Wings of a Flying Tiger

by Iris Yang

  Panic gripped her. “Help is on the way. Don’t give up. You’re a Flying Tiger, a brave man. You can’t give up. Fight!” She shook his hand to encourage him, but felt only his tremors.

  She touched his face. He was burning hot. Jasmine prayed that Daisy would show up soon.

  Silence enveloped them as dusk turned to evening. She was utterly alone with a gravely injured man. In the moonlight, he seemed young and innocent.

  Who are you? Why did you leave your beautiful homeland to come here? Jasmine had seen pictures of America. Peter Peterson was a talented artist, and the splendor and serenity of his landscapes had taken her breath away. She couldn’t believe that such places were real, but Mr. Peterson had assured her that all his paintings were inspired by natural settings.

  Most Westerners don’t know enough about China to care. Why are you so willing to risk your life to fight for us? Are you like Father John and Auntie Valentine, who think that saving lives is a service of the highest kind? Or are you just fearless?

  She knew that there were few men like this man. Birch had told them all about the Flying Tigers. There were fewer than one hundred, and she’d never anticipated meeting one of these brave flyers.

  I don’t even know his name or how he really looks. Jasmine wished she had water to clean the blood off his face. Water! Now she remembered the water carrier. In the midst of anxiety and worry, she’d forgotten about it.

  She dashed to where they’d left their sketchpads. The light from the full moon was bright enough for her to find her way. The bamboo water container was about two and-a-half feet long with several sections, a string tied to the ends of the bamboo for easy carrying. Shitou, Doctor Wang’s grandson, had made it for them.

  Dropping to her knees, with both hands holding the water carrier, Jasmine tried to drip water into his mouth. But the elongated carrier wasn’t easy to use. “Please, open your mouth!”

  He didn’t respond. The water barely touched his lips.

  “Please!” She raised her voice. Concern and frustration tightened the muscles around her shoulder blades.

  For a time, Jasmine gazed at the wounded Flying Tiger. A cluster of clouds scudded past the swollen moon, casting a melancholy pall across his features. She felt a pang of sympathy for him, for his family and friends back home. They might never see him again. He would disappear within this faraway foreign land. They would lose him forever, just like she’d lost her parents and her aunt.

  The thought of losing a loved one made her throat swell. She imagined the man as Birch. They were about the same age. Both were brave pilots, and they fought the same enemy.

  What if he were Birch? What would she do to save her beloved cousin? Birch had saved her from drowning, and she would do anything to save him. Anyone who fights the Japanese is my hero, my friend, my family.

  And she had to repay the kindness of Father John and Professor Valentine. The Americans had saved her life. Try everything, she told herself.

  With a determined look, she lifted the carrier to her own lips and took a gulp of water. Bending down, she pressed her lips to his. With one hand still holding the bamboo carrier upright, she clutched his chin with the other. Drop by drop, she let the water dribble into his mouth. She wasn’t in a hurry, yet her heart thumped, as if she were running a marathon.

  It worked. The wounded man swallowed. Repeatedly she fed him, a mouthful at the time, half afraid that he would wake up and she would be embarrassed, and half wishing she actually had such power.

  This small victory encouraged her. Picking up the sweet wormwood, she took a big bite. The herb had a bitter flavor, not something she would normally enjoy eating. After chewing for a minute, she leaned down and pressed her mouth on his. I’m so sorry…I don’t have a better way. Little by little, she fed him the sweet wormwood, alternating with gulps of water.

  Crickets bickered, and a bird sang a lonely song. A breeze stirred the nearby woods. The temperature plunged. Hugging her arms around herself, she ran her hands over her shoulders.

  The cold was too much for the injured man. His lips trembled, his teeth chattered. Jasmine tucked the parachute tightly around his body. Sticking her arms under the fabric, she rubbed his hands, trying to generate warmth.

  She was alarmed by high fever followed by shivering. Does he have malaria? The fatal disease was well-known in Southeast Asia. The symptoms were easy to identify. She hadn’t suspected he had the illness until now, only because she’d thought his fever was due to his injuries. Dear God! A cry caught in her throat.

  The pilot moaned. His head swayed from side to side. At one point, he turned to his right. His hands went to his left knee, seemingly trying to repress the pain in his injured leg. The sight was heartbreaking. After all this, I’m going to lose him. Her shoulders dropped as if her thoughts were pulling her downward.

  Heroic stories about the Flying Tigers had already touched Jasmine. Now, witnessing the pilot’s sacrifice moved her to tears. She was lost in admiration. The physical contact between them, no matter how unintentional, heightened her emotion, for it was the first time she’d been so close to a man.

  If he’s going to die, I won’t let him die alone. If this is indeed his last moment on earth, then at least he’ll know that someone cares about him and is with him at the end. With that thought, Jasmine slipped under the parachute and lay behind his back. She threaded her right arm under his neck and wrapped her left arm around his upper body. Carefully, she peeled his hands from his knee and clutched them in hers.

  In the soundless darkness, she folded their interlocked arms and hands in front of his chest and pulled his body close to hers. As her cheek touched the back of his head, the tang of blood and sweat greeted her. “I’m here with you. Just stay with me. Don’t give up. Don’t leave me,” she whispered over and over in his ear.

  Oh, dear God! Dear Guanyin, the Goddess of Mercy, Jasmine prayed in silence while blinking back the tears that burned her eyes, I beg you to show your mercy. Don’t let him die! He’s too young. He shouldn’t be left in a foreign land. He deserves to go home, to be with his family and loved ones.

  Throughout the sleepless night she pleaded.

  Chapter 25

  Jasmine awoke to the chirping of birds. The first light of dawn rimmed the surrounding woods, and the sky was leaden with a thick layer of gray clouds, so low that the mountains were hidden. Withdrawing her numbed arms from the man at her side, she eased out from beneath the cover, then checked the wounded man in the dim light.

  He was in a deep sleep, or perhaps still unconscious. “Can you hear me?” she called out softly. His eyes remained closed, but his eyelid moved slightly. Jasmine touched his face. It was still hot, but not dangerously feverish. Whatever she’d done, it seemed to have stabilized his symptoms.

  A small victorious smile graced her lips as she brushed away pieces of grass that had become entangled in her untended hair. I know you’ll be okay. You’re a tough man. A brave man! Still, she knew she needed to take him to Doctor Wang as soon as possible.

  Where was Daisy? Jasmine scanned the perimeter of the meadow. There was still no sign of anyone. As she waited, she decided to feed the pilot more sweet wormwood. It seemed to have helped him. She ran to the creek; it took her no time to find it. Drops of dew shimmered on the fern-like leaves.

  She dashed back and fell to her knees beside him. Taking a big bite, she chewed the bitter-tasting leaves. Her face burned as she bent down to face him.

  It had been dark when she had last fed him, but now, in broad daylight, she could see him clearly. Her hands were shaky as she clutched his chin to open his mouth. Her heart drummed so hard that she thought she was going to wake him. Calming her nerves, she carried out what she needed to do to save this Flying Tiger.

  She hadn’t drunk a drop since the previous day because she know she had to conserve the water for him; there wasn’t much left. The water from the creek wasn’t drinkable without boiling—she’d been warned by the villagers.


  Daisy, where are you? Come quickly!

  Dark clouds that hovered above them warned of a coming storm. She just wished it would hold off a little longer. She tucked the parachute around his body as the rain began to fall.

  Bending down, she leaned over his upper body to shield him from as much rain as possible. Her hands were wrapped around his head; her chest was only inches above his face. Her cheeks grew hot even in the cold shower. But she did not back away; she remained stubbornly in the same protective position. Her solitary goal: keep this Flying Tiger alive!

  Chapter 26

  Daisy showed up a couple of hours after daybreak. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized, short of breath. “I got lost.” Despite Jasmine’s warning, she’d missed the turn. It had been getting dark, and she was in such a hurry. Luckily, the moonlight was bright. By the time she’d stumbled into the village, she was too tired to get help, and she knew she could never make it back in the dark. So she waited until dawn to gather two young villagers, Shitou and Mutou, to come with her. “How is he?” she asked.

  Jasmine shook her head. “Not good, I’m afraid.”

  “Is he really a Flying Tiger?” asked Shitou, his voice filled with curiosity and admiration. He took off his conical straw hat to fan himself.

  “Yes,” Daisy answered with a slight lift of her chin.

  “May I see the Blood Chit?”

  “Not now,” said Jasmine. “Plenty of time later—”

  “Ghost!” cried the other villager. Fear glazed his eyes as he spotted the man’s blood-stained face. The simpleton with buck teeth, greasy hair, and ill-fitting clothes backed away two steps and hid behind Daisy. “No,” Daisy assured him. “He is a great man, an American pilot. He helps us fight the Japs.”

  “The Japs? Who are they?”

  “Stop!” Jasmine held up a hand to put an end to the dialog. “We must go now.” Her tone was so imperative that all heads turned toward her. She alone understood that time was crucial in this life-or-death race.

  The young villagers had brought a bamboo-pole sedan chair. Built by fastening two poles to a reclining bamboo chair, this carrier was common in the mountainous regions of Southwest China for transporting anyone too weak to walk.

  “Don’t touch his wounds,” Jasmine called as they lifted the pilot’s body. “Be careful!” she instructed as they placed him on the chair.

  “He’s so tall,” said Shitou, lifting an eyebrow. He’d never before seen a Western man.

  Designed and constructed for Chinese, the carrier was too small for the American. His feet rested upon the footstep, but his knees bent awkwardly.

  “Mutou, take the front,” Jasmine ordered. Most of their path was downhill, and putting the taller boy in the front prevented the unconscious man from sliding down.

  Shitou positioned himself at the rear. With a shout of “One, two, three,” the young men lifted the bamboo poles onto their shoulders and hoisted the carrier into the air.

  “I hope he won’t fall out,” Daisy said.

  Jasmine agreed. She’d taken this type of sedan chair, and going downhill was hair-raising. “Why don’t you stand on the other side?” she asked Daisy as she grabbed the pilot’s arm. The two girls walked close to the chair, making sure the wounded man was safe. “Go slowly, everyone,” Jasmine said as they descended over the rocky pathway.

  The clouds had parted and sunlight burst over the peak of the mountain. Tree branches extended over the trail, offering dappled shade and breaking the sunlight into dozens of golden beams. The scent of honeysuckle and other wildflowers hung in the air. Before long Mutou whined, “I’m tired.” The American was heavier than anyone they had ever carried.

  “You’re such a sissy,” scolded Shitou. Beads of sweat fell from beneath the brim of his hat, trickling down his temple. “Don’t be a baby,” he added, panting. His footsteps sounded hefty.

  “Mutou, this is important!” Jasmine encouraged.

  “Too heavy,” Mutou protested. Scrunching up his nose and wiggling it from side to side, he set the carrier down.

  Shitou had no choice but to follow. Taking off his hat, he mopped his face and head with the rag around his neck. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and used it as a fan. His bare chest was as bronze as his tanned face.

  “Mutou,” coaxed Daisy. “Would you like some candy?”

  “Yes.” A crooked smile spread over the young man’s face.

  “How many do you want?” Daisy teased him.

  “Two.”

  “Why two?”

  “One for me, and one for Shitou…”

  “If you carry him all the way to the village, I’ll give you six; three for you, and three for Shitou.”

  Candies were like treasures to the village youngsters. Only at Chinese New Year did they get a couple pieces if it was a good year. Having enough food for everyone in the family was a hard task for most people. A snack wasn’t even a concept. Jasmine and Daisy had brought lots of candies when they came to the village and asked their family to send more, yet the supply was still limited.

  Mutou lifted the sedan chair without further complaint, and Jasmine gave an appreciative nod to her younger cousin.

  Chapter 27

  “Doctor Wang, you must save him,” Jasmine blurted as they stepped inside the herbalist’s house. “He’s a Flying Tiger. He—”

  Lifting his right hand, the gray-haired man interrupted her, “I know.” He was in his early sixties, with steadfast eyes, a tanned face, and a no-nonsense manner. His gray tunic and cotton trousers were patched in several places, but clean.

  “Grandpa wanted to go with us,” said Shitou, wiping his face and neck.

  “He twisted his ankle a few days ago,” Daisy explained. “Remember?” She panted, a telltale pink stain on her cheeks.

  “Mutou,” the herbalist sighed, “wasn’t my first choice.”

  Jasmine nodded. She knew there weren’t any strong men left in the village.

  “Put him on the bed,” Doctor Wang instructed. He sat on the edge of a wooden-framed bed and took the patient’s arm. His three middle fingers rested on the young man’s wrist. One of his eyebrows shot up for a moment as he felt the pulse.

  The room was quiet. No one dared to make noise. All eyes were on the herbalist’s face. Boxes and jars with labels filled two shelves lining both sides of the room. Several bamboo baskets full of drying plants lay on the floor. A distinct smell of herbs hung in the air.

  “Malaria,” said the herbalist. “He has malaria.”

  A collective gasp broke out.

  Jasmine put a hand over her mouth. Doctor Wang’s diagnosis had confirmed her fear.

  “You’ll be able to cure him, right?” Daisy asked with a shaky voice. “You cured me.”

  The old man felt the pilot’s pulse again. “Maybe,” he said. He looked up at Jasmine. “What did you give him?”

  “Sweet wormwood,” she stammered.

  He nodded his approval. Then he turned back to her, a curious glint in his eyes. “How?”

  Jasmine opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say. A rush of heat colored her cheeks. Luckily, the doctor didn’t ask again. He was in a hurry. “Shitou,” he called to his grandson. Listing several herbs, he told the teenager to prepare the medicine. Sweet wormwood was at the top of the list.

  Shitou opened various boxes and jars. After filling the ceramic pot with the ingredients, he left the room to cook the mixture. At sixteen, he was well trained. Children in poor families grew up fast; they had no choice.

  The herbalist lifted his patient’s head and unwrapped the silky red scarf. When he spotted a clot of dark blue substance, he shifted his gaze to Jasmine again. “Forget-me-not?”

  She nodded as she twisted her hair around her finger.

  Doctor Wang cleansed the wound, sprinkled some white powder on it, and wrapped it with gauze.

  “Did you just use Yunnan Paiyao?” Jasmine asked. She’d prayed that the herbalist had this miracle medicine.

  “Simil
ar ingredients. Magic White Powder—I make it. What do you think of the name?” In spite of his slight build, Doctor Wang had the look of a competent man who had experienced life and survived many trials. Hard living had carved deep lines into his leathery complexion.

  “Very good,” said Daisy.

  But is it magical? He could certainly use some magic right now, thought Jasmine.

  The herbalist turned his attention to the patient’s leg.

  “Can you save his leg?” Jasmine moistened her lips.

  “I think so.” He looked up, meeting her troubled gaze. He added, “It takes time, Jasmine. I’m a pretty good herbalist. But—”

  “The best,” interrupted Daisy.

  Doctor Wang gave an appreciative nod. “This powder is first-rate. The best you can find anywhere. But his leg is badly damaged. It will take time. Hopefully, he’ll be able to use it one day. But not anytime soon, I’m afraid.”

  The old man treated the wounds one after another. “You know,” he said, grinning at Jasmine, “with sweet wormwood and forget-me-not, you might have saved his life. Good job, girl.” His smile accentuated the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth.

  Jasmine let out a breath of relief. Her fingers finally let go of her long hair.

  Chapter 28

  Bright sunlight and soft music woke Danny Hardy from sleep. His memories were uncertain, incomplete, and the strange environment compounded his confusion. He remembered his plane had been shot down and he’d been wounded. The last thing he recalled clearly was sliding open the canopy and scrambling out of the falling aircraft into a chilly wind over what had appeared to be wilderness. But he couldn’t even remember how he’d managed to pull the ripcord of the parachute.

  As his consciousness returned, and his memories grew clearer, he seemed to recall a young woman with silky skin, delicate features, and long shiny hair. She had talked to him, touched him, and hugged him. She’d done everything she could to keep him alive.