The Call of the Thunder Dragon (26 page)

Half an hour later they swooped
slowly over the red river through Hanoi itself towards the ferry
landing that served the boats carrying passengers over the river
and marsh islands at Tay Ho.

Ono Itchi was waiting alone,
standing straight at attention, his Guquin case on his back, a
small suitcase waiting at his feet. Akira recognised the
distinctive long hair, long gown, grey and faded, with navy
sleeves. He turned to his co-pilot, “I hope he’s in a good mood
this time!”

Alistair and waved Ludwig off as
he carried on up the road to the boarding house. They each had two
rooms, a bedroom and living room over the house of a large Burmese
family, who provided breakfast and clean sheets every morning.

Ludwig was heading towards the
public bathhouse. Alistair had decided on a neat haircut, before
going to eat. It was getting near the end of the month and he was
flush with cash. After eating, he had a notion that he might visit
a bar for a drink and then maybe more? There was also always plenty
of girls there.

The barber was open as usual. The
barber was Japanese, Alistair knew or guessed, despite the Chinese
name given. Alistair thought he cut hair brilliantly and generally
wouldn’t say a thing against him. He was polite and particular,
always remembered how he liked to have his hair cut. Excellent
cover for any agent.

As the man cut, he made a little
small talk. There wasn’t much to hear in the remote town. Exports
went out, imports came in. Tea, rice, resin nothing much
changed.

“Alistair-San I hear you had two
aircraft arrive today?” Abe the barber asked.

“Yep, the busiest day this month.
Maybe this year!”

“Only two aircraft Alistair-San?
I hear one fell in the river this evening.”

“Yes, one in the river I guess
that makes three!”

“I saw another in the sky today.
Maybe it has trouble?” The barber carried on clipping away with the
scissors, evenly and precisely.

“Trouble? Why do you ask?”

“People say the big plane dropped
men as it flew over the river.”

“Really? That’s odd - nothing on
the radio. Over the river, which way?” Alistair stirred in his
seat. Dropped men? Parachutes, paratroopers? He didn’t think the
British had paratroopers in the India?

Abe stopped cutting as the door
chimed, a tall stiff looking Asian gentlemen entered. He was
wearing a dark suit and large smart looking brown flat cap. The
type called a baker’s boy cap, with button in the centre that had
become popular in Asia recently. His face was freshly scarred and
covered by a bandage.

Alistair stirred in his seat to
wave greeting. He thought he knew everyone in town, the arrival of
another stranger made him suspicious.

The barber paused, his scissors
frozen mid clip. The new comer coughed and took a seat.

In the mirror, Alistair could see
the newcomer out of the corner of his eye. He was sat behind him,
in the reflection of the mirror he saw the man take a newspaper and
cast his eye over it uninterested.

The barber still hadn’t started
cutting again. Alistair stirred, waving to get Abe’s attention.

The barber bowed his head and
continued in silence until he had finished.

Alistair left with a nod of
thanks and stepped outside. The air was warm and still, in contrast
to the sudden chill he’d felt in the barber shop.

He started up the hill towards
the bathhouse then stopped, the barber hadn’t even charged him. He
wondered what had unsettled the barber so much. Alistair turned
back, taking the back street to the hotel. He was determined to
check things out. As scot he thought that getting a free hair was a
good thing, not exactly a windfall

Falstaff had just finished
bathing. Zam was reapplying his bandages. There was less fuss from
Falstaff, almost none in fact. Zam was relieved, her ears were
ringing from the drone of the engines and wind, having to hear
Falstaff moan and curse would have distressed her nerves beyond the
brink. She thought the ribs must be healing even if the scar was
still seeping blood.

Falstaff was too exhausted to
move, he’d already regretted arranging to wake at nine the next
day. His enthusiasm of an hour ago already gone and not likely to
return at ‘Oh-God-Almighty’ in the morning.

He told Zam he’d cancel the early
morning call if he could. He looked in the mirror, ignoring the
stubble on his chin he examined the purple, black bruise above his
right eye from his fall onto the icy cobbles that morning.

There was a soft knock at the
door. The bellboy admitted Alistair with a bow.

“I’m sorry to bother you, I can
see you’re in a bad way there. But I had to be sure,” Alistair
paused looking at the bandaged Falstaff and pile of bloody rags
used to clean the wound. “Has that had stitches?” He changed tack
seeing the wound. “Maybe it needs another?”

Zam glanced up. “The doctor
stitched this three days ago.”

“Three days, with broken ribs and
that hole? Three days and where did you say you flew from?”

“Pu’er region, Simao,” Zam
advised him.

“Simao? och, I dinnea even know
where that is? Is it further than Kunming?”

“We were in the air about five
and half hours.” Falstaff croaked.

Alistair ran his fingers through
his hair. Lord, it felt short, he thought and paused, running his
hand over his short bristly hair on the back of his neck.

“The barber told me another
aircraft flew over today. It must have been shortly after you
touched down. He said men were dropped from it?”

Falstaff closed his eyes.
Gritting his teeth he swore. “Bastards! Oh, Bugger, - the bastards
followed us!”

“Look, I don’t mean to pry an’
all. I mean that’s why I like it oot ‘ere in the middle o’ no’wer’,
I jest like to mind me‘oon business! But are yu tu in’trouble?”
Alistair’s Scottish burr becoming thicker the quicker he spoke.

Falstaff turned and nodded. “I’m
a pilot in the Chinese National Air force or was... Whatever’s left
of it? The Japanese dropped paratroopers into the area around our
landing strip. They caught up with us this morning. We left after a
shoot out! Looks like they followed us right over the border!”

“Right? Och’ loor! Awa’ dae nu’
but there was this mean looking feller, in a dark soot! Niver seen
‘im before, I swear, he looked like he’d stepped off the bus on to
Sauchiehall Street ready for work on a Monday morning. Jesus! It’s
one of them ain’t it?!”

“Probably! Any idea how many
dropped?” Falstaff asked. “This Barber? Good is he? Trained well,
familiar with western cuts?”

“Yes and yes, no idea how many
dropped! But the laundry staff ‘ere are just like the ones in the
Grand in Calcutta if you know what I mean?” Alistair put up his
hands in alarm.

“Damn!” Falstaff swore. “We can’t
stay here. Zam I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to move out,
now!”

Alistair held up his hand. “There
may be no need? What aboot asking the police for help? The local
Police superintendent?”

“Pooh! That petty lot? Fat lot of
good they’ve been keeping the Japs out so far? Are you sure they’d
have time? I mean at this time they’ll all be at their clubs,
eating dinner!”

“You may be right. We certainly
canne git hold of anyone at this time o’night! They’re short of men
since the local officer got dengue fever and went home! They lack,
what I’d call conviction!
²³
”

Falstaff hadn’t had much exposure
to the Indian Police, the last time he’d been in India was in RAF
uniform, but he knew a little about the divided force. The Indian
Police Service was divided into three: Calcutta, Madras, Bombay.
Each had a Commissioner, who was responsible to the Governor of the
Province.

The ideal sought by Lord Curzon
that the Indian Police would be ‘a service composed of
Gentlemen’
²⁴
was the high ideal
of an old colonial hand, a former Viceroy of India. The idea might
cut the mustard with the members of the local Gymkhana club, but
wasn’t much help in a backwater like Myitkyina.

Falstaff thought they were more
likely to get help from the railway station porter or perhaps the
army than get help from the police.

Under the Commissioners, the
service consisted of an Inspector General, Deputy Inspectors
General, District Superintendents and Assistant District
Superintendents. Mainly European officers drawn from the Indian
Army. The presence of the British establishment was further
flavoured by new entrants to the top echelons of the Indian Police
being appointed by examination or selection in London. The
interests of the white population in the Raj was the dogma of the
police force from its creation; in place only to police the
activities and interactions of the East India Company, and then
British interests in general.

The minor Provincial Police
Service was made up of provincial Inspectors, Sub-Inspectors,
Constables and Sergeants; roles mainly confined to Europeans or
Eurasians. As a whole, the service became less and less sympathetic
to the Indian population, operating in the cities and cantonments
where British interests were most concentrated. The concerns of or
the significance of different traditional laws and castes of the
Hindu, Sikh or Muslim were often beneath the knowledge of the
London recruited police who mostly worked on a routine that would
have been more at home on Baker street than Nizamuddin West.

At one-time Indian nationals had
been appointed, handling affairs that their own upbringing provided
experience for. Greater interference and restriction in the
selection of officers led to inappropriate selection; abuse of
power; intimidation, persecution and greater racial and religious
distrust.

“I’ve never met a Policeman in
India who actually knew what his job was!” Falstaff commented.
“We’re best getting out and keeping our heads down. I want to stay
alive; not wait for some district commissioner in Calcutta to file
a letter about it!” Falstaff fumed.

Falstaff thought they might be
better served going to the army, seeking the intelligence services,
but he guessed they’d be too busy at the dentist to bother coming
up to Burma to bother about dealing with a Barber and his
paratroopers?
²⁵

The Indian army was a respected
institution by all in India and one that kept to its own business.
Inversely, the poor quality police service rather than the army was
now the principal coercive force in India and was the most
prominent feature of the colonial state.

Public order became a state of
affairs that the British governing classes had come to expect in
India and looked to the mediocre police to enforce. Police, who
were least well equipped to consider the significance of the Indian
Nationalist movement. While the Indian Army itself and its sparse
intelligence services considered themselves unassailable.
Distinctions the Japanese were quick to note and were ready to
exploit.

There was little or no border
control for thousands of miles along the Empire’s Eastern borders.
Along borders with the Himalayas, Burma and Thailand a few
provincial clerks and an the common attitude to a board spectrum of
Eastern nationalities summed as ‘not being able to tell a Chinaman
from a Bangladeshi’, it was no wonder that the Japanese considered
the door to India open.

“No! There’s no use trying to get
official help! Can you see them even bothering about the Japanese
already in the town, let alone being able to admit there had been a
drop of troops?” Falstaff said. “I don’t want to be a footnote to a
report some damn civil service clerk might type! Zam, I’m sorry,
it’s a nice hotel, but we’ve got to move on!”

Zam rubbed her forehead. “It’s
okay di-di! At least we had time for a hot bath!” She kissed him
hurriedly and wrapped the bandages tighter.

Leaving the hotel on the
pretence of having been invited out to dine, Zam surreptitiously
carrying their bag they left. Without even paying the hotel bill
might raise alarm, they could always send for it later. Coming in
the other direction they bumped into the two Prussian pilots; each
carrying small bore hunting rifles.

Falstaff stopped. “Out hunting?
Often go out shooting at night?”

“Heard they might be some of
those peacock-pheasant about, just missed dusk it’s a bit late for
catching the birds before the roost!”

“Shame,” Falstaff played up, “a
great pity. Are you joining Adrianna for dinner?”

“Oh no, das miststuck? Not for
the life of me! The Baron and I had our fill of her before we
reached Budapest!”

“So you are a Barron then?”
Falstaff chuckled.

“Yah! An’ so is’t he!” They both
laughed.

“Just armed with the rifles?”
Falstaff asked.

They stopped laughing. “Why do
you ask? Not thinking of challenging us to a duel are you?”

“Not you, but if you have pistols
in those holsters come with us!” Falstaff beckoned. “Alistair, you
tell them!”

The little group sat and watched
the Burmese doctor working. He removed the original three stitches,
washed the wound and then proceeded to do the neatest needlework
Falstaff had ever seen. He was so pleased with the finished job, he
almost asked him for some embroidered handkerchiefs to match.

The little Burmese doctor was
also pleased with his work. “Those other stitches were okay, but I
have new curved needles from new Delhi and the best catgut made
from goat intestine! It is much finer than the stuff the
Chinese.”

The little thin doctor smiled
delighted with his own work.

“I’ve put eight sutures in; now
don’t raise this arm for a day or two! We’ll bandage you up, wrap
your left shoulder to stop you lifting your arm. No more bleeding,
three days okay?”