The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

‘‘Army bodied’’ (canvas-roofed flatbed) Studebaker and International two-ton trucks (some olive drab with Chinese Army insignia, some with the CAMCO legend on their doors, and some unmarked), all loaded to capacity, were chained to the flatcars. So were two aircraft-fueling trucks, a fire truck, half a dozen Chevrolet pickup trucks, four jeeps, and three Studebaker Commander sedans, one of them Canidy’s.

The train passed through Mandalay shortly after midnight, and arrived at Lashio, the eastern terminus of the Burma Road, as dawn was breaking.

While the Americans of the AVG group ate breakfast in the dining car, the vehicles were unloaded from the flatcars and inspected by a team of American mechanics. Six of the trucks and one of the pickups were judged unfit to make the trip. They would follow with subsequent convoys.

As Canidy was being given instructions for the road trip, the CAMCO Twin Beech D18S appeared in the sky, and thirty minutes later John B. Dolan, carrying two canvas suitcases, walked up to Canidy’s Studebaker and asked if he had room for a hitchhiker.

Once the convoy set out it averaged 20 mph over the Burma Road, and it took them forty-four hours to drive its 681 miles. This included a ten-hour overnight stop. The road was too narrow and too dangerous to drive in the dark.

At more than a dozen places along the road, they had seen human chains of Chinese manhandling cargoes of trucks, which had gone over the edge back up the steep mountainsides. And there had been three large black gashes burned in the thick vegetation where fuel trucks had exploded and burned.

In the Studebaker, Dolan volunteered to explain how the American Volunteer Group would have to function now that the United States was in the war.

They were supposed to have one hundred pilots.

They had eighty. There were supposed to be about three hundred people in the support element. There were just over one hundred thirty. And there would be no more ‘‘volunteers’’ released from the Army and the Navy and Marine Corps to ‘‘work for CAMCO.’’

Of the one hundred P40-Bs shipped from Buffalo, seventy-five remained. Ten were simply missing, probably riding the Orient in the hold of some freighter, or on the bottom of the sea in ships sunk by the Japanese. Twelve had been wrecked beyond repair in training. Of the seventy-five aircraft now in AVG hands, twenty were grounded, more than likely permanently, because of missing parts.

When they reached Kunming, very early in the morning, smoke had been still rising from the fires started by the Japanese bombing attack the previous day. The Japanese tactic was to bomb the city with incendiaries. They knew that fires were going to cause more physical and psychological damage than high explosives.

Kunming’s only defenses against the aerial attack were a half-dozen batteries of 20-mm antiaircraft cannon, which the Japanese could easily fly around, and some .50-caliber water-cooled machine guns protecting the air base against strafing attacks. Since it was unnecessary for the Japanese to descend into range of the .50s, the machine guns were seldom fired.

But the Kunming air base itself was far better militarily than anyone expected. There were solid revetments for the planes, and piles of stones and sandbags protected the maintenance buildings against anything but a direct hit. The runways were long and smooth. And because they were made of crushed stone, a bomb striking a runway would knock it out only until the hole could be filled with more crushed stone.

It was literally hand-built. Thousands of people had spent long days, using only the most rudimentary hand tools, to build it.

For the AVG itself, something like a U.S. military base had been established. There was a BOQ (called a hostel), with showers, dayrooms, a bar, and a library. There was a baseball field and tennis courts, a small medical facility, and even a pistol range.

Dolan, Canidy, Bitter, and the others were not the first Americans at Kunming. They had been preceded by people from CAMCO and by more old China hands from Chennault’s staff.

Since Canidy and Bitter had not been assigned to one of the three squadrons as the other pilots had, and since all the rooms in the hostel had been reserved for the squadrons, Canidy and Bitter moved in with Dolan and the support personnel, as they had in Rangoon.

The operation of the airfield was under a Chinese major general, Huang Jen Lin, an enormous man who—Canidy and Bitter were promptly and significantly informed—was a devout Christian. General Huang spoke fluent English and seemed quite competent. After meeting Huang, Canidy and Bitter were immediately issued brand-new U.S. Army Air Corps horsehide flight jackets. On the back of these had been hand-painted a sort of signboard. At its top a legend in Chinese announced that the wearer was an American who had come to China to fight the Japanese, and that it was the duty of every Chinese to give him whatever assistance he required.

The food in the mess was astonishing. Not only was it very good, but it was American. The Chinese chef had learned his trade as number-one kitchen boy aboard a U.S. Navy gunboat on the Yangtze River patrol. And there was something else in the mess Canidy found delightful: Chinese girls from the American Missionary College. They had been enlisted for service as interpreters. They were quite lovely, adored American food, spoke excellent English, and one of them, a slight, delicate, graceful girl, was receptive to Canidy’s invitation to come to his room and see what they could pick up on the Hallicrafter’s shortwave radio.

Sensing that Ed Bitter really disapproved of what he had in mind, Canidy spent a moment with him before he left with the girl.

‘‘What’s the matter with you now?’’

‘‘Nothing.’’

‘‘Because they’re Chinese? Amazing thing about Chinese girls,’’ Canidy said, ‘‘they get better-looking by the minute. ’’

‘‘You don’t think you’re taking advantage of her?’’ Bitter asked. ‘‘That doesn’t bother you? For Christ’s sake, she’s from a missionary school. She doesn’t know what you want from her.’’

‘‘What I’m doing, Eddie,’’ Canidy said patiently, ‘‘is getting laid.’’ Then, grasping Bitter by the arm, he theatrically proclaimed, ‘‘Live today, Edwin, for tomorrow you may wish you were dead! Into the valley of death fly the noble ninety-five.’’

Bitter was not amused.

A few minutes later, Canidy had learned that General Huang’s thoroughness in providing for the needs of the Americans went so far as providing interpreters with supplies of foil-wrapped U.S. Navy-issue condoms.

6

Early in the morning of December 20, Canidy was awakened before dawn by a shy and giggling interpreter who shielded her eyes from the interpreter in his bed and sweetly singsonged that ‘‘Meester Crooooookshanks’’ would be happy if ‘‘Meeester Can-Eye-Die’’ would join him immediately at breakfast.

Ham and eggs, pancakes, strawberry preserves, and good black coffee were already on the table when Crookshanks waved him into a chair. There was another pilot wearing an Air Corps green shirt and trousers, with a piece of white parachute silk tied as a foulard around his neck. There were wings, similar to Air Corps wings, with the flaming sun of China where the federal shield usually went. It was the first time Canidy had seen such insignia.