The meteorologist aligned the antenna as best he could during the ten seconds Station Nowhere transmitted “SN SN SN” over and over again, then made his way forward to the cockpit to give Major Williamson the course toward it.
Williamson nodded his acceptance of the information, saw there was no reason to alter the course he was flying, and said, “Thank you.”
A voice came over his earphones: “Column of smoke on the horizon.”
There was no need for the person calling to identify himself. There was no other aircraft within hundreds of miles with an English-speaking pilot.
Williamson looked at the horizon. After a moment he was also able to make out what Pickering was seeing from Sea Gypsy Two, two hundred feet above him. It was dead ahead, no more than two degrees off the course they were flying.
Williamson dipped the wings of the Catalina to show Sea Gypsy Two that he had received the message, and decided that Pickering would know he, too, had seen the smoke when he changed course just slightly, but perceptibly, then lowered the nose just a tad and headed toward it.
Three minutes later, he saw two fires sending smoke into the air. A moment after that, he could see that the smoke was blowing directly toward him. He lowered the nose a tad more, retarded the throttles, and a moment later, ordered, “Gear down.”
Lieutenant Stevenson put the gear down.
“This will be a very low-and-slow approach,” Williamson announced.
“I can’t see anything down there but snow,” Stevenson said. “Where’s the people?”
“I don’t know, but there’s the wind sock, sort of, I was hoping to find,” Williamson said. “The trouble with this kind of snowy area is you can’t tell how high off the ground you are.”
“Yeah,” Stevenson agreed.
Ninety seconds later, Stevenson said, “I can see what looks like snow-covered buildings down there. And there’s some horses, and people. Off to the left.”
“If we run into a rock, remind me to cut switches,” Williamson said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Stevenson said.
Twenty seconds later, the Catalina flew ten feet over the nearest fire. Three seconds after that, Williamson flared it out, and the wheels touched down.
“That was a greaser,” Lieutenant Stevenson said.
“It will have been a greaser if I can stop this thing before I run over the other fire,” Major Williamson said.
Lieutenant Stevenson was not at all surprised that the Catalina stopped smoothly and in a straight line well short of the second smoky fire.
Williamson turned the aircraft and very carefully taxied off the runway. When he was at right angles to it, he saw Sea Gypsy Two making its approach.
“Jesus, look at that,” Stevenson said. “Here comes a Chinese officer on a horse that’s not much bigger than he is.”
Two minutes later, when he had shut the engines down, Williamson walked through the fuselage and pushed open the fairing that had replaced the Catalina’s right bubble.
The Chinese officer on the horse saluted.
It looks like a very large, shaggy dog, Williamson thought.
“Captain McCoy, sir. Welcome to Station Nowhere.”
So that is the legendary Killer McCoy, is it?
“Good afternoon, Captain,” Williamson said, snappily returning the salute. “It’s very nice to be here.”
By then Sea Gypsy Two was on the ground and had taxied next to Sea Gypsy One.
The fairing that had replaced the right bubble of Sea Gypsy Two opened and a huge man wearing cold-weather gear and a chief petty officer’s cap jumped out. He dropped to his knees and kissed the snowy ground. “Thank you, God!” he announced dramatically.
McCoy laughed.
“What was that all about?”
“That’s Chief McGuire,” Major Williamson said dryly. “He was thrown over the side, so to speak, of the Sunfish.”
A second figure came through the opening.
“That’s Captain James B. Weston,” Major Williamson said. “One hell of a man, one hell of a Marine. He was a guerrilla in the Philippines.”
“I know,” McCoy said, “What’s he doing here?”
“He volunteered. You say you know him?”
“I met him briefly one time,” McCoy said. “In the Philippines.”
McCoy started to walk toward him.
A third figure came through the fairing and jumped to the ground.
In the instant McCoy recognized him, the third figure shouted furiously: “Don’t try to get away from me, you sonofabitch!”
Captain Weston stopped and waited for Lieutenant Pickering to catch up with him. “What the hell is the matter with you, Pick?” he asked, confused, just before Lieutenant Pickering punched him in the mouth. Captain Weston fell over backward.
McCoy rushed to Pick and wrapped his arms around him. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
“That sonofabitch has not only been fucking my Martha,” Pick said, “but taking despicable advantage of her!”
“Oh, my God!” Captain Weston said. “You’re the one she told me about!”
“Despicable advantage?” McCoy asked incredulously. “What the hell does that mean?”
“He’s right,” Captain Weston said. “My behavior has been despicable.”
“I don’t believe what I’m seeing,” Major Williamson said. “Pickering, you get your childish temper under control, or, so help me God, I’ll have you placed in irons.”
“That might be a little difficult here, Major,” Captain McCoy said. “But I guess we could spread-eagle the crazy bastard on a wagon wheel.”
That was too much for Major Williamson. He could not control his laughter. That triggered the same reaction in Captain McCoy, making it very difficult to hold on to Pick.
“Lieutenant Pickering,” Major Williamson said, as sternly as he could, “you will consider yourself under arrest to quarters. And you, Weston, will stop your despicable behavior, whatever it is!”
These words triggered a further outburst of hysterical laughter from Major Williamson and Captain McCoy, and also served to dampen Lieutenant Pickering’s fury.
McCoy, feeling him relax, let him go.
Pickering stood where he was, looking embarrassed.
But not before Chief Motor Machinist’s Mate Frederick C. Brewer, USN, and Technical Sergeant Moses Abraham, with very confused looks on their faces, rode up to them on two very small ponies.
Only three people were in the ambulance now—Major Williamson, Chief Brewer, and McCoy—all that McCoy felt were needed to talk about what had to be done. This took no more than five minutes, including an explanation to Chief Brewer of the reasons why they had to immediately destroy the aircraft and move out of the area. Though Brewer seemed to accept all this calmly, McCoy wondered how successful Brewer would be in passing it on to the gypsies.
“The only question, as I see it,” McCoy said, “is whether we torch the airplanes now or in the morning. If we do it tonight, the light could be seen a long distance. In the morning, ditto for the smoke.”
“There is one more option, Captain, that you haven’t considered,” Major Williamson said.
“Sir?”
“We had a tailwind coming in here,” Williamson said. “I think there may be enough fuel remaining between the Catalinas to fly one of them out of here.”
“I hadn’t even considered that,” McCoy said. “From the beginning, this was supposed to be a one-way mission.”
“I’d like to try it,” Williamson said. “I’ve got a wife and kids waiting for me in Pensacola.”
“Do you have a map?” McCoy asked. “There’s an airfield at Yümen. That’s where we came from.”
“That’s where I was thinking we might go,” Williamson said. He took a folded map from the side pocket of his leather jacket. “You will notice, Captain, that this is not your standard aeronautical navigation chart,” Williamson added. “So this proposed flight plan will not be up to my usual impeccab
le standards.” He took a pencil from the same pocket and used it as an improvised compass to compute the distance from where they were to Yümen. Then, on the back of an envelope bearing the return address of the Pensacola Yacht Club, he made some quick—but careful—calculations.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think it can be done. Between the two airplanes, I think we should have enough fuel. Weston is a better Cat driver than I am; he probably has more fuel remaining than I do. And I’ve got enough for two hundred miles, maybe a little more.”
“How many people could you take with you?” McCoy asked.
“The problem there, Captain,” Chief Brewer said, “is who would go? We have two really sick men and one sick woman. But who else?”
“I could probably take a ton,” Williamson said. “That’s seven people at a hundred and fifty pounds per. The old rule of the sea is women and children first.”
McCoy did not respond directly. “And torch just the one plane,” he said.
“I have a suggestion there, too,” Williamson said. “Leave enough fuel in the tanks of the other Catalina for ten, fifteen minutes. Take it off. The pilot trims it up in a shallow climb and jumps. That would take it thirty, fifty miles—maybe more—before it ran out of gas and crashed. Empty, a Cat will glide a long way.”
“That way we wouldn’t have to move right away,” McCoy said.
“Who would you send out?” Chief Brewer asked. “A lot of people will think they have the right to go.”
“Gunny Zimmerman is going out,” McCoy said, looking at Brewer. “And he’s not about to leave his wife and kids again, so they’re going.”
“That’s liable to cause some resentment,” Chief Brewer said.
“So is Mrs. Banning and her baby,” McCoy said.
“When my people find out that a plane is leaving,” Chief Brewer said, “they’ll want to decide who goes on it. Either vote on it or maybe pick names out of a hat.”
“This is not open for discussion, Chief,” McCoy said coldly. “Gunny Zimmerman is going, and so are his wife and kids. And Mrs. Banning and her baby. If there’s any more room, then the sick people. And if there’s any room after that, you can send whoever you want.”
“You’re going?” Brewer asked.
“No, I’m not. Major Williamson will pick his copilot. Everybody else stays.”
Williamson raised one eyebrow but said nothing.
“If we’re going to do this,” McCoy said, “we’ll have to do it first thing in the morning. So we’d better start getting the fuel transferred.”
“Okay. That shouldn’t be much of a problem. Chief McGuire, the guy who kissed the ground, built some special fuel-transfer pumps to get fuel to the main from the auxiliary tanks—which he also built.”
“And there’s one thing more,” McCoy said. “Major, I want you to find Lieutenant Colonel Ed Banning—he’s probably in Chungking—and personally turn Zimmerman and the women over to him. I’m going to write Banning a letter saying how I think we can get the rest of these people out, and I don’t want anybody but Banning to see it.”
“Sure,” Williamson said after a just barely perceptible hesitation.
I’ll be damned. I almost said, “Aye, aye, sir.”
“McCoy,” Williamson said. “If we can get the Army Air Corps in Yümen to loan us a C-46—or, for that matter, a C-47—we can get these people out of here in a matter of days.”
“No,” McCoy said simply.
“Just like that, ‘no’?” Chief Brewer said. “Why not?”
McCoy turned to look at him. “The priority here, Chief, is to keep this weather station going. The only way to do that is not draw the Japs’ attention to it. Every time an airplane leaves Yümen, the Japs know about it. And when it lands wherever it’s going, they know about that, too. If a C-46 took off from Yümen and didn’t land someplace else, the Japs would start wondering why. And start looking for answers.”
“It would only take one flight,” Brewer protested.
“I almost told Major Williamson to torch both planes,” McCoy said, “because when that Catalina lands at Yümen, the Japs will be wondering where it came from. And start looking for answers.”
And, Williamson thought, if he had told me to torch both planes, I would have.
“I decided sending Gunny Zimmerman out,” McCoy went on, “justified the risk—”
“Your sergeant and his wife and kids, and the Colonel’s wife and—” Chief Brewer interrupted.
“Get this straight, Chief,” McCoy cut him off, coldly angry. “I don’t have to justify a goddamned thing to you.”
“McCoy,” Williamson said, “I can sort of understand the chief’s position—”
“Or to you, either, Major,” McCoy snapped, turning to meet Williamson’s eyes. “With respect, sir, I’m in command here. My orders regarding you and the other airplane drivers is to get you out of here as soon as I can, without endangering the mission. In other words, you’ll go, or not go, when and how I decide.”
“No offense.”
“If you’re uncomfortable flying the one plane out here, fine. I’ll have Weston fly it out. The only reason I decided to let you fly it is that you’re the only pilot who’s married.”
“I didn’t mean to question your authority, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir,” McCoy said.
[SEVEN]
Headquarters, 32nd Military District
Yümen, China
1430 3 May 1943
Major Avery Williamson, USMC, estimated that he had had one-point-two-five hours of fuel remaining when he touched down at Yümen, escorted by two Chinese Curtiss P-40 fighters that had intercepted him a hundred miles away.
He felt bad about that. He could have brought out more people, and it didn’t help much to tell himself that he had done what he could to bring out as many people as he could, including flying without a copilot.
As he should have expected, Weston refused to fly as copilot. He could not in good conscience do so, he said, if that would mean leaving women and children behind. Weston’s selflessness had shamed Lieutenants Stevenson and Pickering into making the same statement. In fact, Pickering was so inspired—or maybe shamed—by Weston that he insisted on flying the other Catalina off into the desert and then parachuting from it.
Williamson waited to hear that Pickering had landed safely—a little bruised, but not seriously hurt—before taking off with Gunny Zimmerman and fifteen women and children aboard, plus two seriously ill male gypsies, a Yangtze River sailor, and a 15th Infantry soldier.
The two P-40s stayed on his wingtips until he actually touched down, then they added throttle and went around to land themselves. Until the very last moment, Williamson suspected, they probably feared he was a Japanese aircraft in American markings. They didn’t see many Catalinas in inland China, and, with the bubbles removed and faired over, his Cat did not look like any of the Catalinas in the Aircraft Identification Charts.
Williamson was not surprised when he turned off the runway to find two machine-gun-mounted jeeps waiting for him, in addition to a Follow Me jeep. The fighters had obviously radioed ahead that a very strange aircraft, very possibly a Japanese suicide bomber, was on the way. The machine-gun jeeps followed him to the parking area in front of base operations.
A tall Marine officer came out of base operations. His overcoat collar was turned up against the icy wind.
Well, that’s luck. A fellow Marine should know how I can find this fellow Banning.
Williamson shut the Cat’s engines down. He wondered if the Air Corps had any people here who had ever even seem a Catalina before, and would be qualified to inspect it before he flew on to Chungking. If something needed to be replaced, whatever it was would have to be flown in, and Christ only knew how long that would take. Presuming that the airplane was OK, was he going to be expected to try to get it from here back to Pearl Harbor? Without a copilot?
Maybe, he thought, as he climbed out of the seat, I could just leave it parke
d here and see about getting a ride back to the States. God, I know better than that. I’m stuck in this frozen wonderland until I can fly this airplane out of here.
“Everybody stay put, please, until I sort things out with the authorities here,” he called, and then walked toward the fairing that had replaced the bubble. As he passed Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, the tough Old Breed Marine was in the process of changing a diaper. As he passed Mrs. Banning, he saw that she was weeping uncontrollably.
Tough lady, Williamson thought admiringly. She didn’t break down until she knew she and her baby were really out.
Williamson jumped to the ground. The machine guns in the jeeps swiveled in on him. Only half in jest, he raised both hands above his head.
The Marine lieutenant colonel snapped something furiously in Chinese, waited until the muzzles had been diverted, and then walked toward Williamson.
Williamson saluted. “Major Williamson, sir. Avery R. I’ve just come, believe it or not—”
“I have a very good idea where you came from,” the Lieutenant Colonel said. “Is Captain McCoy all right? And Zimmerman?”
“Everybody is, sir. Zimmerman is aboard the aircraft.”
“Zimmerman is? What’s that all about? Is he injured?”
“He’s carrying a message for a Lieutenant Colonel Banning, sir.”
“I’m Banning,” Banning said. “What kind of message?”
Before Williamson could begin to reply, Banning spotted Zimmerman getting out of the airplane. “There he is,” Banning said, and, raising his voice: “Zimmerman, over here! What have you got for me?”
“Colonel, I think the message can wait a couple of minutes,” Williamson said.
Banning turned to him with surprise and disbelief on his face. “I beg your pardon, Major?”
“Mrs. Banning and your baby are on the Cat, sir.”
“Excuse me? What did you say?”
“Sir,” Williamson began, but he didn’t have to repeat any more.
Mrs. Edward J. Banning had appeared in the fairing opening and her husband was rushing to her. And the child she held in her arms.
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