Manchurian Gambit by R. K. Olson

Manchurian Gambit by R. K. Olson

On September 18, 1931, Japanese troops staged an explosion near the South Manchurian Railway outside Mukden (now Shenyang), China and blamed Chinese forces. This “false flag” operation, called the “Mukden Incident”, provided Japan with an excuse to invade Manchuria. escalating tensions that contributed to the start of World War II.

“You can do better,” said a brown-skinned man with an American accent to a blonde-haired man sitting across a small table from him. His tone was low, but it had an edge to it.

The restaurant had moved tables and chairs out onto the sidewalk so the lunchtime diners could enjoy the pleasant September weather. They were the only two non-Chinese in the hot pot restaurant. Both wore leather fight jackets without insignia. The brown-skinned man was crowding thirty and the older of the two men.

“I’ll match Boeing’s deal . . . whatever it is,” said the blonde-haired man. His head and jaw were square and sat on top of a square, squat body. He leaned forward in his seat, forearms resting on the scarred wooden tabletop.

“Can you beat it? If not, we’re done here,” said the brown-skinned man standing up. He was of medium height, compact, with broad shoulders and all leather and iron. A broom-handled Mauser poked out of a shoulder holster under his sheepskin lined black leather jacket. His shirt and pants were tan British khakis. He stared down at his table companion with dark eyes and skin stretched taut over cheekbones and jaw.

The blonde man bristled and flushed.

He’s never been spoken to by a black man like this. Barnes was about to call me “boy”.

Barnes swallowed and ran his hand through his blonde hair.

“Jackie Boyd, can I call you Jackie? Please, sit down. You saw for yourself what the Curtiss Hawk II can do. Boeing’s planes fly like tubs. Tell me what this Manchurian warlord – Zhang –  wants and I’ll fly it up from Hong Kong. The planes are sitting on the dock as we speak. You can take it out on a test run.”

“Do better on price,” said Jackie as he sat down.

The blonde man fumbled his chopsticks. One fell on the floor.

Jackie dropped a mushroom into the communal hot pot’s roiling hot, spicy broth. He added bits of pork and watched Barnes spear a small piece of meat with his one chopstick.

“We’ll beat whatever Boeing proposes,” said the blonde-man in a whisper. He leaned over the table again, avoiding the boiling hot pot. His voice was tight. “Jackie Boyd, you drive a hard bargain.” He sat back and waited for Boyd to say something.

Boyd pulled a piece of pork from the bubbling pot and chewed thoughtfully, watching the Curtiss Aircraft salesman sitting across from him.

“Barnes, here’s the deal. Your price will include spare parts. I need propellers, engines, collapsible fuel tanks, Morse Code radios and American standard parachutes. I’ll also need a flight instructor to help me train pilots,” said Boyd.

Barnes sighed and raised his eyes to the sky.

“We want the planes sixty days after contract signing and delivered unmarked. Payment is $70,000 in silver payable at the Manchurian Provincial Bank.”

Barnes flinched. His second chopstick clattered onto the ground. He didn’t pick them up.

“Has Zhang signed-off on the deal?

“You’ll get paid, Barnes. If you’re selected over Boeing.”

Boyd could see the mental calculations firing behind the blue eyes across the cafe table from him.

“Can you tell me this, Jackie. What are the chances I land this deal and beat Boeing to the punch?”

“Fifty-fifty.”

Barnes sniffed and cleared his throat. He changed the subject, finishing the lunch by sharing news about Washington politics, President Hoover and the opening of the new Empire State Building while Boyd ate.

“It’s a hundred stories high! Biggest in the world! I was in New York this summer. It’s a beaut!”

Boyd’s right index finger tapped the tabletop without a sound. He stared at Barnes and measured the man. What spurred a man to become a salesman for an American aircraft company selling planes to Chinese warlords? The money must be good. Barnes had mentioned he was a barnstormer in the States. He didn’t mention if he had any combat experience. He was too young to have fought in the Great War.

“We done here?” said Boyd.

“Hold on a minute. Please. I’m curious how a Negro learned to fly. You learned to fly in the Great War with the French?”

“I won dogfights over the trenches for France. They gave me a chance to be a pilot. My country didn’t. America didn’t want a Negro pilot. I fly for myself now. The highest bidder gets my services. I’m the best damn pilot money can buy around here.

Me, an Alabama sharecropper’s son flying planes in China? Who could ever have imagined that?

Barnes leaned back in his chair as if the weight of Boyd’s words drove him backwards. A railroad whistle cut Barnes off as he opened his mouth to say something. Barnes flinched. Three more whistles followed, each getting progressively more distant.

“How does a Japanese-owned railroad get built in the middle of a Chinese city like Mukden?” asked Barnes.

“It works. Japan runs the South Manchuria Railway and has a couple Japanese districts here in Mukden,” said Boyd. “We done?”

A stir in the crowded street broke the flow of foot and cart traffic outside the restaurant.

“Jackie Boyd!” shouted a voice from the crowd. Boyd kept his face impassive and didn’t turn around.

Four Japanese soldiers brushed civilians aside to create a space for an older, lean, narrow shouldered Japanese man in a tailored dark wool suit and white silk cravat. The soldiers wore the standard mustard-colored wool top and trousers with puttees. Their flat-topped hats were soft and round with the Imperial Star. Each carried a bolt-action Arisaka rifle.

It flashed through Boyd’s mind that each rifle held five rounds in the clip.

The older Japanese man beamed and strode to Boyd with his hand outstretched.

“Good to see you!” said the Japanese man in perfect English, shaking Boyd’s hand and bowing. He had a hatchet face and slicked back graying hair. His face carried a wide smile that didn’t reach his searching eyes. The four Japanese soldiers formed a semi-circle around the older Japanese man and stared at Boyd with a peasant dullness in their eyes.

Boyd introduced Barnes to Mr. Sato. Barnes stood and said he had an appointment to attend to and stepped past the Japanese soldiers and melted into the stream of traffic in the streets.

“I hope I didn’t scare him away,” chuckled Sato.

Boyd watched Barnes vanish into the crowd of Chinese, Japanese, Koreans and Russians in the streets doing business in this central, older section of Mukden.

Sato sat down in the vacated seat and offered Boyd a Camel cigarette from a fresh pack.

“Camels? American?” said Boyd. He raised an eyebrow.

“My favorite,” Sato lit Boyd’s cigarette and his own. The match flared and the flame reflected in the Japanese man’s dark eyes. Boyd observed Sato’s lungs expand, sucking in the white smoke slowly, savoring the tobacco.

“Still training local pilots and ferrying supplies between Mukden and Harbin for Warlord Zhang Xueliang’s little air force, I see. Buying more planes?” Boyd ignored the question.

“Still pretending to be a railroad executive of the South Manchuria Railway?” said Boyd. Boyd tilted his head back and blew a long stream of smoke to the sky.

Sato grinned. “Someday we can discuss your side business of transporting opium, but not today . . .”

Yelling from the narrow street cut Sato off in mid-sentence. The street was only wide enough for a single car to pass. Two more Japanese soldiers came into Boyd’s view, using rifle butts to chivvy a shackled Chinese man forward as the crowd parted to let them pass. Sato excused himself and stopped and spoke to the two soldiers.

He dropped into the chair across from Boyd again and smiled. “A thief getting his just reward. It’s good to see more law and order. The Chinese are too – what is the idiom? Wishy-washy.”

Boyd knew the shackled man was as good as dead. There was nothing anyone could do. The Japanese were getting bolder, even outside their enclaves in the city.

One of Sato’s soldiers stepped behind Boyd and stood on his blindside. Boyd could smell the soldier’s dried perspiration. It sliced through the menagerie of other smells in the air and caught in the back of Boyd’s throat.

“Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Planes. Planning to purchase Curtiss Hawks? Or going with Boeing?”

“Not my decision.”

“Oh, come now! Warlord Zhang Xueliang listens to you.” Sato smiled, causing an eruption of laugh lines around his mouth. To Boyd, looking into Sato’s eyes was like staring into the business end of a double-barreled shotgun.

Sato leaned back in the chair and chuckled. “You’ve done well for yourself, Jackie. I mean, for a Negro. Who could have imagined a black man achieving your level of responsibility and respect? Don’t the Chinese call you Heisen Pilot? Dark Pilot?”

“I only make recommendations. I don’t decide on what planes to purchase, if we even buy anything or not.”

Sato sighed. “You are a humble man, Jackie.”

He gently patted both sides of his head to ensure none of his slicked back hair was out of place. Then, he brushed the front of his suit jacket with his right hand.

Boyd wanted to leave. The greasy cooking smells, mixed with body order, cigarette smoke and the bay rum Sato was wearing combined to make Boyd nauseous.

Boyd stood and dropped his half-smoked cigarette onto the stone floor and ground it out with the heel of his boot.

“Thanks for the smoke.” Boyd noticed the Curtiss salesman hadn’t picked up the tab for lunch. He shook his head and fished in his khaki pants for a few coins to pay the bill.

Sato waved a hand, and two soldiers stepped in front of Boyd, stopping his exit.

“Best not to buy any more planes, eh?” said Sato, cheerfulness gone from his voice. “Deliver my message to your warlord. Zhang Xueliang”

Boyd paused, standing face-to-face with the soldiers.

“Remember, we’re not all that important.” Sato waved his hand again, and the soldiers stood stiffly a moment longer before they let Boyd push his way between them.

He slowed his steps, so it didn’t look like he was hurrying. He looked back through the crowd once, and Sato still sat at the restaurant table like a judge behind the bench passing out judgement. His soldiers formed a semi-circle around him, which kept Sato separate from the crowd in the street as the sun dipped in the sky scattering patchy sunlight across the multicolored crowds that were like squirming beasts writhing through the city of Mukden.

That was a different Sato. This new version was flexing his muscles more and hiding less behind a smiling face.

What changed?

Boyd walked on, not acknowledging the stares from the throngs elicited by his black skin. That morning he had used the telegraph system to wire most of his five hundred dollars a month in silver to his account at the Credit Suisse Bank in Switzerland. He was building a sizable sum but still far from what he’d need to realize his dream of a luxurious life on the French Riviera with enough money to keep people away.

Boyd slipped through the crowd among the shops with gutted pigs and chickens hanging in the windows fronting the narrow alleys. The gutters in front of the butcher shops ran with the blood of the gutted animals. The buzz of the flies was audible over the street noises. He passed several courtyards in this part of the old city tucked behind tall, shady trees and high moss-covered walls.

As the day wore on, clouds covered the sun, and more sellers carrying their wares on their backs, wagons and handcarts crammed into the streets. Boyd took his time stopping at market stalls and poking his head into a few shops. He had a few hours before his next meeting.

He passed the Mukden Palace, which resembled a smaller version of Beijing’s Forbidden City. Early in its history — in the 1400s – it served as the Chinese imperial palace.

He walked through the old central part of the city. To the west was the modern Japanese operated railroad. The railroad was a Japanese investment and it had transformed this area in Mukden, with the construction of modern buildings and the installation of electric lights. Other Japanese investments here included Japanese-owned textile mills, metalworking factories and coal and grain storage facilities. He raised his head and in the distance could see the Japanese army barracks on a slight rise and the sandbag fortified positions around the train station.

The sun was on its downward slide when Boyd came in view of the Xiaoximen, or Small Western Gate. He could smell nearby Lake Liutiao and feel a dampness in the air.

Near the gate, he came to a larger building with a gabled roof and upturned eaves. Ceramic ridge beasts to ward off evil sat on the building’s roof and were silhouetted against a twilight sky. The red wooden building had yellow accents and featured glazed tiles with a stylized dragon motif framing the front entrance. A ten-foot wall surrounded a courtyard.

A servant with a white jacket and white gloves let Boyd in through a gate in the wall of carved stone blocks and guided him to the kitchen entrance. It irked Boyd to come in this way, but that’s how the Gray Dragon wanted it done.

She didn’t want people to see a Negro coming into her home.

Shadows lengthened, and Boyd glimpsed servants preparing dinner while others carried boxes and wheeled wooden crates into the courtyard. Another white-coated female servant ushered Boyd into a large reception hall. 

Red and gold silk curtains framed lattice windows around the room. Embroidered wall hangings to ward off the night’s chill decorated the walls. He stood in the middle of the room and observed a heavy, carved and lacquered chair and a small table at one end of the room. A servant came in on quiet feet and lit the oil lamps along the wall. A warm yellow glow reflected off the porcelain vases arranged along all four walls of the room.

A small, bent gray-haired woman entered the room followed by a white gloved servant carrying a tea tray. The gray-haired woman waved a hand at Boyd and plopped down onto the lacquered chair with a grunt. The servant put the tea tray on the small table next to the chair. Then she poured a cup for the old woman and another for Boyd. She bowed and left the room.

The gray-haired lady took a sip of tea and smacked her lips. Shadow covered half her lined and wrinkled face. She gave a slight grimace.

“Not hot enough for me. Boyd, what do you have for me? Are my son’s generals quaking in their boots? Are we buying more planes?” said the hunched old woman in precise, clipped British boarding school English.

Madame Zhang, the warlord’s mother, referred to as the Gray Dragon, leaned forward in her chair, lifting her chin and opening her watery eyes wide to stare at Boyd.

Boyd stepped forward and plucked his cup off the table. The cup’s warmth was comforting. She didn’t offer him a seat.

“Ma’am, the Japs are getting bolder. Their soldiers are beating Chinese citizens in the open. I saw it happen again today while I was with Sato.

“Sato! What’s the evil man want?”

“To know how many planes your son is buying. I told him it wasn’t my decision.”

“Then what did Sato do?”

“He threatened me.”

“Ho ho! Better be nice to Sato. He’s becoming an important man to stay on the right side of.”

“Too late for that. Here’s a copy of my airplane purchase recommendation to your son.”

The Gray Dragon folded the paper length-wise and slipped it up a sleeve of her thick embroidered robe.

She drank the rest of her tea through brown teeth and placed the teacup on the table. She motioned to Boyd to fill her cup again. He tipped the teapot over to allow a narrow stream of hot water to splash into her cup.

“Chiang Kai-shek thinks only of himself. His plan to consolidate all the warlord armies into one big Chinese army is a power grab,” said the old woman staring into her cup. “If the Japanese attack, we are to retreat and give up Manchuria and fall back to the west? This is Chiang Kai-shek’s great consolation strategy?

“Will the Japanese attack?”

She ignored his question.

“Within a fortnight, Chiang Kai-shek will command the combined Chinese forces.” She rubbed her rheumy eyes and looked at Boyd. “My son, the warlord, is very stupid.”

A servant silently came into the room and handed Boyd a fist-sized leather pouch.

“For services rendered and something extra for the opportunity to practice my English with a native speaker.”

“Are you leaving the city?

“Correct. Tonight. Cheerio, my good black fellow and best of luck.”

She used the carved armrests of her chair to push herself tottering to her feet. She nodded at Boyd and shuffled out of the room into a darkened hallway where Boyd soon lost sight of her.

Tonight? She knows something? Is she warning me?

In the courtyard, servants were stuffing the Gray Dragon’s Buick Series 60 Special touring luxury model automobile with boxes and suitcases. The car was black and looked sleek and fast. The hood was up and Boyd poked his head in and saw this was one of the new models with a straight eight-cylinder engine and a three-speed manual transmission. The automobile had extra chrome accents and sweeping fenders, with dual side-mounted spares. Her other car, a Buick convertible, was parked in the converted stables.

Retreating in style. I guess this money-making arrangement is over for me.

The courtyard gate clanged with the sound of metal scraping metal as a servant escorted Boyd through the gate.

Outside the gate, he ducked into an alley and shucked a cigarette out of a small cardboard box. It was a cheap Chinese cigarette. He lit the cigarette and sucked short and quick, exhaling a small round puff of smoke.

The last time he had seen his father he had laughed at Boyd’s idea to be a pilot. He remembered his father’s words: “No Negro will ever be a pilot. We are feet-on-the-ground people.”

Boyd left home that night without saying goodbye and hopped a tramp steamer to France to become a pilot.

Someday I’ll land my plane right on Main Street in the hick town I was raised in.

Even as he said it, he knew he’d never do it.

It was 2130 according to his wristwatch. He wanted to hitch a ride to the airfield tonight. It was safer there.

He headed back toward the western gate, or Xiaoxmen, near the bridge over a drainage ditch near Lake Liutiao. Xiaoximen marked the western boundary of Mukden’s old walled city.

A wooden watchtower perched on top of the wall, while ramparts and battlements flanked the gate. The gate’s vaulted archway was wide and tall enough for four camels walking abreast. The gate door was reinforced with iron studs and closed at night or during emergencies.

Beyond the stone gate, the terrain opened onto unpaved roads, canal ditches, and low-rise structures, including warehouses, military checkpoints, and small inns catering to travelers and traders. The cobblestoned and tarmacked road leading to the gate was filling with people milling about with anxious faces, pushing carts or carrying their belongings. They were leaving like the Gray Dragon.

A squad of Japanese soldiers pushed the crowds of Chinese to the sides of the narrow streets as they bulled their way ahead in the shadowy lantern light. Boyd ducked into an alley followed by a shout from the Japanese soldiers.

The alley reeked of urine and rotten garbage. Boyd jogged its length and came out on a small side street where two Japanese soldiers shouted and pointed at him. He turned and ran down a side street, throwing himself into another stinking alley. He ran until he saw the Japanese soldiers at the end of the alley waiting for him. He spun around to go back the way he came, and more Japanese soldiers plugged that exit. Boyd stopped running and gulped air to slow his breathing.

Four Japanese soldiers with rifles at hip height surrounded and escorted him out of the alley. The Japanese lieutenant in charge of the detail pulled himself away from the building he was leaning on. He smiled, showing strong white teeth in the darkness. He holstered his pistol and waved at Boyd to follow him. A rifle poked him in the back and the lieutenant removed Boyd’s pistol from its holster.

Six Japanese infantrymen surrounded Boyd in silence, guiding him down two streets and over one until they ushered Boyd into the glass-front headquarters building for the South Manchuria Railway. The building blazed with electric light and sandbags lined either side of the entryway. A train steamed on a spur track, its boiler hissing and popping.

They pushed Boyd through the main doorway and deposited him in an opulent office with walnut paneling, leather chairs, and a couch. Sato sat at the far end of the room behind a large lacquered dark wood desk. He was signing documents and didn’t look up when Boyd was ushered into the room. The lieutenant placed Boyd’s Mauser on a small table near the door.

Sato wore a different suit from the one he had on earlier in the day. The white cravat was the same, and his hair was still slicked back and in place.

After a minute, Sato looked up and gave a thin smile. He speared Boyd with his eyes.

“Jackie Boyd! We meet twice in the same day. How fortunate,” said Sato. The electric light bulbs gave off a glaring, harsh light. The four soldiers and the lieutenant saluted Sato and filed out of the room.

“Having tea with the Gray Dragon again? You are a naughty boy. Selling her information on the sly. Doesn’t Zhang pay you enough?” Sato grinned. The white light of the room’s light bulb showed Sato’s lined face in high relief.

Boyd stared at Sato and said nothing.

“What is the idiom? “Cat got your tongue?” Sato motioned to a leather chair in front of his desk. “Please sit down.”

“What do you want?” Boyd sat down.

“Ah, the cat was unsuccessful in getting your tongue! Cigarette?” Sato lit a Camel cigarette. Boyd shook his head no. He wanted to get out of here but was also curious about what Sato wanted.

Sato locked eyes with Boyd. “Here’s my proposition. Spy for me, as you did for the Gray Dragon. Someone in your position would be useful to me. I’ll pay you more than what you were getting from that nasty old lady.”

Boyd opened his mouth to respond, and Sato cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Think about it and get me an answer within the next two days.”

The door opened behind Boyd, and the smiling lieutenant stood in the office door threshold.

“Oh, look at the time! Good night, Jackie Boyd.”

Boyd rose to his feet, feeling weary and bone tired. He grabbed his pistol and followed the lieutenant outside, where a dozen Japanese soldiers looked Boyd up and down. The lieutenant snapped an order, and the soldiers scurried away in the darkness. The soldiers all had rifles and were equipped for combat with extra ammunition and grenades. The lieutenant nodded to Boyd and went back into the building, leaving Boyd alone.

Boyd’s mouth was dry, and sweat plastered his shirt to his back.

You don’t say no to a man like Sato.

Boyd started walking east toward the room he kept in Mukden. It was twenty past ten pm and Boyd wanted to sleep.

Passing along gossip to an old lady wasn’t a big deal. Sharing information with the Japanese? That was different.

An explosion behind him near the railroad tracks of the Southern Manchurian Railway startled Boyd. In the darkness he couldn’t see where the explosion was, but he could see swarms of Japanese soldiers in full kit setting up a defense perimeter around the railway office behind the sandbags piled against the building.

Chinese soldiers tramped down the street toward the commotion. Two Ford Model T automobiles with the roofs ripped off and modified with Browning Automatic Rifles mounted in the back rambled down the narrow streets toward the railroad station in support of the Chinese infantry. Boyd, in the middle of these two groups, worked his way back to the Gray Dragon’s courtyard.

A padlock secured the gate, and nobody appeared to be in the courtyard. Boyd jumped up and pulled himself over the ten-foot wall and dropped to the other side. In the courtyard, it was quiet and peaceful. Boyd took a moment to collect his thoughts and then jogged to the converted stables and found the Buick Convertible.

Still here!

The cream colored Buick featured a long hood squared off on the front end for the straight-eight-cylinder engine, dual side-mounted spares, and a rumble seat tucked behind the main cabin. The top was down. He slid in behind the wheel onto the smooth leather seats. He spent a moment looking for a way to start the car before noticing it used an ignition pedal.

He turned on the ignition switch and shifted the car into neutral. He set the choke and depressed the starter pedal to the right of the clutch, engaging the starter motor. The carburetor kicked in, and the engine purred to life.

I wish my aircraft engines were this smooth.

He let the engine warm up as he rummaged through tools scattered across work benches in the converted garage until he found a sledgehammer.

On the third sledgehammer blow, he snapped the padlock arm and opened the gate.

Boyd backed the Buick up and exited the Gray Dragon’s compound, nosing through the gate and into the narrow street, dodging Chinese soldiers and carts in the mixed moonlight. He honked the horn, scattering people out of his way.

Get to airfield. Safer there.  

Ahead was a Chinese-manned British Vickers Crossley armored car firing its domed turret mounted twin Vickers 7.7 mm machine guns toward the Japanese position. Machine gun flashes reflected off the riveted surface of the chunky armored car.

The street was too narrow with the armored car in the way, so Boyd turned right onto a rutted dirt road and traveled a block before turning left and crashing into a Model T with a mounted Browning Automatic Rifle in the back. Boyd cut the wheel and headed over one more street and found a wide and uncrowded avenue. He shifted and increased his speed over the cobblestones.

Along the way, two Chinese soldiers hopped into the rumble seat. Both had Czech-designed ZB-26 light machine guns and surplus German “potato masher” stick grenades. They grinned at Boyd.

They want to get out of here too.

Muzzle flashes ahead were followed by bullets smashing into the convertible.

Left hand on the wheel, he held his pistol in the right. He aimed the big cream-colored convertible at the handful of Japanese soldiers blocking his way in the street and hunched low in the seat. Hemmed in on both sides, straight-ahead was his only option. The two Chinese soldiers in the rumble seat sprayed a burst of machine gun fire and tossed grenades out of the Buick as it crashed through a makeshift barrier of furniture and old crates. The Japanese soldiers scattered. Bullets smashed the windshield and pock-marked the Buick as Boyd roared past.

The Japanese soldiers were in front of them, blocking the path west, but they also appeared to be coming up behind Boyd from the east.

Boyd found a brief, open spot of road and kicked up gravel, shooting free of the crowd of and getting to the Liutiao Bridge.

Forced to slow to a crawl to cross the bridge, Boyd could see Lake Liutiao and the train track were off to his right, visible in the darkness because of the electric lights on Japanese railway buildings and sheds. Boyd kept his Mauser out and waved it at the people to stop them from hanging on the car. The two soldiers in the back pushed people off the sides of the Buick.

On the other side of the bridge the road was rutted and potholed. The rough road and difficulty seeing at night, even with the headlamps on, slowed Boyd down and rattled his teeth.

Ahead a sliver of light morphed into a large oil lantern, giving off a blossom of yellow lamplight as Boyd drew closer.

A group of Chinese soldiers materialized in the lantern’s glow. The half dozen soldiers blocked the road at this checkpoint and pointed rifles at Boyd. It was like being in front of a firing squad.

Boyd eased his foot off the accelerator and lurched to a stop. He raised his hands in the air. A soldier motioned with his rifle for Boyd to get out. Boyd tried the simple Chinese words he’d learned: “Zhang” “Heisen”.

The two soldiers with the machine guns spoke with the soldiers at the checkpoint. Five soldiers with unsmiling faces kept Boyd in their rifle sights.

A soldier took Boyd’s pistol, his Swiss-made Omega pilot’s wristwatch and then inspected the Buick convertible. He tested the seat. He opened the hood and gazed for a moment at the powerful eight-cylinder engine before slamming the hood down.

Dust coated Boyd, and despite the cool September night, he was sweating.

The soldier smiled and laughed. All the soldiers piled in and gave Boyd a wave while keeping their rifles trained on him. Boyd’s two passengers with submachine guns stayed in the Buick. They drove away west and waved to Boyd leaving the checkpoint unguarded.

Boyd shook his head and cursed. He started walking the last three miles to the airfield.

Soon, Boyd observed the orange smudge of a campfire ahead. He slid down the embankment into a drainage ditch, soaking his boots. Then he moved out into a dark field of waist high millet. In the middle of the dark field, no one could see him. He gave the campfire at the checkpoint a wide berth.

He thought it was a Chinese checkpoint, but the swirling nature of this ragged fighting was confusing. Once beyond the checkpoint’s light, he angled his way back toward the road. He paused as he got closer, straining his ears for any sound in the settled darkness of the cloudy night.

He froze when voices from the road floated down to him. A flashlight snapped on, and a Japanese voice mumbled something.

Japanese reconnaissance team? This close to the airfield?

The clouds thinned out enough so Boyd could make out two men on the road with a motorcycle and sidecar. One man leaned his rifle against the sidecar and walked down the road with the flashlight. Boyd listened to his stream of urine splashing on the ground.

He scrambled up the embankment and grabbed the rifle slamming the butt into the head of the Japanese soldier with the flashlight. He sank to the ground with a groan. Boyd heard the other soldier exclaim and start running. Boyd turned and fired three rounds from the rifle. One hit the man in the gut like a punch. He stumbled to a seated position and then rolled onto his side. Boyd hopped on the British-made Norton motorcycle.  The soldier he’d shot was fumbling trying to get his pistol out of its holster. Boyd squeezed off a round into the soldier’s head.

He flipped the motorcycle’s fuel and ignition on and opened the throttle before giving it two good kicks on the starter pedal, and the motorcycle roared to life.

If the Japanese attack, the airfield will be a key target. The thought left an icy knot in the pit of his stomach. Flying out was his best option to get away from here.

He checked his watch for the time and then remembered his wristwatch was gone. It reminded him his Mauser pistol was gone too.

He motored his way on the road to the airfield and gazed across the open ground spilling onto the runway. The smell of wood smoke was in the air. Clouds smothered the moon, and the night wrapped the airfield in a dark, heavy shroud.

He took a deep breath and waited for the clouds to move and let the moonlight flood the flat ground around the airfield.

Boyd  got off the motorcycle and grabbed the rifle. The motorcycle was too much of a target. He crouched down in a slight depression. He needed to know a sentry wouldn’t shoot him. His black face was an asset now because it made easy to recognize.  

Run, Jackie Boyd, run!

Boyd ran toward the airfield yelling, “Zhang”, the warlord’s name. Ahead in the dark, he saw people moving about. A wide-eyed Chinese recruit stood outside the airfield, rifle waist high, staring at the scene of a black man running toward him, saying something in English.

“Don’t shoot!” yelled Boyd as he raced past the sentry. The sentry was a farm boy impressed into service. His uniform was too big and flapped around his legs, making his clothes rustle in the wind, like a scarecrow. He hesitated, not understanding English. Then he shouldered his bolt action Hanyang 88 Rifle and then lowered it again.

A truckload of Chinese soldiers rumbled by, cutting Boyd off from the sentry’s line of sight.

He could see lanterns bobbing toward him from the airfield. He called out waving his arms.

Lieutenant Liu, who spoke English and knew Boyd, marched forward carrying a lantern.

“Lieutenant Liu! Better get these birds in the air at first light. The Japs are coming” said Boyd.

Liu looked at his wristwatch. He showed it to Boyd. It was past midnight.

“What did you see?” asked Liu in halting English.

“It’s a mess. There is fighting in the streets. Explosions. it’s coming this way.”

Lieutenant Liu looked nineteen years old. He shouted a sharp order, his voice cracking, to his squad to man the rifle pits along the airfield’s southern perimeter

Boyd hustled toward the planes and the hangar.

Dawn is at 5 am. We need daylight to fly Got to ready the planes and get them out. Do we have time before the Japanese get here?

An image of the Gray Dragon passed through his mind. Her packing up the house made sense now, but how did she know?

“More lanterns! Get these plane ready to fly at first light! Come ‘on!”  said Boyd, waving his hands at a group of pilots and mechanics smoking cigarettes by the hangar. Just then, the gray-haired airfield commander pulled up on a motorcycle and snapped an order to his men.

Mechanics and pilots swarmed over the planes refueling, tightening lines and running through safety checks in the lantern light. Boyd had a moment of pride well up inside him for an instant. He taught these men the process and procedures and drilled them hard. The aircrews had hated the drills, but now it was paying off. They had a chance to get these planes flying and out of Japanese hands.

It was a small, mixed squadron of planes, including Caudron C.59s, the all metal Junkers K 53s, Nieuport-Delage NiD 29 fighters, de Havilland DH.60 Moths, and British Avro 504s. Except for the NiD 29s, the planes were used for reconnaissance and training.

They worked through the early morning hours listening to the rifle fire and the distinctive  hard popping sound of German-made Bergmann M1920 submachine gunsused by the Japanese. A growing stream of people crowded the road past the airfield, leaving the city with eyes wide and carrying their pots and pans, spare clothes and other household items in blankets slung across their shoulder. They jabbered about the Japanese being right behind them.

The people would emerge from the darkness, tramping into the shadowed light cast off by the airfield’s oil lanterns. Then, as they continued forward, the darkness swallowed them on the other side of the airfield, and they disappeared. The airfield had transformed into an island of light in a sea of darkness.

It was all confused. Boyd was told that the Japanese had faked a bombing and blamed the Chinese as an excuse to go to war with China over Manchuria.

What Boyd knew for sure was the planes were ready. He tapped his wrist with two fingers, indicating a wristwatch. A mechanic held up his watch in the flickering lamplight. It was a quarter-past four in the morning.

During the chaotic night of getting the planes ready to fly at first light, Barnes, the Curtiss salesman, jogged onto the airfield. Boyd had put him to work helping with safety checks.

The airfield commander, a tall, thin man with a thatch of gray hair under his cap, issued sidearms to the pilots and mechanics. The sound of gunfire sounded closer.

This was Chiang Kai-shek’s consolidation plan? Run from the enemy?

Two armored cars rumbled onto the airfield, and the dome of one slammed open and the driver popped up. Using his hands more than words, the driver talked with the gray-haired airfield commander. The commander shouted orders, and pilots and mechanics started firing up the planes to warm them up.

“What’s going on?” asked Barnes, running over to Boyd.

Before Boyd could reply, a warlord soldier grabbed his arm and pulled him in front of the airfield commander. Barnes followed with his face wrapped in concern.

“You fly. Keep Japs back,” said the airfield commander in English to Boyd. He pointed at the Nieuport-Delage NiD 29s biplane fighters as he spoke.

Boyd hesitated. He wanted to get out in one piece to spend the francs he was squirreling away in a Swiss bank.

The airfield commander saw the hesitation in Boyd’s eyes and pulled out his C96 Mauser and placed the gun to Boyd’s temple. “Damn best pilot?” said the commander.

“Whoa! I signed on to train. Not fly combat missions,” said Boyd.

“What’s going on?” said Barnes with a tight voice.

“You fly,” said the commander. Boyd could feel the coolness of the gun barrel on his skin.

“Looks like I’m flying,” said Boyd. He locked eyes with the airfield commander. “Barnes, he wants me in the air to slow the Japanese pursuit planes down.”

“Jesus,” whispered Barnes.

The commander shoved his pistol into Boyd’s holster under his sheep-skin lined leather jacket and ordered two rifle-armed, scowling soldiers to escort Boyd to a plane.

The plane was a NiD 29, a single-seat biplane fighter with a streamlined fuselage and a powerful Hispano-Suiza V-8 engine.

“Barnes, get out of here while you can,” said Boyd, over his shoulder.

“Jesus, I’m a barnstormer.” Barnes licked his dry lips. “Hell, it isn’t even light enough to fly yet.”

“No choice.”

One soldier said something sharp in Chinese and crosschecked his rifle into Boyd’s back. Boyd stumbled forward. He heard the bolt actions of the Chinese soldiers’ rifles being slid into place.

He  climbed into the cockpit of a NiD 29 like a condemned man. It had a damp smell, and the seat was hard. Across the tarmac, Fat Chou, one of Boyd’s pilot trainees, gave him the thumbs up from the cockpit of the second fighter.

He thinks this is a glorious adventure in the sky. I just want to stay alive.

The Junker 53 and de Havilland DH.60 Moths were warming up. All the planes would head west to meet up with Chiang Kai-shek’s Kuomintang (KMT) Army  — at least that was the plan. Boyd could hear the Japanese getting closer. It would be dicey to get airborne and stay out of rifle rage. The sun rimmed the horizon and lanced in from the east, blinding Boyd for a second.

Hell, this is a crap-shoot, at best.

Boyd opened the throttle slightly and set the mixture to rich. He checked the dual magnetos and signaled to the mechanic to rotate the propeller as Boyd hand pumped fuel into the cylinders.

“Contact!” yelled Boyd. He switched the magneto switch to the on position. The mechanic gave a mighty swing to the propeller, and the Hispano-Suiza engine roared to life.

To the east, Boyd watched the rifle flashes getting nearer. He couldn’t see the end of the runway in the mottled pre-dawn light, but from the increasing chaos around him, he needed to get airborne fast.

He bumped his way down the runway more by feel than sight. Picking up speed, he goosed the NiD 29 into a fast climb, pulling back on the stick with an open throttle. He stayed in the climb until he was above any rifle fire.

Fly, Jackie Boyd, fly!

Boyd loved that instant when gravity was vanquished, and a delicious moment of weightlessness descended on the pilot. He never grew tired of it. He felt the weight of the world disappear from his shoulders.

For an instant, he was free. It didn’t matter that he was a black man. This plane was his world, and he was king. Nothing mattered in this kingdom except your skill. He was the best damn pilot in China, and people paid for his services in gold and silver. He smiled and exhaled a long breath before sucking in a lungful of cool air from his open cockpit seat. The air was clearer up here, and those on the ground grew small and insignificant. Boyd relaxed for the first time in the last twenty-four hours.

Heisen or Heisen Pilot was what they called him. Black Pilot or Dark Pilot. He didn’t mind as long as they paid him on time and in full.

The biplane’s wings bent and the guide wires snapped under the pressure of the climb. He nudged the engine speed and watched it to make sure it didn’t overheat.

Engine vibrations ran up his legs from his heels. The glare from the sun made him blink and look down as he banked the biplane left. He saw the Japanese overrunning the Chinese rifle pits on the south side and flooding across the airfield.

He looked left and saw Fat Chou in the air below him. He swiveled his head to the right, and out of the rising sun he could see dark spots coming toward him. He double-checked that the 250-round canvas belt of .303 British cartridges were in the feed block. He cocked the action by pulling the charging handle back to engage the recoil spring and chamber the first round.

Fat Chou and Boyd saw the Japanese Type 87 Reconnaissance aircraft tandem seater built by Kawasaki with a nine cylinder engine at the same time. It was flying low over the landscape, recording Chinese troop deployments. Boyd used hand signals to send Fat Chou to scare off the reconnaissance plane while he strafed the nearest Japanese infantry to slow the advance.

I’ll do a couple strafing runs and then get the hell out of here.

Boyd’s Vickers machine guns plowed the ground with bullets on the first strafing run. Fat Chou forced the Type 87 Reconnaissance plane to reverse course only to be replaced by two of the Japanese Ko-4 fighters flying escort on reconnaissance aircraft. The Ko-4 fighter was a French-designed biplane, license-built by Nakajima, similar to the Nieuport-Delage NiD 29. Each Ko-4 had a red circle painted on both sides of its fuselage and on the upper and lower wing surfaces signifying the Japanese rising sun.

Fat Chou sped up and fired a burst from his Vickers machine gun, raking the fuselage of the closest Japanese Ko-4 Fighter. The Japanese fighter returned fire before trailing off with a cloud of gray smoke rolling out of the biplane. The smoke was whitish – gray and not too oily. Fat Chou had got lucky and punctured a hole in the radiator, and leaking coolant was vaporized on hot engine parts. It headed for home, leaving the other Ko-4 fighter unsupported.

As the second Japanese plane turned to escape, Boyd went into a low yo-yo maneuver, pulling down and away from the Japanese pilot’s turn, closing the angle of attack and the distance. Boyd kept a hand on the control stick, holding the craft on as smooth a trajectory as possible while on the edge of the shaking plane’s mechanical and structural capabilities.

I’ll get rid of this guy and then signal Fat Chou to head west.

Boyd was low when he suddenly arced up toward the rear of the Japanese fighter. The maneuver surprised the Japanese pilot. Boyd riddled the plane with rapid bursts from his synchronized 7.7mm Vickers machine guns. Then with a side-slip maneuver he flew his biplane sideways to rake the Japanese fighter from tail to fuselage. The bullets ripped into fabric, splintered wood and pinged off metal. The pilot had had enough and nursed this plane back toward the east.

Fat Chou had stayed back, scanning the skies for any threats, covering Boyd’s back. Pilots called it the “Loose Deuce”. In a Loose Deuce, Fat Chou was the wingman assigned to watch Boyd’s back while Boyd attacked. Boyd had been teaching the Chinese pilots about mutual support in air combat. He’d drilled into their heads to never leave your partner, always keep your eyes on your wingman and the enemy while maintaining speed and altitude for maneuvering.

Fat Chou could fly. Not bad for the son of a rich Manchurian merchant who probably used influence and bribes to get his son this plum flying assignment .

A machine-gun burst from a third, sneaky fast Ko-4 fighter arrived and shot holes into the canvas-wrapped wings of Boyd’s plane. Boyd pushed the control stick forward and dived, taking more rounds through the fabric covering of the wood-framed tail unit with its fixed horizontal stabilizer and rudder. A few more rounds hit the back of his seat, jolting him. He leveled out the plane so low over the ground he could see the Chinese blue-gray uniforms and the surprise on the soldiers’ upturned faces. It was a fleeting image as Boyd cranked back on the stick going into a quick vertical climb. He felt the engine on the verge of stalling and eased off the stick. This move put him above and behind the Ko-4. A burst of machine gun fire from Boyd and Fat Chou ushered the fighter out of the dogfight on his way back to base.

Boyd and Fat Chou took turns strafing the Japanese troops to slow them down, alternating wingman position using the Loose Deuce method. Japanese soldiers were streaming across the airfield on foot, motorcycles, trucks and cars. He observed the Chinese soldiers moving back in good order. Pockets of soldiers would fire a few rounds and then fall back to the next position, supported by one of the armored cars or another squad of soldiers. In that way, slowing the Japanese advance as they leapfrogged backwards.

Boyd squinted east into the brightening sun. Three blurry pinpricks were moving fast toward him.

More Ko-4 fighters? Where did they get them all?

He waved to Fat Chou. The young Chinese pilot waved back.

One more run at these guys, then get the hell out of here.

Two of the attackers angled their biplane fighters at Boyd. Boyd responded by opening the throttle and hitting 140 mph. One of the three Japanese fighters was creeping up on his tail for a point-blank burst of machine gun fire. Boyd nosed the plane upwards and went into a barrel roll before executing a second barrel roll, which offset him to one side of his original flight path. This resulted in the Japanese fighter to lose tracking and overshoot. The enemy plane fired a sustained burst filling the air around Boyd with lead.

Would have been nice to have one of Barnes’ Curtiss Hawks.

He glanced back; he saw more planes coming out of the sun. Boyd banked right and leveled out at 2,000 feet before pointing west and opening full throttle. Two Ko-4 fighters chased him away.

He waved to Fat Chou and pointed west. Fat Chou broke off an engagement and followed Boyd.

Looking down, all Boyd could see were Japanese soldiers and vehicles.

So much for slowing them down.

The army below Boyd changed from Japanese to Chinese troops as Boyd raced westward.

He watched as the bulk of the Manchurian army came into view beneath him. The rushing wind in his ears quieted the world, and here he could be part of the world but alone too. Here he was in control and in charge. Master of his own destiny. Skill dictated your place. And he was the best.

Fly, Jackie Boyd, fly!

Fat Chou was off Boyd’s right wing. Boyd signaled him to land. He’d have to find a landing spot, but it shouldn’t be hard in this farming area with all the fields.

The sun warmed the back of his neck in the open cockpit. Boyd wanted to keep flying all the way around the world. To indulge in this lighter than air sensation, swooping and soaring like the birds, to leave behind the shackles of earth. Freedom.

Ahead, was a wide, level patch of ground with other planes already parked. With a sigh, he circled and watched Fat Chou land.

What was next for Jackie Boyd?

He would always be an outsider.

Heise Pilot. 

His flying skills would soon deteriorate, and then what would happen to him? Shot down or kicked to the curb? No one owed allegiance to anything or anyone.

Will Chiang Kai-shek need Heise Pilot?

Boyd adjusted the throttle, and the engine coughed and slowed down, preparing to land. He could see a small crowd around Fat Chou, standing next to his plane giving him backslaps for a job well done. He pushed the quick pang of jealousy down inside and toggled his control stick until the wheels hit the ground, followed by the tail end of the plane skipping across the rough field. The plane shuddered before coming to a stop where the weight of gravity encircled Jackie and held him on the ground.

Fly, Jackie Boyd, fly!

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright R. K. Olson 2026

Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com

EDITOR’S NOTE: You can read four other Adventure stories by R.K. Olson on FreedomFiction.com , This story features the character Jackie Boyd and his continued adventures through war and valor. This is the fourth Boyd fiction appearing on FreedomFiction.com — the previous three in reverse chronological order of publication are:

Trotsky’s Train by R. K. Olson (February 2025)
https://www.freedomfiction.com/2025/02/trotskys-train-by-r-k-olson/

The Tsarina’s Jewels by R. K. Olson (August-2024)
https://www.freedomfiction.com/2024/08/tsarinas-jewels-by-r-k-olson/

The Vladivostok Express by R. K. Olson (April-2024)
https://www.freedomfiction.com/2024/04/the-vladivostok-express-olson/

Other Adventure story sans Jackie Boyd from R. K. Olson involves ancient lore of kingdoms and kins
Two Kings For Toltan by R. K. Olson (January-2024)
https://www.freedomfiction.com/2024/01/two-kings-for-toltan-by-r-k-olson/

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