Will of a Tiger Read online

  Published by Open Books

  Copyright © 2019 by Qing Yang

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Interior design by Siva Ram Maganti

  Cover images © Nova flickr.com/photos/fox3nova and Ysbrand Cosijn shutterstock.com/g/ysbrand

  ISBN-13: 978-1948598132

  Contents

  Part One:

  Between Life and Death

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part Two:

  Rocky Paths

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Part Three:

  From the Ashes

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Interview with the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Part One

  Between Life and Death

  Chapter 1

  Birch Bai was in trouble. Enemy fire had crippled his P-40, and he’d struggled, hoping to fly long enough to get out of Japanese-occupied territory. He was near Dashan, a mountain town in Yunnan Province, when the sputtering engine quit. The bullet-riddled plane plummeted into an uncontrollable spin, barely giving him enough time to slide open the canopy and tumble out.

  A sharp wind rushed past him. Even wearing a helmet, he could hear the hissing of cold air as it blasted through his sheepskin-lined flight jacket. He pulled the ripcord and heard the parachute unfurl behind him. Jerked suddenly upward, the chute blossomed like an enormous white flower as the air filled it, and he began to float upon the air currents.

  Despite his repeated calls for help, none of his squadron had replied. His radio had been silent since he was shot over the target—a Japanese airfield near the border of China and Burma. His P-40 had been hammered in the engine and the cockpit as he flew through a stream of deadly fire. Afterward Danny had followed in his fighter while the other planes returned to their base.

  Having flown in combat for eight years, the thirty-year-old major was one of the top Chinese fighter pilots in the Air Force. At least we’ve destroyed the base. Now, the Japs have no easy way to replenish their supplies. Images of flaming airplanes, hangars, and runways still excited him.

  Birch aimed for a meadow the size of a football field. Thick woods made up the southern and western boundaries. Around Dashan, ancient bamboo huts were perched on the lush hillside, blending naturally with the environment. If he hadn’t been in combat, he would have enjoyed the scenery. But he didn’t have that luxury. From his airy vantage point, he noticed two armored vehicles already moving toward his wreckage.

  A sudden gust of wind pushed him to the edge of the meadow, and a tree branch caught his parachute. The cords stretched to their full length, leaving him tangled in his harness, dangling ten feet off the ground. Quickly Birch took stock of the surroundings. On the other side of the field, a Japanese ground patrol was snaking its way toward him. He had only a pistol and an extra magazine. With one swift motion, he withdrew the hooked knife from his pants pocket, stretched his lean arms, and sliced through the cords.

  Struggling to free himself, he heard the roar of a plane overhead, and a split-second later, gunshots. Danny must have seen the Japs, too. Birch looked up. The tiger-faced plane zoomed toward the enemy patrol at treetop height. The American airman’s bullets surprised the Japanese, who dove frantically into the undergrowth for cover. Dirt and rocks flew everywhere.

  “You’re too low,” Birch shouted at the top of his lungs even though he knew that Danny couldn’t hear him. “Dammit! Get the hell out of here, Danny.”

  But the P-40 didn’t retreat. It swooped low, its guns rattling. The trees quivered and the ground shuddered. The fighter plane made strafing runs and pinned the patrol down, forcing the Japanese to deal with the airplane rather than pursue the downed pilot.

  Anti-aircraft fire from the vehicles and the patrol’s machine guns sprang skyward. The explosive shells burst around Danny. Soon the sky was studded with small black puffs of smoke. The sight and sound sent chills up Birch’s spine.

  It took no more than a minute to untangle himself, but it felt like an hour. Cutting the last cord, he dropped to the ground, made a forward roll, and sprang to his feet. He unbuckled the straps from around his legs, let the harness drop, and headed toward the forest. In just a few steps, his athletic frame was swallowed by the dense woods. Soon it would be hard for the Japanese to find him.

  Before Birch had time to catch his breath, he heard a dreadful noise—a motor cutting out. Without the slightest hesitation, he spun around and rushed back. His eyes widened as he watched the P-40 crash land at the far end of the meadow. Smoke poured out of the fuselage. The deafening impact made his heart drum in a frantic rhythm.

  Danny!

  Birch sprinted toward the crash site. Danny Hardy was his best friend and his sworn brother. I’ll never leave him alone in the hands of the devil! He didn’t think he could reach Danny before the Japanese. But he had to try.

  After a few steps Birch yanked off his helmet and thick jacket. Anything slowing him down had to go. Other than his long, powerful runner’s legs, he didn’t have any advantage to win this race.

  He ran, dodging and weaving from side to side. His hand reached for his pistol. With several bursts, he raked the Japanese. His bullets hammered the enemy. One of the soldiers spun; his rifle flew off. Another doubled up.

  But there were simply too many of them…

  Dozens of Japanese chased after Birch like a swarm of killer bees. Some ran diagonally across the field, trying to block his path to the crash site. Others rushed to the downed plane. Tracers whizzed over his head. He understood their intention—to slow him down and capture him alive.

  Before long, Birch ran out of ammunition. The enemy stopped shooting, too. For a moment, the battlefield became eerily quiet. The only noise was his heavy breathing and pounding heartbeat. The Japanese surrounded him. Their rifles and bayonets glinted in the sunlight.

  The plane was still a hundred feet away. Dark smoke continued to belch from the nose of the aircraft. There was no sign of the American. Where was he? Birch’s eyes went wide before a look of panic twisted his features. Is he still inside? Injured? Dead?

  Dozens of Japanese engulfed Bi
rch. Even without a proper weapon, the Chinese pilot wouldn’t give up without a fight. He clutched the knife so tightly that his biceps bulged. Sweat glistened in his dark hair as adrenaline coursed through his body.

  Birch was taller than most of the Japanese. He twisted and turned. His leg kicked one soldier full in the chest and sent him flying. His arm shot out and smashed another attacker’s face, who slumped to the ground with a yelp of pain.

  In the interim, though, a bayonet stabbed Birch’s right thigh.

  A heavyset man on his left tried to restrain him from behind. He jabbed his elbow into the enemy’s face, giving him a bloody nose. The hands around Birch’s body loosened their hold. Meanwhile, another bayonet slashed a cut on his left arm.

  Ignoring the pain, he pounced on a skinny soldier and shoved him so hard that the little man stumbled and crashed into another Japanese soldier. As they toppled together, Birch thrust the knife into the enemy’s chest. Blood surged from the poor soul, smearing Birch’s uniform. At the same instant, the butt of a rifle smacked into the side of Birch’s head. He saw a blinding light, and then blackness swept over him. The impact threw him off the dead man and knocked him to the ground. He lay sprawled on his stomach, head ringing. Despite throbbing pain and blurred vision, he worked to push himself up, using both hands and elbows.

  It was too late. The surrounding soldiers kicked him from all directions. Air rushed out of his lungs as he collapsed onto the ground. They shoved his face into the dirt and twisted his arms behind his back, tying his hands with a thin leather strap. Then they patted him down and confiscated the pistol and his favorite leather gun belt bearing the Nationalist emblem. Finally they blindfolded him and hauled him to his feet.

  Unable to see, Birch yelled Danny’s name. Warm blood oozed from his temple and dripped down his dirt-smeared face. He was pulled by the arm, away from the crash site. He kicked hard, trying to stay in the area, hoping against hope to hear from his brother.

  More punches landed on his stomach, and a boot reached behind his knee. The sharp pain forced him to bend down. Birch clenched his jaw. He wouldn’t give his enemy the satisfaction of hearing him cry out again.

  He was dragged and shoved forward. He yanked, trying to get free from the hold. Instead, sharp fingernails dug deeper into his opened flesh. He stumbled along, trying not to focus on the pain in his arm and leg, and the ache in his head and throughout his body.

  Minutes later they stopped. Before he knew it, he was lifted by several hands and flung upward. Thump. He collided with a metallic surface. He scrambled to sit up. Holding his breath, he listened. There was a commotion in the distance and footsteps nearby. A few men climbed on board.

  His ears were now on high alert, and moments later he heard a loud thud. Someone else had been thrown onto the truck. “Danny?”

  “I’m…here.” The voice was barely a whisper.

  Birch’s breath eased but his heart was still pounding in his chest. He leaned closer. “Are you all right?”

  “Still kicking.”

  Birch could tell that Danny was hurt. “Where are you hurt? Is it serious?” But he heard no response this time. Panicked, he inched closer. “Hey, are you okay?”

  A couple of hands landed on his shoulders, wrenching him away. He jerked, shaking the ugly claws off. “Danny?” he called out, straining to hear any word from his companion. “Hang in there. Don’t give up!”

  “Shut up,” one of the Japanese growled in broken Chinese.

  “You shut up!” Birch snapped. Anger burned inside him, twisting his bruised features. Even the blindfold couldn’t obscure his rage. “Kill me if you want. That’s the only way you’ll stop me.”

  Oddly, the soldier stopped.

  It was June 1945. The Allies were winning. The Germans had already surrendered. The war against Japan was drawing close to an end. The Japanese seemed to know it was a matter of time before they would be conquered.

  Birch kept talking to Danny. Every so often he heard a short answer, but most of the time he didn’t get a response. Time stretched on and on as the truck crawled over the bumpy, serpentine road. His worry dragged him into an abyss.

  Chapter 2

  The truck came to a squeaking halt after what seemed like an eternity.

  Hands seized Birch under the arms and yanked him to his feet. Two steps later, they pushed him off the back of the vehicle. With eyes blindfolded and hands tied behind his back, he managed to half-jump and half-tumble off the truck. As he landed on the ground, he screamed, worrying about Danny being thrown from the truck, “Let me help him.” Birch scrambled to his feet, but unable to see or to reach out, he couldn’t do anything for the American. “Please! Let me give him a hand.”

  No one listened to him or cared about his plea.

  Then he heard a thud followed by Danny’s bellow of agony. The American had taken pain before; he’d been injured several times, but Birch had never heard him complain.

  “Danny?” he yelled again.

  No answer.

  Pushed and shoved, he staggered forward. He had no idea where they were taking them. Are they going to shoot us? Cut off our heads? Bury us alive? He’d heard enough horror stories to know that these were not far-fetched possibilities. Many airmen captured by the Japanese had been brutally murdered. Maybe they will stage a public execution to bolster their morale. They need it. They’re losing the war.

  “Danny?” Birch called over his shoulder.

  “Still here…”

  Danny’s voice was faint, but he wasn’t far behind.

  A few more steps and Birch heard the noise of heavy metal and creaking wood. A door opened and he was shoved inside a room. The leather strap around his wrists was removed. Ignoring the tingle from his numb fingers, he yanked off the blindfold.

  Whirling round, he tried to catch sight of Danny, but his blindfold had been on too long. Squinting, he lifted his arm to shade his eyes from the light and watched in horror as the American was tossed to the floor like a sack of trash. Then the Japanese left, locking the door behind them.

  “Danny!” Birch dropped to one knee and took the American’s right hand in his. “Where are you hurt?” He stared at his friend, checking him up and down.

  Danny lay slumped on the ground, semi-conscious. His forehead had a nasty laceration along the hairline. Dry blood matted his brown hair and trickled down his temple. Dark spots spattered two scarves around his neck. On the left breast of the flight suit, a few droplets of blood blemished the image of a winged tiger leaping out of a Victory “V.” His face was a mess—split lips, broken nose, a black eye. Midway between his left knee and ankle, a hole larger than the size of a hand was burned in his pant leg. Through the opening, the flesh was mostly pink and yellow, covered with blisters; a few small areas appeared leathery brown and black.

  “Are you…okay?” Danny’s voice was too hoarse to find much volume. His gaze shifted from Birch’s blood-smeared uniform to his battered face.

  “He’s an American?” someone said as people in the room gathered around them.

  “Yes.” Birch looked up for the first time to survey the room.

  It was a small prison cell. The unpleasant smell of dampness and unwashed body odor filled the air. A dozen prisoners stood around them, several in Chinese Nationalist Army uniforms, the rest in plain clothes. They looked haggard and gaunt. Their clothes were dirty; some were ripped and tattered; others stained with dried blood.

  “Major Danny Hardy.” Birch motioned with his hand toward the American and switched to speak in Chinese. “He’s a Flying Tiger.”

  The nickname enthralled the men. They huddled closer.

  The Flying Tigers was a feisty group of young pilots called the American Volunteer Group, formed under President Roosevelt’s executive order in 1941. In less than eight months, they’d destroyed almost three hundred Japanese aircraft and over half a million tons of Japanese shipping. With sheer determination and courage, the American Volunteer Group had turned the tables
on Japan in China’s skies. Their bravery and vital contribution had gained such respect from the Chinese that they were called the Flying Tigers, since in Chinese culture, the tiger was a symbol of extraordinary strength and vitality.

  “Wait!” said Zhou Ming, a lanky officer. He was wearing an ill-fitting Nationalist uniform. “You are Major Bai Hua? I saw your photo in a newspaper not long ago. In fact, there are several reports about you and this Flying Tiger.”

  Birch nodded.

  Zhou Ming placed a hand on Birch’s shoulder. “It’s an honor to meet you, Sir. I only wish it were in a different place.” Enthusiastically he told the inmates, “These two are fighter pilots in the Air Force. They probably killed more Japs than all of us combined.” He clicked his heels together and fired off a salute. Several men in the Nationalist Army uniform followed suit.

  Birch returned the salute. Then his gaze dropped to Danny.

  “Where is he hurt?” asked a man as thin as a stick. His voice was rough as sandpaper, contrary to his youthful appearance. He was dressed in a formal outfit. The blue one-piece garment extended to his heels. One lens of his eyeglasses was missing.

  “Not sure. His leg—”

  “Let me take a look.” The young man moved forward and squatted. Others stepped away, giving him more light. “My name is Ding Fang. Everyone calls me Mr. Ding. I’m a teacher, not a doctor. But I know a little bit about herbal medicine.” He leaned over for a closer inspection of the American’s leg. With care, he tried to bend it.

  Danny made an involuntary sound.

  “The burn is nasty. And very painful. But it will heal.” Mr. Ding frowned. “Something else is wrong. I’m afraid his leg is fractured.”

  “What can we do?” Birch asked.

  “Not much. We have no medicine, nothing with which to make a splint. I’m afraid that it’ll be up to him to recover on his own.”

  “Let’s move him to the bed,” ordered a man with the eyes of an eagle. He was in ragged peasants’ wear. Despite his shabby appearance, he exuded an air of authority and self-confidence. A long scar down one side of his face and a full beard made him seem dangerous. In fact, he’d been a fearsome man to the Japanese for years. Captain Zhang was a Communist guerilla leader.