Wind-Gone-Mad

 

The square of yellow earth slid up over the motor cowl with appalling speed. The altimeter shot down to five hundred feet before the pilot whipped his ship into a slashing sideslip.

 

Men in gray uniforms were running away from deserted machine guns, disappearing behind piles of sandbags. An officer stopped to empty his automatic at the charging slash of color.

 

The pilot fishtailed wildly and shot over the stiff wind sock. The plane snapped suddenly into landing position. With a crunching slap, the ship was down.
 

It was as if an electric current had been shut off. Men began to fumble for their lost caps. Gunners slouched back to their pieces. The officer calmly slid another clip into his gun and holstered it. On the side of the red fuselage they had all seen the dragon and the two mammoth characters which identified their visitor. They knew this man and they also knew that he had little connection with The Butcher.

 

The pilot stood up in his narrow pit and stretched. But he did not remove the goggles which hid a quarter of his face, nor did he so much as unfasten the chin strap of the lurid helmet he wore.

 

The officer, a White Russian, stopped and looked at the red dragon which spat fire above the pilot’s eyes and then curled down around the ear pads. Assured of the man’s identity, he came forward again.

 

“I am sorry, Feng-Feng. Had I but seen the dragon—”

 

“Quite all right,” interrupted the pilot. “I wish an audience with Cheng-Wang immediately.”

 

“Cheng-Wang is at your service, I am sure. But perhaps it would be better for us to place your plane in a bombproof hangar. We are waiting an attack by The Butcher. Perhaps if we service your engine, when the bombers come you can—”

 

Wind-Gone-Mad laughed joyously. “Such faith! You think that I would attack three Demming bombers single-handed? Really, my good friend Blakely sells better ships than you suppose. I would be downed in an instant.”

 

It was the Russian’s turn to laugh. Wind-Gone-Mad shot down? The thing was impossible, ludicrous. In a moment he subsided and spoke again more seriously. “Had Cheng-Wang listened better to the proposition to buy three Amalgamated bombers when you asked—”

 

“Quiet,” said Feng-Feng, not unkindly. “That is a secret that only a few of us hold. Its release would mean my death. But never mind. I go to see Cheng-Wang. Service my ship and listen in on my panel radio for talk in Shen Province. The pigs will give you warning. If you know that they come, send for me and I will do my best to beat them off.” He dropped to the ground lightly and strode toward a waiting motorcycle.

 

Cheng-Wang was old. On his parchment face was stamped the weariness of one who has seen too much, has fought too many battles, has witnessed too often the summer’s fading into the dusty harshness of winter.

 

Cheng-Wang was frail and when he moved his hands the almost-fleshless bones clattered above the click of his long fingernails. With an impassive nod, he gave the order that the man called Feng-Feng be admitted to the audience room.

 

Still masked by his goggles and casqued by his helmet, Wind-Gone-Mad entered with long, determined strides. His leather flying coat rustled when he sat down in the indicated chair.

 

“It pleases me that you come,” said Cheng-Wang in five-toned Mandarin Chinese. “Long have I wanted to give you my regrets for not accepting your offer and your warning. Now there is little we can do. The Butcher has begun his fight and it will be short. Along the eastern border, my troops lose miles of ground each day. They are harassed from the air. But you have come too late.”

 

Behind the lenses of the great goggles, Feng-Feng’s gray eyes held those of the provincial governor. “I do not think that I have. Our friend Blakely sold them no pursuit planes because they could procure no pilots. At the North China Airways field I now have a fighting ship—my own. It has two machine guns and it travels four miles a minute. With that I can help you.”

 

“It is useless,” mourned Cheng-Wang. “I will not allow you to throw your life to The Butcher. You do it out of sympathy alone and you use no regard for your own safety. The Butcher has placed a price on you, and that long ago. He would see your helmeted head dangling from a picket. Blakely, the man you oddly call your friend, negotiated that these many months gone by.”

 

“There are no bombers at my call in Shanghai,” stated the man called Feng-Feng. “I can only do as fate and my hand dictate. Is it true that you are to receive an air attack today?” 

 

Without explanation, knowing that it was not needed, Cheng-Wang presented a square of paper which bore black slashes. Deciphered, it said:

 

The Hawks of The Butcher strike before dark. It is better to accept an honorable surrender from Cheng-Wang than for The Butcher to occupy a lifeless town.

 

The massive black doors swung back and a soldier in gray stood rigidly at attention in the opening. He saluted. “To the east, heaven-borne, are the Hawks of The Butcher.” Dropping his hand he left-faced, waiting for Wind-Gone-Mad to precede him out of the palace.

 

The pilot turned, and his mouth was set. “Refuse to know terror, Cheng-Wang. This one goes to dull the claws of The Butcher.” He tramped rapidly away and the black doors swung softly shut behind him.