“This is Digger 17, we've been ambushed, trapped on the road near Twinnge. Enemy forces infantry with some light mortars. We need support.”
“Digger 17, this is Ayala-One. We have your position and are three minutes out. We are F-105s with Mark 82s and 20 mike-mike. Tell your boys to keep their mouths open, this is going to be noisy.” Golconda grinned, like all Tea pilots, this one had trained in America and the English had a Texan twang to it.
He saw the jets coming in, their silver skins gleaming in the sunlight, highlighted against the dark black clouds to the North. They were diving down towards them and closing fast. Golconda had heard that the F-105 was the fastest aircraft low down ever built, faster even than the Yank's much-vaunted B-58s. These ones certainly came in fast but he guessed the Tea pilot had been pulling his leg about noise, as the jets streaked overhead, they were silent. Then, he realized it hadn't been a joke, there was an ear-splitting boom and a mind-cracking scream.
In the little Dingo, glass instrument covers cracked and Golconda felt his ears burst inwards. The noise was so intense that he didn't even hear the bombs go off. Only when he looked up and saw the hill overlooking the road covered in smoke did he realize that it had been a bomb-run. Already, the jets were coming back and Golconda heard another strange sound, a vicious rattling rasp. Another area of hill vanished in a rolling sea of small explosions.
“Digger 17, this is Ayala One, that's it for us, we were running river cover for a convoy and are short of gas. Ayala three and four are on their way in to cover you. Good luck diggers.”
“Thank you Ayala One. The beers are on us when we get a chance.”
It was as Golconda had feared. The Chipanese had concentrated their fire on the precious six-by-sixes and destroyed at least half of them. He sighed, it didn't matter anyway. The infantry would have to go ahead now, probing for mines with bayonets. That slowed the convoy speed to less than walking pace anyway.
Four hours later he realized the loss of the six-by-sixes was even less important than he'd thought. The bridge over the Irawaddy was a smoldering mass of burned timber and blown stone abutments. If they'd had the wonderful Russian bridging gear they'd seen on television, they could be across in an hour or less. But they didn't and couldn't. They had old-fashioned Bailey Bridges and the nearest unit was twelve or fourteen convoys back. The only thing he could do was stay where he was until help came. The Road To Myitkyina was closed until further notice.
Myitkyina Airfield, Burma
Four aircraft on the ground at once, that was probably a record for this airfield. Major Ranjit thought. He doubted it would stand long though. The message in his pocket was grim. The convoy coming up the river had run into minefields and lost heavily. They were stopped until divers could get the navigation way cleared of bottom mines. The road situation was even worse. Convoys up and down the road had been ambushed and what had been a supply line was now a series of small besieged outposts defending themselves from the guerrillas, not moving. That meant Myitkyina was going to have to rely on an airbridge for supply. So, four would be a small number of aircraft to have on the field at once.
That meant they'd have to brush up on their aircraft handling practices. One of the Australian C-l 19s was taxiing out onto the runway, ready to take off. As he watched, it powered up its engines and took off, receding into the south while the other C-119 took its place. Beside it, two Indian C-47s were also unloading. The big cargo doors on the C-l 19 made it a much more practical cargo hauler than the elderly Dak. It would be unloaded before the C-47s. Then Major Ranjit frowned, what was that......
“INBOUND!”
The artillery fire exploded all over the parking area, an almost perfect time-on target salvo. The C-119 took at least three direct hits and vanished in a ball of flame. Fragments lashed one of the C-47s, the salvo had been a little short to get all the aircraft first time but it had still been a damned fine piece of gunnery. The shells were coming in fast now, the enemy gunners obviously pouring fire as quickly as they could serve their pieces. Ranjit looked in awe at the shell bursts, they were 150s, no doubt about it. This wasn't just light mortars and jungle guns. Myitkyina base was facing real heavy artillery.
One of the two C-47s was running up its engines, even as Ranjit watched, it turned onto the taxiway and accelerated towards the runway. The other one was already burning, the gunners must have corrected their aim for the follow-up shots. The escaping C-47 was moving fast, far too fast for the taxiway but it didn't matter. It turned onto the runway and started to make its take-off run. Shell-bursts were all around it, level with the wings and tail, correct for deflection but not range, others were correct for range but not deflection. The C-47 was running down the runway, tail up, shell bursts all around it.
It was a deadly horse race, the aircraft leading the shell explosions by a few yards, looking for all the world like the favorite leading the pack into the final straight. Ranjit caught his breath, one shell explosion was in front of the C-47, the enemy gunner must have tried to lead the aircraft, no mean feat with a 150. He'd almost made it but the transport was already lifting off, through the smoke of the explosion, turning and pulling up its undercarriage.
Ranjit saw it was clear of the artillery, the pilot climbing to gain height and firewalling the engines to get speed. Even as he watched, tracers erupted from the hillside and coned in on the C-47. One engine trailed black, then the whole left side erupted into flame. It struggled for a few more second then flipped on its back and spun in. A cloud of oily black smoke marked its grave.
Ignoring the artillery fire pounding the runway and parking area, Major Ranjit came to attention and saluted. After that take-off run, the crew had deserved to make it. Even as he did so, the artillery fire slackened and stopped. The gunners had made their point. The Siege of Myitkyina had started.
Mawchi Village, Thai-Burmese Border
“The old man came up to the border post pushing a wheelbarrow full of straw. He was obviously too poor to be worth shaking down for a bribe and they guessed he must also be a little simple-minded for everybody knew it was impossible to make a living selling straw. So they waved him through. Every day, he did the same and soon the guards noticed he was getting a little more prosperous each week. Then it dawned on them, he was smuggling. So they started searching him, but found nothing. They searched the straw in his wheelbarrow and found nothing. They took the wheelbarrow apart and found nothing. Every day they searched more and more thoroughly, they inspected the straw to see if it had been soaked in anything but no. They searched him, they searched his clothes but still they found nothing. And every trip, the old man got richer and richer.”
Phong Nguyen stopped. The silence hung for a moment then one of his audience couldn't resist feeding him the line. “So what was the old man smuggling?”
“Wheelbarrows.” Phong Nguyen replied innocently. The village men howled with laughter, slapping the ground with their hands. One filled Phong Nguyen's beer mug and clapped him on the back. They knew him as “Khun Chom, a teak dealer from Chiang Rai touring with his wife Noi to find fine timber”.
To them he was an honest merchant who paid fair prices and did so in gold, not worthless paper. What is more, when he arrived, he always brought the villagers a small present to mark his gratitude for their hospitality and, much more importantly always came with new jokes and saucy stories from the outside world. Phong glanced over to where his wife, Lin, was sitting with the village women. She was retelling the stories from the latest episodes of “Path of Virtue”. Phong had taught her carefully, stay away from politics, stay away from anything controversial. Talk about inconsequential things and listen, listen, listen.