It had began to rain and that didn't make anything better. His leather flying jacket was begining to soak through, and he was cold, damp, hungrey and a little scared. He had bailed out of his crippled P-40 over Japanese held ground, and injured his ankle.
He had come down in a stand of woods, and balled his chute up and shoved it under a downed tree. Trying to walk was painfull, and he wondered if he had broken or just sprained his joint, not that it mattered in the long run. Looking around taking stock of his plite, he spotted just what he needed. Hopping over to a small sappling not more than 10 feet high, he started to whittle away at the base with his pocket knife. Soon he had the sappling down and was closer to what he wanted. About 5 feet from the base, the sappling split into a fork, and thats what the downed pilot was after. He kept cutting with his pockert knife, and soon he had a rough but make do crutch. Standing up, he tried it out and to his great relief he could walk on it without too much pain. "Better than nothing", he told himself.
Then he saw the man watching him.
He was a small slight built man, in worn peasent clothing, with a hand cart and an ax resting on the cut wood loaded on the handcart. The pilot dropped his hand to the .45 holstered on his hip, but the Chinese man waved his hands.
"No shoot, me Chinee, no Japonee man! You American?"
"Yeah, I'm American. Who are you, and where'd you learn to speak English?"
"Me name Wu Fong," the Chinese man said. "I woodcutter from village, little way there." He pointed.
"I learn English from Mr. Birch the missionary. He had school here for little while till Japonee come. Japonee many here, you hide and we help, yes?" the woodcutter asked in his make do English.
"If you get cought helping me, they'll shoot you, you know that don't you?
The Chinese man replied in a sad tone,
"Japonee shoot many of us anyway. You hide, we come back in dark for you, yes?
The pilot hid in the dense woods with water dripping down on him from the light rain. He held the Colt .45 in his hand as the day slowly faded into evening, not knowing if he was going to be betrayed or not. Then, just after dark he heard the familiar voice of the woodcutter.
"Hey Joe, you here? Me come back with help."
The pilot stuck his head up from the bushes he was hiding in, and there was the woodcutter with a young man in his late teens, and the handcart empty of wood.
"This my number one son, he help us."
"Good evening sir, A pleasure to meet you." the son said in perfect English.
They got the pilot onto the handcart and started off down the rough dirt track. As they walked the son explained that he too had been to the missionary school, and hoped to be a teacher someday. they got to the tiny village without meeting anyone, and they got him into a back room little bigger than a closet. The pilot limped through the house on his sappling crutch, and the woodcutter was curious how he had cut the small forked tree down. The pilot took out his pocket knife and showed it to the woodcutter. A man who appretiated sharp cutting tools, the Chinese man inspected the knife carefully and with reverence. He felt the keen edge of the blade and knodded . He handed it back to the airman and bowed.
"Very nice knife. Nothing here like that."He said. "You rich man to have such knife?"
"Aw heck no," replied the pilot, "Its just a Russell Barlow, a good working knife. Lots of guys back home have them."
Over the next two days, the son went to find the head of the local Chinese insurgent forces and make arrangements to smuggle the airman back toward Kunming. Then the hour came when in the dark of night the pilot found himself on the riverbank about to board a sampan. He turned to the woodcutter.
"I wish there was something I could do for you, you've most likely saved my life. I'm gratefull to you."
"You get betta, go shoot down more Japonee men." the woodcutter told him, " Make China for Chinee again."
Then the pilot had a thought. He reached in his pocket and took out the Russell barlow knife and handed it to the woodcutter.
"I want you to have this. Its such a small thing and can't even begin to repay what you've done for me, but keep it as a gift from a friend."
The woodcutter bowed deeply to the pilot, and talked rapidly to his son in a husky voice.
"He said" translated his son, "that you honor him so much he can hardly speak of his gratitude, and that your gift is now a family treasure he will pass down to me, and I will tell my son someday of the American who fought for China, and became a friend of the family. Tonight he will burn incence for good joss to you."
There on the river bank the American pilot from the Flying Tigers and a poor Chinese woodcutter shook hands.
He had come down in a stand of woods, and balled his chute up and shoved it under a downed tree. Trying to walk was painfull, and he wondered if he had broken or just sprained his joint, not that it mattered in the long run. Looking around taking stock of his plite, he spotted just what he needed. Hopping over to a small sappling not more than 10 feet high, he started to whittle away at the base with his pocket knife. Soon he had the sappling down and was closer to what he wanted. About 5 feet from the base, the sappling split into a fork, and thats what the downed pilot was after. He kept cutting with his pockert knife, and soon he had a rough but make do crutch. Standing up, he tried it out and to his great relief he could walk on it without too much pain. "Better than nothing", he told himself.
Then he saw the man watching him.
He was a small slight built man, in worn peasent clothing, with a hand cart and an ax resting on the cut wood loaded on the handcart. The pilot dropped his hand to the .45 holstered on his hip, but the Chinese man waved his hands.
"No shoot, me Chinee, no Japonee man! You American?"
"Yeah, I'm American. Who are you, and where'd you learn to speak English?"
"Me name Wu Fong," the Chinese man said. "I woodcutter from village, little way there." He pointed.
"I learn English from Mr. Birch the missionary. He had school here for little while till Japonee come. Japonee many here, you hide and we help, yes?" the woodcutter asked in his make do English.
"If you get cought helping me, they'll shoot you, you know that don't you?
The Chinese man replied in a sad tone,
"Japonee shoot many of us anyway. You hide, we come back in dark for you, yes?
The pilot hid in the dense woods with water dripping down on him from the light rain. He held the Colt .45 in his hand as the day slowly faded into evening, not knowing if he was going to be betrayed or not. Then, just after dark he heard the familiar voice of the woodcutter.
"Hey Joe, you here? Me come back with help."
The pilot stuck his head up from the bushes he was hiding in, and there was the woodcutter with a young man in his late teens, and the handcart empty of wood.
"This my number one son, he help us."
"Good evening sir, A pleasure to meet you." the son said in perfect English.
They got the pilot onto the handcart and started off down the rough dirt track. As they walked the son explained that he too had been to the missionary school, and hoped to be a teacher someday. they got to the tiny village without meeting anyone, and they got him into a back room little bigger than a closet. The pilot limped through the house on his sappling crutch, and the woodcutter was curious how he had cut the small forked tree down. The pilot took out his pocket knife and showed it to the woodcutter. A man who appretiated sharp cutting tools, the Chinese man inspected the knife carefully and with reverence. He felt the keen edge of the blade and knodded . He handed it back to the airman and bowed.
"Very nice knife. Nothing here like that."He said. "You rich man to have such knife?"
"Aw heck no," replied the pilot, "Its just a Russell Barlow, a good working knife. Lots of guys back home have them."
Over the next two days, the son went to find the head of the local Chinese insurgent forces and make arrangements to smuggle the airman back toward Kunming. Then the hour came when in the dark of night the pilot found himself on the riverbank about to board a sampan. He turned to the woodcutter.
"I wish there was something I could do for you, you've most likely saved my life. I'm gratefull to you."
"You get betta, go shoot down more Japonee men." the woodcutter told him, " Make China for Chinee again."
Then the pilot had a thought. He reached in his pocket and took out the Russell barlow knife and handed it to the woodcutter.
"I want you to have this. Its such a small thing and can't even begin to repay what you've done for me, but keep it as a gift from a friend."
The woodcutter bowed deeply to the pilot, and talked rapidly to his son in a husky voice.
"He said" translated his son, "that you honor him so much he can hardly speak of his gratitude, and that your gift is now a family treasure he will pass down to me, and I will tell my son someday of the American who fought for China, and became a friend of the family. Tonight he will burn incence for good joss to you."
There on the river bank the American pilot from the Flying Tigers and a poor Chinese woodcutter shook hands.
