Chapter One - General Chenault's gang.
The fuselage of the Curtiss-Wright P-40 Warhawk fighter shook as the young Flying Tiger pilot shoved the throttle forward. The V-12 Allison engine roared and belched out plumes of white smoke from its twelve side mounted exhaust ports. The six ton olive drab colored aircraft lurched into motion down the grassy field in near Rangoon, Burma. The pilot’s body was pressed back against his seat as the warplane headed down the makeshift runway...quickly building speed. At 120 knots it gently lifted itself off the ground as the pilot applied only a slight bit of pressure on the stick. The P-40 shook slightly as its sharply pointed propellar hub rose, aiming the plane toward the partly cloudy, blue, morning sky. The landing gear lever was acutated, the wheels slowly folded up into the wings. The takeoff and landing flaps were retracted and the warbird was off on its mission. The pilot’s name was Jack Diddley.
I could see the Burmese coolees just below, standing near the end of the runway, waving me on my way. I turned my attention back to the instrument panel. Altimeter: 150 feet and climbing. Tachometer: 12,000 RPM’s. Engine Manifold pressure: 200 PSI. Compass: heading due West. I edged the control stick ever so slightly to the left, causing the P-40 to bank about 10 degrees. Then, lightly tapping the right rudder pedal and pulling back on the control stick...I coaxed my climbing P-40 toward a northerly heading. I could just see the grass and tree-covered foothills of Quinang Province lining the horizon through the spinning prop. The plane was passing 3000 feet, on its way to a cruising altitude today of 6000 feet. I brought the plane’s wings back level once again, bringing into view out the right side of the cockpit window the other P-40, just off my right wingtip...my new wingman: Harley Morgan. I keyed the radio switch on the control stick.
“Hey buddy...where you been?”, I asked jokingly.
After a moment of silence, the crackly reply came back, “What d’ya mean, Diddley. Don’t wait for me. That run down crate of yours barely made it off the runway!”
“Ok Harley, so it’s gonna be one of those days, huh?”
“Just another day in paradise chief. I’m free and easy and lovin’ life. 1942 is going to be a great year!”, Harley quipped. A little saying that Harley used on every flight when he was truly nervous.
It was late December, 1941.
I thought about all the conversations I had like this with Harley Morgan, in the air and on the ground. Morgan was a jokester, always poking fun at me, giving me a “bad time”. Teasing me about being a “hick sodbuster from South Dakota”. But it was always in fun, never serious. A native New Yorker and ex-airline jockey now plying his passion for flying in China. He was fun to have around. And, Morgan was comforting to have as a wingman in General Chennault’s little band of volunteer fighter pilots.
I recall one mission in particular when Harley Morgan saved my life. It wasn’t on a flying mission, it was in a bar in Singapore just before we arrived at the airbase in Burma. It was in a rustic little dive called Susie Q’s just a block from the waterfront and a short, take-your-life-in-your-hands taxi ride from the airstrip. The airstrip where me and Harley were to catch a transport flight to China...and the Chenault Flying Tiger outfit. We had a one-night layover in Singapore. Why not head to town?
It was always filled with merchant marine sailors, civilian cargo pilots, criminals, opium dealers, and hookers of every shape and size. In one corner of the smokey, smelly little bar stood an old, beat up juke box that had five records in all...78 rpm bakelite discs. It seemed to be playing the same song over and over, “My Darling Clementine” by Tex Ritter. There were no windows. The bar top ran down one side of the dingy little room, manned by a rather large, balding, round-faced, non-Asian fellow named Georgy Boy. He was big, and looked like he ate furniture for breakfast. He always wore a stained white undershirt, waist apron, and Hawaiian print shorts. There was always at big cigar stump stuck in the corner of his mouth. I never saw any smoke come from it...though you could smell it when you walked into the place. And how he came to get a name like that, I never found out. From the looks of him, I hesitated to ask. He was also the owner. Evidently, Georgy Boy acquired this Singapore night spot in a poker game many years ago. The story goes that the former owner was never heard from again after that particular poker game. The name Susie Q's was retained for marketing purposes...this joint was one of the most notorious in Singapore for being the place with "Everything for the traveler", so it said on the sign behind the bar. If you couldn't find it at Susie Q's, it didn't exist in Singapore.
Susie Q’s was off limits to the regular Navy guys that docked in Singapore. This place was just too “exotic” for the local magistrate and local fleet commander to allow that kind of fraternization. This cut down on the fights between the merchant marine sailors and the Navy sailors. And, it cut down on the Sick Bay calls for penicillin.
The place smelled of beer, cheap perfume, and urine...with a smidgeon of that burning shit and garbage odor so prevalent in this part of the orient. The sewers here were simply open ditches than ran right through town, next to the sidewalks. A pile of garbage was always smoldering somewhere nearby. The burning garbage smell was a welcome change from the rotting garbage smell that competed for “air superiority” around these parts. We were quite happy when they burned it.
Harley and I had been at Susie Q’s about 20 minutes, drinking beer. We were sitting at a small, round wooden table near the front door. Harley always preferred that location in these kinds of places, just in case.
I asked him, “...just in case of what?” “Boy”, he proceeded to lecture me, “I see I am going to have to teach you everything!"
“Well”, I said, “teach me”. “Just keep sitting there Diddley”, he said shaking his head, “...just keep sitting there”.
A few minutes later, a little Asian man came over to our table, the same one who brought us our beers. He was smiling and looking straight at me, “You know...she likee you”, he said in his best pigeon English. “She want sit by you”.
A few seconds went by with me just staring back at the little Asian man before I said, “Who likee me?”
The guy was bending over slightly at the waist, leaning toward me. He moved a little closer and spoke in my ear, “That one...over there”, motioning toward the bar a few feet away. I leaned to the side a bit to see around this guy standing in front me. And there, leaning against the bar by herself, was the most beautiful Asian girl I had ever seen. She was leaning back against the grungy bar on her elbows, her legs kind of crossed at the knees. She had long, straight black hair to the middle of her back, and bangs cut across her forehead. She was wearing a long, silk red dress that was cut up the side a little, just enough to reveal one shapely leg exposed. And, she was staring straight at me. I couldn't tell how old she was, but not much more than 18 or so.
“Her?", I asked the guy while leaning back in my chair and pointing toward the bar.
“Yes boss”, he answered quickly, still smiling that smirky little smile, “Her name Miss Kat. She likee you. She want talk you”. The little guy was now standing up straight and motioning toward the girl at the bar. “She velly, velly nice”, he said continuing the pitch.
Harley just sat there, saying nothing. He had that same smirky smile on his face, head cocked to one side, looking at me. So now, Harley, the little Asian guy, and the most beautiful Asian girl I’ve ever seen are all staring at me. At this point, the rest of the bar patrons were still going about their own business, not noticing any of this...yet.
I’ll admit, I was curious...and intrigued by this vision of Oriental loveliness. Besides, I had just arrived in the Orient. Who am I to refuse such local hospitality?
“C’mon sodbuster", Harley chimed in finally, “What d’ya got to lose? Give her a break”.
“OK...OK”, I said back to Harley, “But just one drink. Then we gotta get back to the airfield”.
Before I could get the last words out of my mouth, the little man left the table and returned hand in hand with the beautiful Asian girl. She was standing right next me, staring down right into my eyes. The little man pulled up another chair for her, and she slowly sat down...her eyes still looking into mine. She had a slight smile on her bright, red lips as she lowered her gaze, closed her deep, dark eyes, and said in a quiet, little voice, “My name is Kat”. With her head still angled down, she opened her eyes and looked up at me, still smiling slightly. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were piercing. I couldn’t look away.
Harley shook his head from side to side and chuckled. Cleared his throat and took a big swig of his Singapore beer, set the bottle down and pushed himself away from the table. Placing his hand on his knees, he stood up and said, “I’m gonna get some air. I’ll be right back”. He patted me on the back of my leather flight jacket twice, turned, a walked out the nearby front door. Pulling a silver Zippo lighter from his jacket, he lit an unfiltered Camel cigarette on the way. I watched him walk out the door for a moment. A big swirl of cigarette smoke wafted back into the bar, backlit from the bare bulb just outside the doorway. I turned my head back towards Kat. She was still looking at me. It was just after midnight.
(To be continued...)
The fuselage of the Curtiss-Wright P-40 Warhawk fighter shook as the young Flying Tiger pilot shoved the throttle forward. The V-12 Allison engine roared and belched out plumes of white smoke from its twelve side mounted exhaust ports. The six ton olive drab colored aircraft lurched into motion down the grassy field in near Rangoon, Burma. The pilot’s body was pressed back against his seat as the warplane headed down the makeshift runway...quickly building speed. At 120 knots it gently lifted itself off the ground as the pilot applied only a slight bit of pressure on the stick. The P-40 shook slightly as its sharply pointed propellar hub rose, aiming the plane toward the partly cloudy, blue, morning sky. The landing gear lever was acutated, the wheels slowly folded up into the wings. The takeoff and landing flaps were retracted and the warbird was off on its mission. The pilot’s name was Jack Diddley.
I could see the Burmese coolees just below, standing near the end of the runway, waving me on my way. I turned my attention back to the instrument panel. Altimeter: 150 feet and climbing. Tachometer: 12,000 RPM’s. Engine Manifold pressure: 200 PSI. Compass: heading due West. I edged the control stick ever so slightly to the left, causing the P-40 to bank about 10 degrees. Then, lightly tapping the right rudder pedal and pulling back on the control stick...I coaxed my climbing P-40 toward a northerly heading. I could just see the grass and tree-covered foothills of Quinang Province lining the horizon through the spinning prop. The plane was passing 3000 feet, on its way to a cruising altitude today of 6000 feet. I brought the plane’s wings back level once again, bringing into view out the right side of the cockpit window the other P-40, just off my right wingtip...my new wingman: Harley Morgan. I keyed the radio switch on the control stick.
“Hey buddy...where you been?”, I asked jokingly.
After a moment of silence, the crackly reply came back, “What d’ya mean, Diddley. Don’t wait for me. That run down crate of yours barely made it off the runway!”
“Ok Harley, so it’s gonna be one of those days, huh?”
“Just another day in paradise chief. I’m free and easy and lovin’ life. 1942 is going to be a great year!”, Harley quipped. A little saying that Harley used on every flight when he was truly nervous.
It was late December, 1941.
I thought about all the conversations I had like this with Harley Morgan, in the air and on the ground. Morgan was a jokester, always poking fun at me, giving me a “bad time”. Teasing me about being a “hick sodbuster from South Dakota”. But it was always in fun, never serious. A native New Yorker and ex-airline jockey now plying his passion for flying in China. He was fun to have around. And, Morgan was comforting to have as a wingman in General Chennault’s little band of volunteer fighter pilots.
I recall one mission in particular when Harley Morgan saved my life. It wasn’t on a flying mission, it was in a bar in Singapore just before we arrived at the airbase in Burma. It was in a rustic little dive called Susie Q’s just a block from the waterfront and a short, take-your-life-in-your-hands taxi ride from the airstrip. The airstrip where me and Harley were to catch a transport flight to China...and the Chenault Flying Tiger outfit. We had a one-night layover in Singapore. Why not head to town?
It was always filled with merchant marine sailors, civilian cargo pilots, criminals, opium dealers, and hookers of every shape and size. In one corner of the smokey, smelly little bar stood an old, beat up juke box that had five records in all...78 rpm bakelite discs. It seemed to be playing the same song over and over, “My Darling Clementine” by Tex Ritter. There were no windows. The bar top ran down one side of the dingy little room, manned by a rather large, balding, round-faced, non-Asian fellow named Georgy Boy. He was big, and looked like he ate furniture for breakfast. He always wore a stained white undershirt, waist apron, and Hawaiian print shorts. There was always at big cigar stump stuck in the corner of his mouth. I never saw any smoke come from it...though you could smell it when you walked into the place. And how he came to get a name like that, I never found out. From the looks of him, I hesitated to ask. He was also the owner. Evidently, Georgy Boy acquired this Singapore night spot in a poker game many years ago. The story goes that the former owner was never heard from again after that particular poker game. The name Susie Q's was retained for marketing purposes...this joint was one of the most notorious in Singapore for being the place with "Everything for the traveler", so it said on the sign behind the bar. If you couldn't find it at Susie Q's, it didn't exist in Singapore.
Susie Q’s was off limits to the regular Navy guys that docked in Singapore. This place was just too “exotic” for the local magistrate and local fleet commander to allow that kind of fraternization. This cut down on the fights between the merchant marine sailors and the Navy sailors. And, it cut down on the Sick Bay calls for penicillin.
The place smelled of beer, cheap perfume, and urine...with a smidgeon of that burning shit and garbage odor so prevalent in this part of the orient. The sewers here were simply open ditches than ran right through town, next to the sidewalks. A pile of garbage was always smoldering somewhere nearby. The burning garbage smell was a welcome change from the rotting garbage smell that competed for “air superiority” around these parts. We were quite happy when they burned it.
Harley and I had been at Susie Q’s about 20 minutes, drinking beer. We were sitting at a small, round wooden table near the front door. Harley always preferred that location in these kinds of places, just in case.
I asked him, “...just in case of what?” “Boy”, he proceeded to lecture me, “I see I am going to have to teach you everything!"
“Well”, I said, “teach me”. “Just keep sitting there Diddley”, he said shaking his head, “...just keep sitting there”.
A few minutes later, a little Asian man came over to our table, the same one who brought us our beers. He was smiling and looking straight at me, “You know...she likee you”, he said in his best pigeon English. “She want sit by you”.
A few seconds went by with me just staring back at the little Asian man before I said, “Who likee me?”
The guy was bending over slightly at the waist, leaning toward me. He moved a little closer and spoke in my ear, “That one...over there”, motioning toward the bar a few feet away. I leaned to the side a bit to see around this guy standing in front me. And there, leaning against the bar by herself, was the most beautiful Asian girl I had ever seen. She was leaning back against the grungy bar on her elbows, her legs kind of crossed at the knees. She had long, straight black hair to the middle of her back, and bangs cut across her forehead. She was wearing a long, silk red dress that was cut up the side a little, just enough to reveal one shapely leg exposed. And, she was staring straight at me. I couldn't tell how old she was, but not much more than 18 or so.
“Her?", I asked the guy while leaning back in my chair and pointing toward the bar.
“Yes boss”, he answered quickly, still smiling that smirky little smile, “Her name Miss Kat. She likee you. She want talk you”. The little guy was now standing up straight and motioning toward the girl at the bar. “She velly, velly nice”, he said continuing the pitch.
Harley just sat there, saying nothing. He had that same smirky smile on his face, head cocked to one side, looking at me. So now, Harley, the little Asian guy, and the most beautiful Asian girl I’ve ever seen are all staring at me. At this point, the rest of the bar patrons were still going about their own business, not noticing any of this...yet.
I’ll admit, I was curious...and intrigued by this vision of Oriental loveliness. Besides, I had just arrived in the Orient. Who am I to refuse such local hospitality?
“C’mon sodbuster", Harley chimed in finally, “What d’ya got to lose? Give her a break”.
“OK...OK”, I said back to Harley, “But just one drink. Then we gotta get back to the airfield”.
Before I could get the last words out of my mouth, the little man left the table and returned hand in hand with the beautiful Asian girl. She was standing right next me, staring down right into my eyes. The little man pulled up another chair for her, and she slowly sat down...her eyes still looking into mine. She had a slight smile on her bright, red lips as she lowered her gaze, closed her deep, dark eyes, and said in a quiet, little voice, “My name is Kat”. With her head still angled down, she opened her eyes and looked up at me, still smiling slightly. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were piercing. I couldn’t look away.
Harley shook his head from side to side and chuckled. Cleared his throat and took a big swig of his Singapore beer, set the bottle down and pushed himself away from the table. Placing his hand on his knees, he stood up and said, “I’m gonna get some air. I’ll be right back”. He patted me on the back of my leather flight jacket twice, turned, a walked out the nearby front door. Pulling a silver Zippo lighter from his jacket, he lit an unfiltered Camel cigarette on the way. I watched him walk out the door for a moment. A big swirl of cigarette smoke wafted back into the bar, backlit from the bare bulb just outside the doorway. I turned my head back towards Kat. She was still looking at me. It was just after midnight.
(To be continued...)
