The Call of the Thunder Dragon (51 page)

Donald was a career officer in
the Royal Navy and had readily slipped into the habit of detailing
his career so far, being been well on his way to his own command.
Having worked his way rapidly from Midshipman to Commander and then
gained experience as an intelligence officer on the Destroyer HMS.
Hunter during the Spanish Civil War, there to enforce the edicts of
the Non-Intervention Committee; until HMS Hunter had struck a
mine.

Donald had also served with the
Fleet Arm, unfortunately prior to his current assignment he’d been
forced to convalesce on light duties in Singapore due to breaking
his leg. Now on the point of his return to active duty at sea he’d
been recalled to do more intelligence work as part of the
desperately needed reviews.

The inspector had sat through the
story twice now. Glad to see the back of Donald for the second time
he yawned, poured another gin and tonic, then pushed his chair over
to the far side of the door, overturned the empty dustbin and put
his feet up. Then carefully opening a discarded notebook that he
rested on his stomach as if reading and went to sleep behind the
filing cabinet.

Commander Donald
Quittenton-Godfrey, RN looked at the telegraph message handed to
him by the inspector. He was a tall, athletic looking type with a
square jaw and handsome, clean-shaven virtuous looking face. He
walked with a slight limp and carried a cane. Otherwise, he looked
fit, alert and full of saintly narcissism.

He had been surprised to be
called in again by the Inspector. Even more surprised at the
content of the message given to him. Sent from headquarters in
Rangoon, he was to proceed to Myitkyina immediately, to investigate
claims of a Japanese incursion.

A retired General, Ainsley Smyth,
in the remote district had reported to the Rangoon Brigade Area
Headquarters the incredible story of a Japanese infiltration of
paratroopers, in pursuit of an Englishman, a retired RAF officer.
Rangoon Headquarters, which also covered Lower Burma and the
Andaman Islands, as part of Burma Command had no one available to
investigate and Donald was the nearest.

“Confound it!” Donald said out
loud, “It’s the blasted Madrid and the Ladybird all over
again!”

Donald thumped his walking stick
against the floor with irritation. His leg twinged, reminding him
again of the career changing incident in China on the gunboat HMS
Ladybird. The Ladybird had come under fire from a Japanese
artillery battery while on patrol on the Yangtze. The Ladybird took
six shells, one of which holed her below the waterline, another
brought down a stairway and Donald with it, breaking his leg in the
process. The British Consul had saved the day and rowed ashore
under fire and dragged the Japanese commander to his guns and
ordered them to stop.

Donald fumed at the memory. What
foolish cad had the Japanese been pursuing? Who was the scoundrel
who’d sought refuge aboard the HMS Ladybird? Who had the thief been
who had rowed the Consul ashore? Then absconded with properties
alleged to be appropriated from the Japanese?

“You poor misguided fool!” Donald
shook his head and lowered his chin as if in prayer.

Donald hurried out of the Police
building hailing a cycle rickshaw. “To the station please and
hurry.” He hoped to catch the Assam Mail Train and reach Jorhat via
Guwahati and from there travel on to Myitkyina, perhaps by flying
from the new airstrip.

Donald shook his head. “You
beastly fool! What have you done this time Falstaff?”

Falstaff woke much later than
planned at around ten o’clock the next morning.

His scrapes and bruises although
covering him head to foot weren’t as bad as he feared, the skin was
healing over nicely. His ribs, however, were another matter they
had come up black and blue.

Zam up had risen an hour earlier,
was already dressed and ordered breakfast to be brought up for them
all. Doctor had arrived just before Falstaff woke.

“You’re not here to see me are
you? House call on Mrs. Anderson is it?” Falstaff had laughed from
his bed. “I thought you’d be back.”

“Why the devil do say that? And
knock off about Mrs. Anderson, the only problem with her is that
there isn’t another equally deviant gossip or tramp in town to do
her in!”

“You are not suggesting I fit
that description are you?” Falstaff said, “Take a seat if
want?”

“Well, alright, why did you think
I’d come back?”

“Well, I’m the patient and you’re
Doctor, Levinstone… I presume?” Falstaff chuckled.

The retired doctor had brought
his cracked leather Gladstone case, with instruments and morphine.
The old case carried a layer of dust collected from disuse.

“Go on laugh! I’ve heard them
all! I’ve news for you; if you can laugh like that your ribs all
but mended, just don’t keep on bumping into those Japs? The
bruising just come up again because of a little inflammation. I’ll
give you some more morphine for the pain, just get up and get
moving! Drink plenty of water and besides, I didn’t come back to
see you at all!”

“What, who then?” Falstaff sat
up, with a sharp squawk. “I want a second opinion about these
ribs!”

“I came back for my kilt and
handkerchief, that Zam of yours was in tears over you yesterday, my
boy… When she heard about that murder she actually feared for you,
she likes you know?”

The Doctor stayed for breakfast
and when he left the couple, his eyes were dewy and moist, needing
a handkerchief himself when he said goodbye to Zam.

“I say, Zam, I think you’ve made
a friend there?”

“He reminds me too much of you!
Will you be that wrinkly when you are old?” She sipped at her tea,
deciding whether to have more scrambled eggs or to start on the
toast and marmalade. “I should take some marmalade for my father,
he will like it!” She announced prophetically.

“No, I mean yes, the hotel will
let you have a jar or two. I’ll ask, you need to pay the bill by
the way? I don’t want to end up like old John… What do you suppose
happened to his wife? Falstaff bit off a chunk of toast. “Pass the
marmalade, please?”

The repairs had taken less than
a day. Gibbons had been keen to start early. Having made up his
mind to leave, wanted to get his own work out of the way and make
preparations himself.

The Caproni was almost ready to
go; the remaining problem was the damaged spark plug thread in the
port engine. All the plugs had been fouled with emulsified gunk
from the bottom of the engine.

Falstaff was kicking his heels
waiting for Gibbs to bring back a solution from the workshop in
town. He took the time to look over the Caproni. It would never
look the same again. The hole in the nose had quickly been patched
and painted. Gibbs had promised a bang up job, the best painter in
Jorhat he’d called the fellow.

Falstaff eyed the Caproni and it
eyed him back. The ragged hole had been covered, heavy stitching
over the new fabric had been painted with a shark like a mouth,
above were now a pair of eyes on either side around the viewing
panels.

“Give me the damn red paint I’ll
do it myself!” He scowled at the painter when he first saw it, but
Gibbs had come to the defence of the painter before he had managed
to lay a hand on his brushes.

“I like it!” Zam had said, miss
reading Falstaff’s mood.

“Okay then? We’ll name it after
you! See how
it
is frowning at me now?” Falstaff rode, the
storm out, agreeing with Gibbs whole-heartedly, the eyes were to
stay.

It took the box of chocolate he’d
had hidden away to bring Zam around, but she forgave him,
willingly.

The packing of the nacelle
commenced, ensuring everything was ready.

Now Falstaff nervously awaited
Gibbons’ return. If he could not fix the port engine, they would be
stuck. Falstaff fretted Zam was growing nervous.

Presently Gibbs arrived back from
town waving a ring in the air as he came. “Got the new spark plugs
and the chaps down town did wonders with a lathe.”

He tossed a metal ring to
Falstaff, who turned it over in his hand. The thin ring was
threaded inside and out. “Are you sure this will work?”

“Sure, I did it to the Saloon
there! On the road to Jamalpur, met an Indian with the right tools,
he bored out the old thread and we knocked in the new one with a
hammer!”

“But you’ve threaded this
one?”

“You’re quick John, but not the
brightest spark sometimes! Your engine would blow it out! We’ve
already tapped it, cutting a new thread.” Gibbs smiled. “Here, you
put the ring in! I’ll see to the refuelling.”

Falstaff climbed up and dropped
the ring into place, tightening it up.

“Mind you don’t try to over
tighten it!” Gibbs called up.

“What’s to stop me?” Falstaff
called down.

“Nothing!” Gibbs looked up
fretfully.

“I hope this works, or I’ll be
making excuses on your behalf!”

“Falstaff, why don’t you put a
sock in it!”

Zam appeared from inside the
nacelle. All their luggage had been packed and they were ready to
go without any more stops. “I’ve packed the hamper!” She waved to
Falstaff, who waved back.

“See, Gibbs, she catches on! She
can help with refuelling if you like!”

They were all set to leave
having eaten their fill at the clubhouse they decided to press on
that evening to a lake a few hours flight to the east. They hoped
to camp and fly on uninterrupted to Guwahati Junction at first
light. Arriving early to refuel for the next day.

Gibbons shook Falstaff’s hand.
“It was a quick decision, but I’m selling up. I’ll join up with the
RAF again, not sure if I’ll fly, I’ve grown too used to being on
the ground. What about you Falstaff, will you head back as well?
After Bhutan?”

“I’ve read the papers Gibbs, -
I’m not sure it’ll come to too much, at least, I hope it doesn’t?
I’ve a mind to stay out east? I’ve got some concerns in Hong Kong.
But for now, it’s Bhutan where I’m heading. You and I know this
Caproni’s only good for a short while longer!”

“Christ, don’t say that she’s
good a few thousand miles now!” Gibbs piped.

Falstaff leaned forward and
whispered. “Yeah and not much more! I mean there’s no refuelling in
Bhutan is there? I could do worse, Zam’s a lovely girl after all!
At least, I won’t be coming out of those mountains until the middle
of next summer, you’d never get me on horseback through that
snow!”

They parted, shaking hands.
Falstaff climbed into the cockpit.

“Wait I forgot!” Gibbs ran to the
car and returned, passing up the repaired scabbard for the Japanese
sword. “I welded it down at the yard, did it myself. Our painter
friend covered it up with dope and painted it for you.”

Falstaff gingerly took the new
look scabbard; sliding the sword in and out a few times. “He’s done
a good job, all black, oh... and two eyes? Could be for luck, I
guess? My thanks, take my hand good luck back in Blighty.”

Falstaff waved goodbye. Knowing
it might be the last time he saw his friend. Perhaps sensing the
same Gibbons had already started the car and driven away.

The Caproni’s engines started
smoothly, firing crisply, their tone now much improved. Falstaff
was thankful, the last leg of the journey they’d start after
Guwahati Junction would be the longest and the highest.

They took off as the dusk began
to close in on Jorhat. An hour later they found the big lake,
surrounded by marshlands alongside the broad and fast-flowing
Brahmaputra River. They touched down on the mirror-smooth lake and
nudged the floats onto the weeds on the eastern shore away from the
village. Falstaff threw a new anchor out of the bow and once
satisfied it was secure they retired for the night. The water
lapped swaying the plane gently. The sound of chirping insects and
calling birds rolled across the water.

As they settled in the for night,
Falstaff started humming to himself. Zam threw a cautious
glance.

“What? I like singing, I’m told
I’ve got an excellent baritone!” Falstaff started singing. “Shadows
on the moon...”

Falstaff found his entertainment
cut short as a fur was thrown into his face.

“Well, you could sing for a
change? If I’m not good enough!”

“I don’t know any songs like you
do.” Zam awkwardly turned away, clearly away the food.

“I know only songs in Dzongkha.”
She started humming, avoiding Falstaff eye, she flushed. “Don’t
watch!”

She pulled on another fur.

“Alright, I’ll close my eyes and
you can sing.” Falstaff sat back, leaning against the stack of
bedding next to still warm engine.

Abruptly Zam started singing a
gentle, flowing melody in the language of Bhutan.

“My lama residing in
the mountaintop monastery,

Has asked me to hike
up time and again,

I am grateful that you
have called me,

Though I have yet to
receive blessing,

for my present life
and prospect.

The minister who
resides in the fortress,

Has asked me to follow
command to the monastery,

I am grateful that he
commanded me to stay,

But you failed to
alleviate my suffering from poverty...”

Zam broke off singing. “You don’t
understand do you?”

Falstaff shook his head. “No, but
it sounded beautiful. Is it a love song?”

Zam laughed. “No, that would be
silly! It is called the devoted pilgrim
⁵⁶
. It is about change
and following the teachings of your betters.”

“Not a bar room ballad then? Are
you sure you don’t fancy a couple of rounds of ‘Show me the way to
go home’
⁵⁷
? After Guwahati it
on to Bhutan and home!”