Douglass nodded and peeled off to his right, toward Kunming.
Now that Douglass was gone with the information, it was safe to try to send it by radio.
‘‘Kunming,’’ Canidy said to his microphone. ‘‘Dawn patrol leader. Twelve Japanese single-engine aircraft at nine thousand feet, course one hundred seventy-five degrees.’’
He waited a moment, redialed the transmitter frequency, and repeated the message. There was no reply to either call.
He turned the P40-B slowly, in a wide arc, maintaining his altitude. When he completed the 180-degree turn, the Japanese were now almost directly below him. He lowered his left wing and looked down at them, then straightened the wings and made a long, flat 360-degree turn. When it was completed, the Japanese aircraft were some distance ahead of him.
As he flew along, his hands inside his gloves were sweating, and he felt the chill when the sweat on his forehead encountered the cold air of fifteen thousand feet.
‘‘Shit,’’ he said, and he pushed the stick forward and tested his guns. The two .50s on the nose ahead of him spit fire. He could not see the .30s in the wing.
The gunsights on the P40-B consisted of crosshairs on a foot-high pedestal mounted on the fuselage in front of the canopy, and a foot-high pedestal eighteen inches in front of that. He lined the sights up on the last aircraft in the Japanese formation, the third aircraft in the right of the V.
He could identify the aircraft now. The facts he had learned about the Mitsubishi B5M in Rangoon came to him:
1000-horsepower 14-cylinder radial engine.
Crew of three.
1700-pound bomb load.
One flexibly mounted 7.7-mm machine gun facing aft. Two 7.7-mm machine guns in the leading edge of each wing.
Maximum speed 325 mph. Cruising speed 200 mph.
The Japanese observer-gunner had spotted him and frantically charged his machine gun, a Japanese copy of the Browning.
Canidy held him a second or two in the crosshairs of his gunsight, then raised his nose so that the crosshairs were now pointing twenty yards ahead of the Mitsubishi. He pushed down with his thumb on the machine-gun button.
The .50s, he realized, were off. The stream of their tracers was to the right of the Mitsubishi. But the stream of tracers from the .30 in his left wing stitched the fuselage from just forward of the vertical stabilizer. He saw the Plexiglas of the long, narrow canopy shatter. He held his position as long as he dared; then he pushed the nose farther down, diving first under the Japanese aircraft and then banking steeply for the nearest cloud cover.
As soon as the gray of the cloud surrounded the P40-B, Canidy put the aircraft into a steep, climbing turn, welcoming the feeling of invisibility the cloud gave him.
When the cloud began to break up at its tops he realized that he was ready to return to the fight, prepared now to compensate for the off-to-the-right firing cone of the .50 calibers. And he knew how to fight.
He would dive to pick up speed and then come up under the rear aircraft of the rear wing. That would severely limit the ability of the Japanese machine gunners to fire on him. He could fire on at least one aircraft before making a dive turn away from him. He doubted that they would try to pursue him. He was faster.
There were only three planes in the rear V now. The aircraft he had first attacked had left the formation. He looked for it but couldn’t find it. He changed his original plan and came up instead under the forward V, attacking the last plane in the right arm of the V, then the aircraft ahead of it.
He was still in position under the second aircraft when the .50s in the nose stopped, and a moment later the .30s in the wings. He was out of ammunition. He began a steep, diving turn to the left, looking frantically over his shoulders. In the fraction of a second he had it in sight, he thought he saw flickers of fire in the Mitsubishi’s engine nacelle, but he concluded that he was probably looking at its exhaust.
He straightened out and headed back to Kunming, dropping as he flew. Five minutes out of the airfield, he saw ten P40-Bs, flying in pairs, climbing out in the direction of the Japanese.
When he called the tower for permission to land, the radio worked perfectly.
One of the eager warriors of the Second Squadron, to whom the plane Canidy was flying was normally assigned, was waiting for Canidy when he taxied up to the revetment. He had his helmet on and his pistol, and Canidy realized that he had forgotten to wear his. The pilot obviously intended to race off after the others just as soon as his ship was fueled and rearmed. He was to be disappointed. There were four bullet holes in the aircraft fuselage, and two in the right wing. There had been no indication of any kind of damage to the controls or the engine, but John Dolan firmly announced that the plane wasn’t going anywhere until they had a close look at it.
The eager warrior, denied the joy of combat, furiously pulled his helmet off and threw it on the ground, smashing the right lens of his goggles.
Shaking his head, Canidy started walking toward the mess. Crookshanks appeared in what had been Canidy’s Studebaker. He had been relieved of it as soon as they’d reached Kunming.
Canidy opened the door and got in beside him.
‘‘I made two radio calls,’’ Canidy said, handing Crookshanks the chart. ‘‘There was no response to either. I marked where they were when we spotted them.’’
‘‘You spotted them?’’ Crookshanks asked innocently.
‘‘Douglass spotted them,’’ Canidy corrected himself. ‘‘When I waggled my wings, he was already signaling me.’’
‘‘Did you attack?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘And?’’
‘‘Having thirties and fifties is a pretty stupid idea, you know that?’’ Canidy said. ‘‘You don’t open fire until you’re within thirty range, which means giving away the safety factor the extra range of the fifties gives you.’’
‘‘What would you suggest?’’
‘‘I’d rather have all fifties.’’
‘‘Impossible.’’
‘‘Then two fifties with more ammo. Fair over the thirty barrel openings in the wing.’’
‘‘There’s no more room for fifty ammo in the nose.’’
‘‘Then I’d still get rid of the thirties,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘I like the idea of being able to shoot at people beyond the range they can return it.’’
‘‘As a matter of fact, Canidy,’’ Crookshanks said, ‘‘there is hardly any distance in the maximum range between them. Not enough to make any real difference.’’
‘‘The dispersal is different,’’ Canidy argued. ‘‘At two hundred yards, the thirties scatter all over.’’
‘‘So do the fifties.’’
‘‘Not as bad as the thirties,’’ Canidy continued to argue. ‘‘Because the fifty-caliber projectile is heavier and more stable. And a fifty hit is like three hits, or four, with a thirty.’’
‘‘I will take your suggestion under advisement, Mr. Canidy, ’’ Crookshanks said. ‘‘But getting back to my original question, what happened when you attacked?’’
‘‘If you mean, did I shoot anything down, I don’t think so.’’
‘‘But you did attack. And when did you break off engagement? ’’
‘‘When I ran out of ammunition,’’ Canidy said.
Crookshanks dropped him at the hostel. Canidy went to the club. There was no one there. They were all, he realized, in the air, or else over at the radio shack, vicariously getting their thrills by listening to the radio chatter.
The bartender, a Chinese Christian from the Missionary College, appeared.
‘‘I would like a glass of Scotch,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘A double double.’’
‘‘So early, sair?’’
‘‘Just the booze, please,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘No moral judgments. ’’
He took a stiff swallow, and a moment later another. Then he mixed water with what was left and started to sit down at a table to read an old copy of Life magazin
e.
And then, very suddenly, he was sick to his stomach. He barely made it to the john before he threw up everything he’d eaten for breakfast.
He looked at his watch. It was quarter to ten.
7
Crookshanks sent for Canidy at half past seven that night. He slid a leather box, three inches by eight, across his desk to him. It was open. It held a medal of some kind.
"What’s that?"
‘‘That’s the Order of the Cloud Banner,’’ Crookshanks said. ‘‘Which I was given a couple of weeks ago to present to the first pilot who scored a victory.’’
‘‘They got one, did they?’’
‘‘We got six of the eight,’’ Crookshanks said.
‘‘That makes me feel pretty inept,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Is that why you called me in here, to point that out?’’
‘‘I called you in here to give you the medal,’’ Crookshanks said. ‘‘I didn’t think you’d want a parade.’’
‘‘One of mine went down?’’ Canidy said, genuinely surprised. Crookshanks nodded. ‘‘Well, I’ll be damned!’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Are you sure?’’
‘‘We’re sure,’’ Crookshanks said. ‘‘It was witnessed from the ground. We have pieces from all of them.’’
‘‘All of them?’’ Canidy asked. ‘‘Oh, you mean the other five.’’
‘‘Yeah. Your five and the other one.’’
Canidy looked at him to make sure he had heard right.
‘‘You are surprised, aren’t you?’’ Crookshanks asked.
‘‘I didn’t stick around a second longer than I had to,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Yeah, I’m surprised.’’
‘‘You think it was luck?’’
‘‘Sure it was luck,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘What else?’’
‘‘It’s going to cost you,’’ Crookshanks said.
‘‘How?’’
‘‘I want you to talk to the others so maybe they’ll get lucky too.’’
‘‘I’d probably get as many laughs as Groucho Marx.’’
‘‘It was an order, Canidy, not a suggestion,’’ Crookshanks said.
‘‘In that case, yes, sir, Commander Crookshanks, sir.’’
‘‘Because you are such a paragon of cheerful, willing obedience, Mr. Canidy, I have decided to give you a little reward of my own.’’
‘‘I’d like my own ship.’’
‘‘That’s what I had in mind,’’ Crookshanks said.
‘‘Thank you,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘There’s a hook there too, I’m afraid.’’
‘‘Which is?’’
‘‘Martin Farmington didn’t get back today,’’ Crookshanks said.
‘‘I didn’t know him.’’
‘‘He was a flight leader in the First Squadron,’’ Crookshanks said. ‘‘I want you to take his place.’’ When Canidy did not reply, Crookshanks said, ‘‘It’s another seventy-five dollars a month.’’
‘‘OK,’’ Canidy said.
Martin Farmington returned early the next morning to Kunming on the back of a farmer’s cart, in time to be a hero at breakfast. He had crash-landed his plane, demolishing it, but aside from a couple of bruises and a cut on his arm from a sharp piece of canopy Plexiglas, he was unharmed.
Canidy was readying his plane for flight when Crookshanks came out to the line.
‘‘You’re not going,’’ he announced. ‘‘Can Bitter handle it?’’
‘‘Sure. But why not me?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘Because there was a TWX from Chennault. He’s flying in here with some big shot. They want to talk to you.’’
‘‘He’s not going to make a production about that medal, is he?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘All I know,’’ Crookshanks said, ‘‘is what the TWX said. And what it said is ‘Ground Canidy until further notice.’ ’’
TEN
Kunming, China 21 December 1941
Dick Canidy watched Brigadier General Claire Chennault walk across the tarmac from his Twin-Beech to where he and Commander Crookshanks stood waiting.
Chennault was wearing a horsehide leather jacket, a leather brimmed cap, from which the crown stiffener had been removed, and sunglasses. He also had a .45 hanging low, like a cowboy’s six-shooter, on his hip; and his feet were in half-Wellington boots. It was the pursuit pilot’s uniform, and Chennault was entitled. He had, literally, written the book. A thousand Army Air Corps, Marine, and Navy fighter pilots—including Ensign Richard Canidy—had been trained according to the theories Chennault had laid down in Pursuit Aviation. Before the war was over, tens of thousands of fighter pilots would be so trained. Chennault was the acknowledged expert.
But Chennault has never shot down an airplane, Canidy thought. I have. If Crookshanks’s spotters are to be believed, I have shot down five of them. I am therefore an ace. Since we have been in the war only two weeks, it is entirely possible that I am the only ace so far.
From everything he had heard, the fighter force in the Philippines and the Hawaiian Islands had been wiped out on the ground.
He wondered what Chennault wanted with him, and for the first time he considered it might very well have something to do with yesterday’s actions. God knows, he thought, the American public needs some good news. That an American had shot down five Japanese on his first sortie was good news. It was therefore possible that he was about to be shown off.
This theory seemed to be confirmed when he saw the briefcase-carrying civilian with Chennault. The man was American; he was clearly not one of the AVG civilians, and he was just as clearly not a soldier in civilian clothing. He looked to Canidy like a bureaucrat. A little overweight, pale, and more than a little self-important.
Crookshanks saluted when Chennault came close, and Canidy followed his example.
‘‘Good morning, General,’’ Crookshanks said. ‘‘This is Wingman Canidy.’’
Chennault offered Canidy his hand.
‘‘Canidy is one I recruited myself,’’ he said. ‘‘How are you, Canidy? How does it feel to be our first ace?’’
‘‘I’m not entirely sure the Chinese know how to count, General,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘They know how to count.’’ Chennault chuckled. ‘‘Damned well done, son.’’
‘‘Thank you, sir,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘This is Mr. Baker,’’ Chennault said. ‘‘Commander Crookshanks and Wingman Canidy.’’
They shook hands.
‘‘We need someplace to talk in private,’’ Chennault said.
"Would my office be all right, General?’’ Crookshanks asked.
‘‘If we can run everybody out and have some coffee,’’ Chennault said.
‘‘Of course, sir,’’ Crookshanks said.
As they walked toward the building which housed Crookshanks’s office, Canidy noticed, amused, that Crookshanks did the little dance military inferiors did to stay in step with their superiors.
As soon as coffee and sweet rolls were served, Baker got down to business.
‘‘What is said here,’’ he announced, ‘‘is not to leave this room. I want you both to understand that.’’
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Crookshanks said. Canidy nodded.
Baker opened his briefcase, took an envelope from it, and handed it to Crookshanks.
"General Chennault has seen that," Baker said to Crookshanks while Crookshanks was reading.
Whatever it was, Canidy thought, was impressing the hell out of Crookshanks. His eyes actually widened. When he was finished, he looked at Baker, who gestured with his hands to give it to Canidy.
It wasn’t long, but it was certainly impressive:
THE WHITE HOUSE WASHINGTON, D.C.
December 8, 1941
Mr. Eldon C. Baker is engaged in a confidential mission of the highest priority at my personal direction. United States military and civilian agencies are directed to provide whatever support he requests. Military and civilian agencies of the Allied Powers are requested
to do so.
Franklin D. Roosevelt
Canidy looked at Baker.
‘‘Has this something to do with me?’’ he asked.
‘‘I came here from Washington to see you, Mr. Canidy,’’ Baker said.
‘‘My immediate reaction,’’ Canidy said, ‘‘is that you’ve got the wrong man. This Canidy is a former Navy lieutenant junior grade, now flying for General Chennault.’’
‘‘I know who you are, Mr. Canidy,’’ Baker said. ‘‘You were acquainted with Mr. Chesley Whittaker, I believe?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘I’m sorry to have to tell you Mr. Whittaker is dead,’’ Baker said. ‘‘He suffered a stroke on December seventh.’’
‘‘You didn’t come to China to tell me that.’’
‘‘I told you that to show that I know who you are,’’ Baker said. ‘‘I came to China to recruit you for an important mission. ’’
‘‘What kind of a mission?’’
‘‘I can’t get into that just yet,’’ Baker said.
‘‘That’s wonderful!’’ Canidy said, rolling his eyes.
‘‘It comes with the standard caveat,’’ Baker said. ‘‘It is a mission considered of great importance to the war effort, and it entails a high degree of risk.’’
‘‘But you won’t tell me what?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘For Christ’s sake, Canidy,’’ Crookshanks snapped. ‘‘That letter is from the President!’’
‘‘I saw,’’ Canidy snapped back. He looked at Baker. ‘‘A flying job?’’
‘‘I’m not at liberty to say,’’ Baker said.
‘‘I can’t imagine what else it could be,’’ Canidy thought aloud. Then he added: ‘‘I’m under a year’s contract to the AVG. I don’t suppose that matters?’’
‘‘What you would be doing is considered of greater importance, ’’ Baker said.
‘‘Would I come back here?’’
‘‘That hasn’t been determined,’’ Baker said. ‘‘Most probably, you would not.’’
‘‘Jesus,’’ Canidy said, exasperated. ‘‘You understand that the only skill I can bring to this war is flying single-engine airplanes?’’
The Last Heroes Page 28