The city of Rangoon lies east of the delta of the Irrawaddy River. A hundred miles further east, the great, sluggish Salween River flows into the ocean. Beyond the Salween lies Thailand. From Rangoon, a railroad runs due north to Mandalay and then northeast to Lashio. Out of Lashio runs the famous Burma Road. It swings north through a narrow strip of Burma, then twists up and over wild mountain country belonging to China. Making a wide circle which bends southward, it ends at Chungking, capital of China.

The Flying Tigers were the guardians of Rangoon where the big ships docked and unloaded supplies for the Chinese armies. They were roving guards of the railroad and of the truck road over the mountains. With their P–40’s, they wove a wall the Japanese could not see and one they could not cross.

The three Royal Air Force pilots soon discovered that men of the Flying Tigers had no real names. They were Big Moose or Jake or Sandy; any name that happened to be tagged to them by the fancy of their fellow fliers. They were lone wolves of the air, prowling in threes or in pairs or alone.

To such a group, Nick Munson was poison. Within two days after he had taken over instruction of the squadron, he had accomplished something sinister. The Tigers were spitting at one another and were not doing nearly so good a job of covering the vast area they had to protect.

Stan, Allison, and O’Malley were sitting in their little bunk room. Their bodies were stripped to the waist and gleamed with moisture. The air seemed to press down upon them, hot and suffocating. Outside, stars gleamed and a pale moon shone through a cloudless sky.

“Somebody has to start a movement to get rid of Munson,” Stan said grimly. “I never saw a tougher, more wild crew than we have, but they’ll go to pieces if he keeps at them.”

“Sure, an’ we ought to punch him in the nose. We could throw him out o’ this outfit and chase him out o’ Burma,” O’Malley said.

“There ought to be a better way,” Allison said. “A way that would not make an outlaw outfit out of the gang. The Chinese want to give us a free hand, but if we get to staging riots, they’ll have to step in and take control.”

“We each have to watch Munson and try to catch him at some trick or another, then we’ll have him,” Stan said.

“’Tis a waste o’ good time,” O’Malley argued.

“Stan is right. We’ll keep an eye on him.” Allison smiled. “But just remember this, he has the three of us spotted. He knows we became suspicious of him on the trip up here. He’ll be doing a little watching himself, or I miss my guess.”

Stan got to his feet. “It’s too hot in here for me,” he said. “I’m going for a walk.” “I’m takin’ me a nap,” O’Malley declared.

“I think I’ll try for a wink of sleep myself,” Allison said.

Stan walked out into the night. There was a breeze blowing that carried pungent smells from the city and the harbor. The city was blacked out, except for the lights along the dock. Stan headed in that direction and finally reached a point where he could look down upon the scene below.

Floodlights revealed masses of trucks and cars loaded with boxed supplies and piles of loose materials. Hundreds of new passenger cars were lined up in the big yard. They were familiar cars, all American made—Buicks, Chryslers, and Fords—and all destined for China’s army. In a yard beyond the car lot stood hundreds of new trucks being serviced by American and Chinese mechanics. Soon those trucks would be heading for the Burma Road to haul freight over the towering mountains.

The noise and the activity attracted Stan. He sauntered toward the car lot. Two guards stood at the gate of the yard. Stan was not in uniform, except for his trousers, so he did not approach the gate. He seated himself on a bank in the deep shadows under a spreading tree.

A car passed the guards and rolled away. It was a new Chrysler. A few minutes later another car rolled out. With idle interest, Stan watched the cars go by. He was wide awake and the busy scene fascinated him. Another new Chrysler came out. It turned left and passed close to where Stan sat.

Two fat men sat in the front seat. As the car rolled by, someone in the back seat lighted a cigarette. The flare of the light revealed two men in the rear. The cupped flame lighted a bony, hawklike set of features which were not Oriental. Stan started and leaned forward when he saw the figure beside the man who had lighted the match. He was wearing a uniform and Stan got a glimpse of his face. He recognized Nick Munson.

Stan got to his feet and walked around the parking lots. Down the street a number of men were working under a big light. He moved down to them and saw that they all were Americans and that they were assembling car parts.

The boss of the crew looked up. When he saw that Stan was an American, he smiled in a friendly fashion.

“Hello,” he said. “Where did you come from?”

“I just wandered down from the flying field,” Stan replied. “Too hot to sleep.”

The boss was instantly impressed. “You fellows are doing a swell job. You have the toughest job there is out here. But I have my troubles, too,” he added.

“What sort of troubles?” Stan asked.

“We have such a mixture of people that I can’t tell them apart—Chinese, Burmans, and Malays. The Chinese on the whole are very honest, but there are some who feel free to make off with anything they can get hold of.” He grinned widely. “They steal the stuff and sell it in places where there is no war at all.”

“What use would they have for car parts?” Stan asked.

“Oh, they don’t waste time stealing car parts. They steal cars and trucks after we get them serviced and ready to roll.” The boss wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “This whole lower end of the line is in Burma, not China. The Chinese just have transportation rights. They got those rights through British pressure and some of the Burmese don’t like it.”

“What do they do when they catch thieves stealing trucks and cars?” Stan asked.

“It depends a lot on who they are. If they are wealthy owners of big land grants, they just take the car and forget it. If they are poor natives who make a business of thieving, they shoot them.” The boss laughed. “Any way you look at it, we have a hard time delivering enough supplies to keep the Chinese army going.”

Stan nodded. He was thinking about a number of things. “Well, I’ll run along. I feel as though I could sleep now.”

“Drop down to the Teeka Hotel sometime,” the boss said. “I’m Matt Willard. I’ll be glad to show you around.”

“I’m Stan Wilson,” Stan said. “I may do that soon.” He walked up the road and headed out toward the flying field. A sentry challenged him, and he advanced to be recognized and to give the countersign. After he had done so, he asked:

“Many of the boys go out tonight?”

“No go out. Only two.” The Chinese sentry smiled broadly.

“Two besides me?” Stan asked.

“You and one who cooks. He is my friend.” The sentry’s white teeth flashed.

Stan laughed and walked on toward the barracks. He found O’Malley and Allison sleeping soundly. Slipping out of his trousers, he lay down.

Suddenly the sentry’s words, “You and one who cooks,” flashed through his mind. He was puzzled. It was very strange. He was positive that Nick Munson was in the automobile he had seen leaving the parking lot. Why was Munson so secretive about his movements? Stan decided to do some sleuthing, perhaps.... Within a few minutes he was fast asleep.

The next morning the three fliers were called to Commander Fuller’s office. Stan led the way with O’Malley trailing. Fuller looked them over with a critical eye.

“I have a job for you fellows,” he said crisply.

The three members of Flight Five waited.

O’Malley returned the commander’s look with an insolent grin. He edged close to the desk and leaned forward. Fuller ignored him. He spoke to Allison.

“You are to take up a Martin bomber on a special assignment, Major. I have a request from Colonel Munson to pick up a Chinese officer who has been abandoned by his caravan.” Fuller pulled a map from his desk and spread it out before him. “The Chinese general has two staff officers with him. They were attacked by Thai guerilla forces under command of Japanese spies. They escaped and are at a plantation just over the border.” He placed the point of his pencil on the map. “Here is the location of the plantation. You will spot the field to be used in landing by an American flag planted at the edge of the woods.”

Allison picked up the map. “Will we be interned if we are caught in Thailand?” He asked the question sharply.

“There will be no armed forces to stop you and no one will know you landed. You will be only a few minutes on the field,” Fuller answered.

“Yes, sir,” Allison said as he turned away from the desk.

“You are in command, Major Allison,” Fuller called after him.

“Yes, sir,” Allison answered.

The three fliers walked out into the sunshine. O’Malley was the first to speak.

“What’s the need for sendin’ three fighter pilots to herd a crate on a passenger trip?”

“We may find that out later,” Stan said.

“We’ll make jolly well sure there is no army of Thai troops waiting for us when we land,” Allison said.

“I can’t think of a better way of getting rid of us than having us dumped into a native stockade where we could rot while the war goes on,” Stan said.

They reported to the briefing room where the captain in charge gave them their flying orders. Out on the field, a battered Martin attack bomber sat with her propeller idling.

“The old gal looks like she has seen a hard winter,” O’Malley said. He faced his two pals. “Suppose you boys let me take this hop. You could sneak out on patrol and get some action. It won’t take three of us to fly that crate.”

“We have our orders,” Allison reminded. “Besides, old man, I might need a couple of good gunners.”

O’Malley grunted. “It’s goin’ to spoil the whole day for all three of us.”

“I have a hunch we might meet a few Jap fighters on the way over or back,” Stan remarked. “Just like we met them when we flew into this jungle.”

“The best way to find out is to get going,” Allison said.

The ground men had climbed out of the bomber. O’Malley went up first and began looking the guns over. Stan and Allison were up in front when he came back from a prowl in the rear.

“’Tis nice equipment they furnish, these Chinese. I’m handling the rear gun. There’s a couple o’ submachine guns in a rack back there. If I bail out, I’ll grab one o’ them, then Mrs. O’Malley’s boy will pot any Japs that try dirty tricks.”

Allison settled himself at the controls while Stan took over navigation and the forward guns. The big ship rocked to the blast of its two Pratt and Whitney motors. It spun around and headed down the field. Hoicking its tail, the plane eased off the ground. It was designed to fly as fast as most pursuit planes and to maneuver well in the air. They had been up only a few minutes when Stan discovered that the intercommunication phone was out of order and that they had no radio.

“This ship was never cleared for combat by the ground crew,” he called to Allison.

Allison smiled back at him and opened the Martin up another notch. He leaned toward Stan and shouted:

“You’re not in the R.A.F. now, son. You are back in the old brush-hopping days.”

They bored along, spotting two P–40 patrols who eased down to look them over. They saw no enemy planes at all as they knifed along above a layer of clouds. Stan checked the map and charted their course. After a time, he made a thumbs-down sign and Allison dropped under the clouds.

They drifted over the broad and muddy Salween River and Stan knew they were over neutral territory. He kept a sharp watch for Jap ships, knowing that they paid no attention to neutrality. They had an understanding with Thailand that amounted to an alliance.

After crossing the river, Allison went down and swept low over the jungle and land which plantation owners had cultivated. He was the first to spot the flag planted at the edge of a rice paddy. The field seemed smooth and the flag gave him the wind, but he did not go in. He circled low over the jungle bordering the plantation.

As they came back over, much lower this time, they saw three men dressed in uniform waving to them from the edge of the dense forest. Allison came around and skimmed low over the field. As he went past, he saw that the three men were dressed in Chinese uniforms. “I’m setting her down,” he called to Stan. “I’ll roll in close to the spot where those men are and then I’ll swing around so that we head into the wind.”

Stan nodded. He had eased into position back of his gun controls. The Martin went down lower and bumped across the rice field. It hit solidly and rolled toward the three men. The Chinese remained at the edge of the woods, waiting.

Allison heaved back his hatch and looked out. “They look like Chinese officers,” he shouted above the rumble of the twin motors that he had left idling.

With a flip, he spun the Martin around and set the brakes. Stan and Allison swung down to the ground. They waited for O’Malley to come out but he did not show up.

“It may be just as well to leave him to guard the ship,” Stan said.

“Good idea,” Allison agreed.

Stan called up to O’Malley. “Stick around and watch the ship. We’ll be back with the general and his baggage in a few minutes.”

The rumbling of the motors drowned out any reply O’Malley might have made. Stan turned to join Allison. They walked across the grass toward the three officers advancing to meet them.

When they were a few yards away, Stan halted. “Those aren’t generals,” he groaned. “They are Jap noncommissioned officers.”

Allison stopped and muttered softly, “Right you are.”

Before the two pilots could wheel, six men slid out of the jungle. They were armed with rifles which were pointed at Stan and Allison. One of the officers rasped in perfect English:

“You are our prisoners. Do not try to escape, please.”

“Stuck!” Stan gritted as he suddenly realized that neither he nor Allison was armed.

The Japs closed in. The officer in command spoke to Stan.

“Your other man is in the ship?”

“What other man?” Stan came back.

“We know you have a crew of three,” the officer snarled. “The best way to find out is to look there yourself,” Allison answered.

The officer spoke sharply in Japanese. He lifted his voice to almost a shout. Instantly a company of soldiers came out of the woods and began to spread out around the Martin. Stan waited for the blast of O’Malley’s guns. The rear guns of the Martin could cover most of the approaching men.

No sound came from the Martin. The Japs swarmed up into it. Stan scowled as he waited for them to drag O’Malley out. The Irishman must have gone to sleep. A few minutes later the soldiers came out of the plane and moved toward the officer in charge. A rapid conversation took place in their native tongue.

Suddenly the officer turned to Stan. “It is true that you have only two men in your party. As you said, there is no one in the plane.”

Stan and Allison exchanged quick glances. Both managed to hide their surprise at this news. Stan faced the officer. He had no idea what had happened to O’Malley. What he wanted to find out was the fate awaiting Allison and himself.

“You plan to intern us?” he asked.

“We do not intern mercenary fliers who hire out to the enemy.” The Jap smiled sarcastically. “We are not so soft and so foolish. We shoot them. That is the better way.”

Allison’s lips pulled into a sardonic smile. “So nice of you,” he said softly.

“You will march over to the woods,” the officer ordered. “Before we dispose of you, we have some questions to ask you.”

“Glad to oblige with any information you want,” Allison replied, hoping to stall for time.

With bayonets at their backs, they walked to a shady spot under a vine-choked tree.

“You may sit, please,” the officer said.

Stan and Allison sat down and waited for the questions. The former planted himself with his back against a tree. That took the threat of a bayonet thrust in the back out of the picture. Allison did the same.

“How many pilots do you have in your mercenary group?” the officer demanded. He had a pad and pencil in hand, ready to jot down their answers.

Stan looked at Allison. “We should have somewhere near a thousand.” He grinned and added, “That is with the last bunch that arrived yesterday.”

The Jap looked at Stan and then jotted down the number. “Now, please, how many planes do you have?”

“We don’t know. They are coming in so fast we can’t keep count of them,” Allison answered.

“But some estimate, please,” the Japanese insisted.

“Oh, several thousand,” Stan answered airily.

This seemed to excite the officer greatly. He wrote the number down and chattered to the noncom beside him. They talked for a few minutes among themselves. When they had finished, Stan spoke up.

“Doesn’t that tally with the number Colonel Munson reported we had?”

The Jap stared at him. “Colonel Munson,” he repeated thoughtfully. He shook his head. “I do not hear of him.”

Stan was convinced that the officer was telling the truth. He did not seem to know Nick Munson. Before he could ask another question, a shining, new Chrysler rolled out of the woods and a trim little man stepped out. He was a ranking officer of the Japanese Air Force. Stan recognized his outfit at once.

The noncommissioned officer bowed and bobbed and saluted. He talked rapidly with the Japanese officer. The little man took the pad, looked at it, then scowled at Stan and Allison.

“Liars,” he accused. “We waste no more time with you.”

He spoke in a smooth flow of Japanese to the noncoms, then turned about and got into the car.

Stan stared at the new Chrysler. The Japs had not been able to import any of that model of American cars. His mind was working fast. Allison kicked him and mumbled: “If we’re to make a try for it, we’ll have to do so as soon as that car pulls out.”

Stan nodded. “We’ll dive for the brush.”

The car rolled away and was swallowed by the jungle. The Japanese officer turned to them.

“Get up,” he commanded. “You may use your handkerchiefs to put over your eyes. We waste no more time. My men are good shots, however.” He sneered, exposing huge buckteeth.

Stan and Allison sprang to their feet, backing up on each side of the tree.

“Step forward and place the blindfold,” the officer snapped.

“We don’t want any blindfolds. We can face you rats,” Stan retorted. He shot a glance at Allison.

Allison was swaying just a little. Stan tensed himself to leap backward and roll behind the tree. Suddenly, there was a blazing rattle of machine gunfire from the green wall of the jungle close by. The Jap officer spun around and tumbled to the ground. Two of his men went down and the others scattered. They opened fire but Stan did not wait to offer a target. He plunged behind the tree and brought up hard against Allison.

Peering out, they saw a figure emerge from the woods. A high, wild yell rose into the hot jungle air. Bill O’Malley was rushing upon the Japs with a submachine gun spitting fire at them!

The charging O’Malley was too much for the Japanese. They broke and plunged for the cover of the jungle. Stan leaped out and caught up a rifle.

“Get to the ship! Don’t wait to fight! Run for it!” Allison shouted behind him.

Gripping the gun, Stan sprinted for the ship. Allison was close behind him. Stan went up and into the pilot’s seat. He rammed the throttle knob up and the twin motors roared to life. The Martin shook and strained at its brakes. Stan reached down and gave Allison a hand as he kicked off one brake and wheeled the bomber around.

“Forward guns!” Stan shouted.

O’Malley was planted halfway between the plane and the jungle, potting away and shouting. The Japs, hidden in the dense growth, had recovered from their first panic and were sniping at him with their rifles.

Allison opened up with a blast from the forward guns of the Martin. The shells screamed into the tops of the jungle trees. O’Malley tossed aside his machine gun and ran to the plane. As he sprang into the compartment, Stan headed the plane out into the field for a take-off.

The Martin lifted and Stan swung it around. With the bomber in the air, he could nose down over the jungle and strafe the Japanese hiding there. He was nosing in when he sighted a car moving swiftly along a narrow road. It was the new Chrysler.

Stan laid over and went down after the car. As he roared down upon it, he saw men spill out and tumble into the bushes beside the road. Allison opened up, and, as they left, Stan saw that the car had been smashed to a twisted mass of wreckage.

He went on up and headed for home. As they roared along, Allison poked him and pointed up. Stan saw four Jap fighter planes coming down at them. He cracked the throttle wide open. With a whoop, O’Malley scrambled back to the rear gun turret.

The Japs came down the chute but they were not fast enough to make contact. The Martin showed them a clean pair of heels and they gave up the chase.

The Martin dropped in on the temporary field and slid up beside a hangar. Ground men swarmed out to take over. The three pilots climbed out and headed for the briefing room where they reported in.

“Let’s go report to the colonel,” O’Malley said. There was a savage glint in his eye.

“First, you report how you happened to bail out with that tommy gun,” Stan said to O’Malley.

“I spotted a squad o’ Japs near the woods. We had no phone an’ you were comin’ in fast. I jest piled out and sailed down into a patch o’ timber. You were so low, the Japs didn’t see me bail out.” O’Malley ran his fingers tenderly over a mass of scratches on his cheek. “I like to niver got out o’ the mess o’ vines and bushes I landed in.”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Allison asked in mock surprise.

“I’m weak with hunger,” O’Malley declared solemnly. “But I’m mad, too. I got to lay one on the beak o’ that Munson before I’ll get me full appetite.”

“I think we’d better eat first,” Stan said. “We might be able to figure out something while we watch you devour a couple of pies.”

O’Malley grinned widely. “Sure, an’ if I wasn’t so weak from hunger, you couldn’t talk me out of it,” he said.

They headed toward the mess hall with O’Malley well in the lead.