlier,
had impulsively strafed the plane killing the pilot.

“We flew. It was unbelievable,
like a dream we floated up to touch the clouds then came the
Japanese.” Zam pointed back over the ridge to her right. “Shu-mahe
Lake, on the river below, that is where we whooshed up from the
river bank into the blue sky!” Zam turned as she spoke looking from
the lake to the downed aircraft.

Falstaff thought for a moment.
The flight described by Zam would have taken barely a few minutes
before the Japanese had shot them down. The Japanese would probably
been surprised to find an aircraft coming from the river basin. The
young pilot had been very unlucky indeed. Falstaff’s airfield had
been further to the north-east, up past the Pu’er district and the
lake. The bombers on route would have easily spotted the Red
plane.

Falstaff turned his thought to
the journey ahead; calculating the range of the plane. It would
have nearly full tanks. It looked undamaged, apart from the few
scattered machine gun holes in the fuselage. On inspection, he
found it a strong wood and steel frame.

“You said us? How many of there
were you?” Falstaff asked.

“There was myself, Princess and
my chaperone who was my father’s chamberlain, Palden Jampa. He was
a coward. He ran away. I don’t know what happened to him.” Zam
avoided Falstaff’s gaze. Instead, she looked around at the bent and
broken rows of tea bushes.

“I bought Pu’er tea from the Bang
Wei Mountain for my Popa. I came by horse last month, with a
caravan of timber and jade. I came to see the terraces and the tea
– but it is the wrong time of year! All the trees are dead now. I
cannot wait till spring. I must return to Popa.”

“You came by way the Tea and
Horse Trail?” Falstaff looked at the girl in a new light. “In the
winter? Did you ride in a sedan chair?”

“My father would have said so,
but our horses are strong. Sturdy even on the mountain paths at
winter.” Zam stepped forward. “I also rode the flying machine from
the lake to this mountain top!”

Falstaff pondered, the route from
Tibet to China had earned the name Tea and Horse Trail because of
the common trade of Tibetan ponies for Chinese tea. The trail had
been open since at least the Song Dynasty many centuries ago.