Baa Baa Black Sheep (9 page)

Jim Adams came directly to the point when they picked
us up at the field, and asked us to come live with them. He said: “Bill and I have spent most of our lives in comparative comfort. But we know what the other side is like. And we decided it was awfully selfish of us, not sharing our homes with you fellows, who are the only reason we are able to live in them.”

By this time all of the pilots had been billeted with different colonials in their homes. However, the six of us, living with Jim Adams and Bill Tweedy, were the only pilots whose hosts had insisted that no room and board be paid. Furthermore, they dropped everything of importance to make us feel at home, and we became inseparable.

That the best things in life are free certainly was applicable within the Adams-Tweedy homes, for at no time previously had I lived with a feeling of complete comfort. And to think of the misery of the countries we were in, with a war going on full blast. The enjoyable routine still lingers in my memory, or I wouldn’t bother to talk about it. And after a day’s stand-by or work at the field, we would park our P-40s for the night in close-by rice paddies that had no water, just before sunset. We did this so there would be nothing but an occasional bomb crater to be filled on Mingaladon the following morning. Even lightning cannot strike something that is not there.

After our P-40s were bedded down, I would drive home to Jim Adams’s lavish abode. Always, without exception, I found one, or sometimes both, of the kindly Scots with the pilots, seated about the patio next to one of the hilltop estates.

“Chota Peg” or “Burra Peg,” came the friendly invitation just after darkness had set in. These were names for scotch and soda out there. The “Chota” was a single. The “Burra” was a double. Bill Tweedy laughed one night and said: “You chaps even caused us to change the name of one of our drinks. We have had to change the name of our ‘Burra Peg’ to ‘the American Drink.’ ”

These evenings out of doors were augmented by typical Southern California weather that February of 1942. After we briefly accounted for the day, we downed our Burra Pegs and excused ourselves, then retired to our quarters to freshen up before continuing the enjoyable evening with our hosts. For these two Scots were the same as foster parents.

Each pilot had his own spacious bedroom with the customary large paddle-blade fan hanging from the ceiling and a large, soft four-poster bed, covered with a roomy mosquito netting. Even Angus, Jim’s black dog, a great Dane, had his own bedroom and his own mosquito net.

Each household had approximately ten domestics, Indians and Burmese, ranging from gardener, chauffeur, and number-one boy to first, second, and third cooks. The Indian servants lived in quarters separate from the main house, while the Burmese commuted from Rangoon.

Every bedroom adjoined a good-sized bath that was serviced from an outside door. It was baffling that with so many servants and all the attention to make your living so smooth you rarely saw more than one at a time, almost as if these servants were accomplishing the job with mirrors, as they moved soundlessly about on their bare feet.

Usually I entered my bedroom relieving myself of my dirty, sticky clothing as I walked. And by the time I entered the bathroom there was always a hot tub waiting, and the proper temperature for me. Perfect co-ordination, regardless of the hour I arrived. And Anto, a husky Burmese, the number-one boy, had already left unseen through the outside bathroom entrance. Nor do I remember ever calling for Anto to serve me; he must have had telepathy in addition to all his other fine attributes. If not before, I soon discovered, after I had eased myself into this refreshing tub, that cigarettes, matches, and a cool, fresh “Burra Peg” were within easy reach.

It was a kinglike feeling when, in fresh linen, I rejoined my associates and host out on the tastefully shrubberied patio. As we sat around, delightfully passing the time of day, I was almost positive at times that my glass had been empty when I last set it down. But each time I picked up my glass, shaking it to be positive, I discovered that Anto or some other servant had replenished it unobserved.

Some of the evenings before dinner, which was never served before ten o’clock, Jim would ring next door on the telephone. And the conversation would go like this: “I say, Hurumph. Hurumph. Are you there, old boy?” Blank “Sir Archibald Wavell speaking.” Another blank “Would you do me the honor of cocktails and dinner this evening?”

We would alternate back and forth sometimes, with all
eight of the two households at either one home or the other. Jim’s Indian cook, tall and thin, was a true artist, and he served the most tasty meals I have ever experienced. This was the number-one cook, who did all of the marketing, also.

Jim explained that, owing to the higher wages in Burma, an Indian could work three years away from India, then return back home and live a year without working. Several of the Indian servants had been going back and forth for a couple generations.

The mornings, even though I was awakened before sunrise, were equally pleasant—no clanging alarm clock, no bugler, merely the delightful aroma of freshly brewed tea. This came from a teapot and a poured cup upon a table beside my pillow. And for once in my life I was able to get out of bed by degrees and enjoy myself. The cup of tea was very nearly consumed by the time I had finished a cigarette and had gotten my other slipper on my foot. Then into the bathroom for a shave and a toothbrush I went. Upon returning to my bedroom I found fruit, ham and eggs, marmalade and toast, and more tea, placed upon the little table beside my bed. What a way to live! How could I ever forget this part?

The only occasion I recall for ever having a great deal of conversation with any of the natives must be considered as a justifiable bawling out by an Indian. It had been accomplished in an orderly manner, though, and I got his point, realizing my mistake. We were there at a time when these people had been getting along without us for so many generations and before the land was infested with G.I.s who so wantonly tossed their money about.

The incident occurred when I had given an Indian youth three rupees, equivalent to a United States dollar at the time, for spending a whole day cleaning and polishing my dirty field boots. The boy’s eyes expressed supreme delight when I paid him for his troubles, so, when the father confronted me in anger afterwards, I got a chip on my shoulder immediately, for I imagined that I had been accused of something I hadn’t done—cheating his son.

The father simmered down quickly, as did I, and he explained the situation I had unintentionally created. The point being that I had given his son far too much money, as much as his father made in a week. Not that he didn’t appreciate generosity, he explained, but through my actions
he would lose the privilege of discipling his son. He would be lowered in the son’s estimation, upon the boy’s discovery that he could make more money than his parent.

For causing this trouble I apologized to the Indian father. And today there is little doubt in my mind concerning world attitudes about the U.S. dollar and the manner in which we toss the God Almighty Buck around.

With all this excellent living nothing but craving for excitement and women could tear us away occasionally to the Greek’s Silver Grill in downtown Rangoon. There were enough members of the AVG, by each of us going on occasion, to make the Greek an excellent living in his moth-eaten night club night after night.

One night when I had a terrific load aboard, an air raid sounded while we were busy whooping it up at the Silver Grill. I guess that the Greek had about enough of our money for one day. Anyhow, he was wringing his hands and telling us
we
had enough for one evening—to go home. That part was okay. But the Greek went too far; he couldn’t get us out quietly, so he ordered us out.

Automatics and revolvers were part of the dress for these nights out. But on this occasion they should have suggested that all firearms be left with the hat-check girl, like in the movies of the old wild West. We answered the demanding proprietor of the Silver Grill, carrying out our threats by shooting down the chandeliers. God knows what the Anglo-Indian prostitutes upstairs thought, if there were any of them left up above at the time.

Americans had a rather crude way of getting what they wanted under these circumstances. Later I learned that P. Green, as we always refer to Paul, almost had some difficulty in obtaining service in another colony, when several pilots were ferrying planes back from the Gold Coast.

P. Green, the handsome Jim Clinton of Kunming, as we call him, was wearing two holsters for this Gold Coast trip. Hot and thirsty, the pilots had stopped in a British colonial bar, where apparently liquor was rationed, and ordered a round of drinks. The bilious English bartender informed these pilots that there was sufficient whisky for Englishmen only.

As the story went—and who am I to doubt it?—P. Green saw red. He tossed both of his heavy West Texas pistols,
crashing down upon the bar top, and screamed: “Whisky me, boy. Whisky me, boy.”

P. Green and his buddies were served. Served with smiles, too, all they wanted. So, it wasn’t all our fault, like one might have believed, the cause of the grating feelings that existed. I have to admit, personally, that I didn’t help the situation much.

During an early moon one evening we were seated on the Adams lawn, quietly sipping our scotch and sodas and listening to the drone of a Japanese bomber. Occasional bursts of anti-aircraft fire, blending in with the searchlights, were rather pretty, I thought. No worry concerning our P-40s, for they were off the field. The whistling and the cla-umph cla-umph of the bombs in the distance were normal sounds by then.

But the next night was a complete surprise. First we saw a more or less horizontal burst of tracers at some altitude. We saw another, Roman-candle-like burst, which appeared as if it had been fired straight down. Then came the ever-increasing howl of a pair of twin engines, winding up as though they were about to tear themselves out of their mounts. The crescendo increased gradually until it terminated in silence, after a blinding flash of light, which preceded a terrific explosion.

After this little show we realized that the tracer bursts had to be from a fighter, but had no idea who it could have been. The following morning we were to learn that Wing Commander Schaffer, survivor of the Battle of Britain, had been doing a bit of night flying in his RAF Hurricane.

It was an honor to meet this handle-bar-mustachioed gentleman in the RAF mess a few days later. That is the way I felt. I couldn’t blame the commander if he felt differently.

It is odd, indeed, what things we do in an emergency. This thing I did paralleled the actions of a tow-headed youngster I was to meet in a Japanese prison camp in Japan. This sailor had filled his pockets with canned goods before he was released to the surface in an air bubble from the
Tang
, an American submarine, resting upon the bottom of the Sea of Japan, unable to rise.

While talking to Wing Commander Schaffer I became so engrossed I failed to recognize a certain sound. But he did. He yelled: “Strawf. Strawf,” and out of the RAF mess door
his lean frame went, his mustache streamlined out along his thin cheeks. What caused my actions, or how I did them, I don’t know. But I had followed the rangy Schaffer, hurdling a high porch railing that should have taken me three jumps, followed him into a slit trench, landing with both feet in the middle of his back, poor fellow. And, as I gathered my senses, lying there on some rocks, I discovered that I was clutching an unbroken bottle of scotch in each hand.

One morning in the middle of February our squadron received a sad blow. An extremely quiet morning, as I recall it. Sandell had been out early, testing his repaired P-40, and was killed. I was on duty this day, but I hadn’t seen the accident. But some of the RAF had seen it and told me about it.

They said that it appeared as though Sandy had spun his airplane deliberately, at fairly high altitude, and then appeared to be having difficulty in recovering. But eventually the plane recovered completely and was in a steep dive. At fairly low altitude Sandy apparently hauled back on the stick too rapidly when pulling out of the dive, and his P-40 half rolled slowly, going into the ground in an inverted attitude.

The following day only half of us could attend Sandy’s funeral, and I was on duty at the field for an alert. There was no direct contact in mass this day. We had taken off twice, during the same alert, and couldn’t make contact with any bandits the first time, although the reports were coming in from RAF Radar Control. A hazy day made a will-o’-the-wisp game out of it. Here they are. No, they aren’t. Finally, after about two hours of this, I saw one lone Jap fighter, almost across the bay leading into the Settang River. Apparently he was heading for Moulmein, about out of fuel.

It was simple to ease up behind this I-97, and I had all the time in the world to set my sights for a no-deflection shot. He never saw me, at least not before I fired. Fear that I had missed him was soon over. The I-97 slowly half rolled and plowed out of sight under the water. Realization that I was seventy miles from Rangoon hit me suddenly, so I scooted back to base while I still had fuel left.

There were a few Hurricane pilots around the city by this time. After I had gotten back, a couple of their pilots told of sighting the main body of the I-97s. The two of them had been sitting above approximately fifty Japs, sensibly waiting
for some of the AVG to reinforce them before making an attack.

They asked me who was in a certain numbered P-40. I remember saying that I didn’t know offhand but could find out—and why do you ask?

One Hurricane pilot said: “While the two of us were waiting, we saw Number—– climbing up, and counted on his joining us.” He added: “But to our complete surprise Number—– plowed into the whole bloody bunch alone. And the next thing we knew he was in a bloody spin with Japs all over his Shark Fin. They damn nearly got us both when we decided to give him a bit of help. Here’s a little friend I found imbedded in my parachute pack,” he said, dropping a 7.7 slug into my palm.