The Call of the Thunder Dragon (17 page)

Wearily he sat on a log and
started to doze off.

Despite his fears Falstaff grew
weary and sitting on a log he started to doze off

The brother’s nudged him
awake.

Embarrassed he woke
immediately.

“Is the last plugin?” Falstaff
snapped, pointing to the port engine.

“Shi!” The brothers chimed
together, grinning.

He started to curse under his
breath but held his anger in check. He was enjoying working with
the brothers, it could be worse he reminded himself. He removed the
plug and inspected it. He discarded it immediately.

“It screwed in too far! The
thread is damaged! We’ve got to get a new gasket from
somewhere?”

Ang rummaged through their boxes
of spares; eventually, he donated a gaskets from their truck
engine. It seemed to carry on running despite the haphazard way it
was maintained.

Falstaff tightened the plug.
Replacing the cables, he fired up the engine. To him, it sounded
better already. He climbed up, for hopefully what was the last time
and removed the plug to re-check it again. Inspected it and
re-tightened it.

“Thanks, boys!” He saluted as he
threw down the tools.

Over rice, the brothers discussed
problems they often had in the winter with the trunk or the motors
running the saws in the timber mills. They often rescued motorists,
who at least once a year were brave enough to drive so far and
breakdown during the winter. Falstaff found there ingenious
knowledge useful and cunning. In return, he told the story of how
one pilot in the winter of Alaska had described keeping his engine
hot by Chilli peppers run through a meat grinder that he’d used to
replace the carburettor. The brother’s fell about laughing at the
story.

It was fully dark now; the truck
had to be topped up with gasoline before they could get the lights
on again. Checking his watch, it was past four o’clock and he was
exhausted and the job was dragging on. He looked at the partly
dismembered pusher engine at the back of the Caproni in
despair.

Zam had bathed, eaten and
rested. Expecting to get an early start the next morning. With
nothing to do she looked over the maps laid out on the floor. There
were plies of paper with notes, endless numbers and names of
places. Amongst them, she found a picture. An idle scribble on the
back of one page. A woman naked accept for shoes and hat. Sporting
an amble, bouncing bust and long legs, posed with hand on hip.
Falstaff had further embellished his sketch with a red pencil
coloring her hair and shoes. Zam angrily shoved the picture and
papers aside. Finding it was nearly six o’clock she went down to
the foyer no longer able to stay in the same room alone. She let
herself become stuck in a long conversation full of idle gossip
with Song while she inwardly fumed at Falstaff.

Illustration
4
:
An idle scribble on the back of
one page

“Stand clear, I’ll cross my
fingers for this one!”

Falstaff climbed into the
cockpit, resigned to success or failure, tried to start the last
engine.

The rear engine turned, whining
with the clatter of the starter motor, then suddenly stopped and
juddered. Falstaff was in the process of flicking the power off,
when the engine backfired spewing flame and oil across the ground
beneath the aircraft.

Ang ran forward flapping at the
fire, stamping out the burning oil. Jinling smothered the flames on
the tailplane, then joined Falstaff as he put his back against the
wings and pushed turning the plane in a short arc clear of the
blazing grass.

Falstaff stood back, sick to his
stomach, he watched Ang and Jinling do their best to stamp out the
remains of the fire.

He bit his lip and nervously
called out. “Come on then, let’s try that damn engine once more
than pack it in!”

Falstaff wearily pulled himself
into the cockpit. “Turn that engine over again a couple of times,
right up until its stiff again! Priming and pulling the prop
through?”

They waved enthusiastically,
hardly the correct hand signals, but he waited until they had been
sensible enough to stand clear. Hoping the backfire had simply been
the engine clearing itself, he gripped the throttles and swore.
“Bugger it, - all or nothing this time!”

He started the port and starboard
engines, letting them tick over, then with a grin of determination
swore himself hoarse over the din as he attempted to start the
third.

It fired up spectacularly
throwing back an exhaust of blazing black fumes and lick of bright
flame.

“Hell’s teeth!” He shouted in
surprise jumping at the booming roar as the engine unexpectedly
started like rolling thunder. Looking backward in surprise he
enthusiastically revved up the rear engine, then realised he was
rolling across the grass out of the clearing onto the track.

Falstaff stopped the port and
starboard engine, steadying the plane, pointing it towards the
widest part of the track, fortunately on either side were wide
ditches keeping pine trees clear of the wing tips. He’d rolled
another two hundred yards or so before he stopped. The central main
engine ticked over, purring smoothly. Falstaff couldn’t have been
happier.

Clearing up, they carried the
remains of Falstaff’s tools and gear to be stowed the aircraft. Now
safely secured with logs in front of the wheels. More beer came out
to warm them through. All the covers and panels including the front
cockpit were secured tightly for flight. A makeshift cover was made
for the aft crew space, behind the cockpit, which was normally left
open to the elements. Falstaff drank his beer and continually
thanked Ang and Jinling for their assistance, which Falstaff
sincerely impressed on them.

Last thing they did was top up
all the tanks. The brothers had brought every gasoline can they
could lay their hands on. Some of the cans had been reused or were
rusted. Falstaff raised his hands to show his concern about the
contents. The rest were a mixture of new cans. Two battered but
sealed red and yellow 5 gallon Shell premium and a 10 gallon Caltex
can filled the tanks to the brim.

Falstaff stowed six more 5 gallon
cans of Caltex and took three cans of different Ether fuel
additives and poured one of them into the two tanks as well. With
the old engines, he was not so worried about the fuel octane, but
more about the plunging temperatures and high altitude. Frost was
forming on the wings. The brothers urged him to turn the engines
over again while they rooted around the truck. Unearthing a wooden
chest under the rattling collection of saws and tools. They tugged
the box out, mindless of the saw teeth and blades cascading
aside.

Hopping down from the truck, Ang
handed Falstaff a tin of antifreeze. Rubbing his hands, John nodded
at the sense of it and climbed into the cockpit again.

The tin of antifreeze was half
empty even before starting to fill the radiators.

Falstaff pulled out three bottles
of the strong rice wine. “This is what I bought it for!” He
grinned. The shop keeper guaranteed it wouldn’t freeze! “100
percent proof Leopard piss!”

They each took a swing and
drained the bottle into the radiators.

Falstaff sat drinking another
beer while Jingling sat in the co-pilot seat. Ang had wriggled
under the tarps secured across the rear of the nacelle. He kept up
commentary on how warm it was under the tarpaulin while the engine
started to heat the radiator water through. Falstaff and Jinling
shivered, teeth chattering while Ang described how warm he was,
shouting to be heard over the din of the engines. As soon as Ang
scalded himself, Falstaff let the engines wind down with a
grin.

“That’ll do then!” He joked.

Covering the cockpit they slipped
through the deepening snow towards the truck. Inside they sang
together as the rolled down to the shore. The market had more or
less packed up for the night except a few brave stall holders who
had pulled their wagons to the side of the avenue and were cooking
and grilling. Selling to those few brave enough to walk out in the
snow. The first of the year, Ang told Falstaff.

Falstaff settled the bill with
the pair, five silver yuan to Jinling, who by now Falstaff was
called Jing-a-ling in a slurred voice.

The both snickered, inviting him
to join them for a meal. Falstaff thought for a moment, the idea
had already crossed his mind. He rubbed his head trying remember
what he’d forgotten. “I must go to the telegraph office. What time
does it close?”

The brothers shook their heads,
old man Bo who worked there, left at six and it was now past seven
o’clock, but they knew which bar he drank and ate in. They would
meet Falstaff there after sending Bo back to the office.

Flustered and tired Falstaff
carefully trod through the snow towards the hotel deliberating what
sort of reception he was about receive from Zam.

Zam cursed Falstaff silently as
she watched the clock turn past seven. Song had excused herself for
the telephone, saying how busy she was. Zam heard her laughing and
chattering on the phone in the back office. She was about to give
in and go to bed when Falstaff staggered in.

All question of berating him was
forgotten, Falstaff presented the typical picture of hard working
mechanic. Cold, sore and weary. He was covered in oil, his new
shirt collar as black as his hands and face and his face was as
pale under the oil as his shirt should be.

A houseboy raced Zam to him,
helping him off with his wet, muddy flying boots. “Clean ‘em for
you?” he piped and disappeared clutching the boots, as fast as he
had appeared.

Zam helped him up the steps. “You
need to rest, aren’t we planning to be away in at first light?”

“No chance? Have you not seen the
snow?” Falstaff said without much vigour. He didn’t have the energy
to be enthusiastic right then.

Zam’s followed Falstaff’s
pointing finger to the snow drifting past the door.

Zam sighed, resigned to another
delay, she’d been looking forward to leaving.

“You’re going out?” Zam
exploded. Screaming over Falstaff’s mumbled apology a few minutes
later.

“I still have to send that
telegram! The brothers sort of said they’d drag the old man back to
the telegraph office somehow. I’d better go and get it done! I’ll
do it, eat out and then come straight back home!” Falstaff beamed
appealing, neglecting to tell Zam what a relief the brother’s
company had been.

“Not without cleaning you up
first, you look terrible!” Zam berated him. “Aren’t your ribs
hurting?”

“Yes, they’re aching like hell,
but it’s not a sharp pain like before.” Falstaff put on a brave
smile. “Order some coffee, I’ll have a bath to warm up.”

Zam smiled. “Not without me. I’ve
got to ensure you’re clean and don’t fall and hurt yourself
di-di!”

Falstaff rolled his eyes, “All
right! Zam-zi-zi?”

He chased her to the door as she
went to call for coffee.

Colonel Haga-Jin’s humour had
not improved. Even after Marihito explained his plan and how he had
managed to break into the hotel undetected and secure any
incriminating evidence.

They were hiding in an empty barn
awaiting the return of Captain Soujiro and the paratroopers,
huddled around a little fire. It stank of wet manure, the stench
served to distract and irritate Haga-Jin, who trembled taking a few
moments to think about the plan before he spoke again.

“What of your injuries, your
ankle and your nose? That looks terrible! You are uglier than
ever!” Haga-Jin snapped. “How did this happen?”

“I was discovered leaving the
hotel, Colonel-Dono! A chambermaid...” Marihito stuttered.

“A chambermaid? You are weak
spirited and degenerate!” Haga-Jin roared. “How can you be
overpowered by a weak girl? A Chinese woman!”

“Sorry, Colonel-Dono! Forgive me
I am weak spirited and degenerate, but I was about to say I heard
the Chambermaid speaking to the pilot.” Marihito quickly
fabricated. “With considerable risk to myself I rushed to catch and
eliminate him!”

“This sounds more like an
honourable Japanese soldier? Doesn’t it Takechi?” Haga-Jin calmed a
little. Considering the action.

Takechi nodded, he’d not spoken
much since Okura had died. “Did you kill him? Was he the one who
killed Okura?”

“No,” Marihito said after a
pause.

“No?” Haga-Jin and Takechi said
together.

“Why not?” Haga-Jin roared
jumping up. “You will tell me everything!”

Marihito related exactly what the
situation was now and what had happened at the hotel.

“Falstaff, you say? This sounds
familiar to me? Did you write it down?” Haga-Jin checked his
pockets, satisfied he continued. “Give me your note book, is that
the name?”