A War Too Far Read online

  A War Too Far

  Based on True Events

  DAVID LEE CORLEY

  Copyright © 2019 Author David Lee Corley

  All rights reserved.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Author's Biography

  DEDICATION

  To those that fought, died, and survived in the Vietnam Wars. Your sacrifices will not be forgotten.

  PROLOGUE

  On May 7, 1945, Germany surrendered to the Allies. However, World War II continued to rage in Asia and the Pacific. With hopes of eliminating China from the war, the Japanese launched Operation Ichigo – the largest Japanese offensive of all time. Over one million Japanese soldiers were committed to action in China. Troops and supplies from Vietnam supported the massive operation.

  The Deer Team – an elite American OSS unit was secretly sent into Vietnam to shut down the Japanese supply routes and prevent the Japanese from venturing further into China. It was the beginning of America’s involvement in Vietnam.

  This story is based on true events.

  “There is no deceit in death. It delivers precisely what it has promised. Betrayal, though ... betrayal is the willful slaughter of hope.”

  Steven Deitz

  ONE

  Southern China – May 23, 1945

  Two Japanese soldiers chatted in a truck cab; one driving, the other watching the passing countryside for potential ambushes. It was the usual banter between comrades-in-arms about the size of an old girlfriend’s breasts and the wild times they had drinking too much sake with their friends before the war. The news of the German surrender hadn’t dampened their spirits. Like most Japanese soldiers, they didn’t think much of their German allies, if at all. That wasn’t their reality. They were fighting the Americans in the Pacific and the Chinese in China. Everything else was a sideshow. Their commanders kept the bad news from the troops as much as possible. As far as the average Japanese soldier knew, they were winning the war and would soon be going home to their sweethearts and families victorious.

  The truck engine groaned as it climbed a long incline. The Japanese were transporting troops to the front line, which was just outside of Chihkiang, China. It wasn’t a particularly heavy load for the six-wheeled Type 94 truck, but the roads were in bad shape, forcing them to keep all the truck’s wheels engaged, which slowed them down.

  As the lead truck in the convoy, it was following the commander’s vehicle – a four-wheel-drive Type 95 Korugane – Japan’s early version of a jeep. The truck driver’s eyes went wide when he saw two Curtiss P-40 Warhawks with shark teeth nose art appear over the crest of the hill. It was the damned Americans.

  Each Warhawk carried a 500lb bomb on the center hardpoint under its fuselage. It was a general-purpose bomb that exploded on impact. It wasn’t anything fancy. It didn’t need to be. The aircraft was also armed with six Browning .50 Caliber machineguns with 235 rounds per gun. It wasn’t a lot of ammunition for a gun that shot 750 rounds per minute, but it packed a powerful punch.

  The nose art identified the fighters as part of General Chennault’s Air Group, nicknamed “The Flying Tigers.” The shark mouth artwork struck fear into the Japanese who respected the American pilots and their aircraft far more than the Chinese Air Force, which they saw as inferior.

  The lead pilot was James “Earthquake McGoon” McGovern, a mountain of a man with the confidence to match. His nickname “McGoon” came from the Li’l Abner comic strip printed daily in most American newspapers. At six feet tall and weighing in at two hundred and sixty pounds, McGoon was unusually large for a pilot and had his seat modified so he could fit comfortably in the cockpit of his fighter.

  His wingman was Casey “Smitty” Smith, shy, wiry, and one hell of a shot with his aircraft’s machineguns. He had saved McGoon from certain death more than once during a dogfight. While McGoon was good at getting them into trouble, Smitty was good at getting them out.

  They had been searching all morning for targets. They could have just flown to the front lines where there were plenty of targets, but those areas were well protected by Japanese anti-aircraft guns and squadrons of Zeros providing overwatch. It was safer to hunt down enemy supply convoys. They were running low on fuel and headed back to their airbase when McGoon spotted the convoy heading up a hill. It was a juicy target – transportation trucks filled with troops.

  McGoon and Smitty had chosen to approach the convoy flying on the deck just three hundred feet from the ground in hopes of surprising it before it could defend itself with its mobile anti-aircraft battery. It worked. The Japanese were caught completely off guard as witnessed when the lead truck accidentally slammed into the back of the commander’s vehicle when the driver slowed on seeing the aircraft.

  McGoon pickled the weapon button and released his Warhawk’s only bomb.

  The bomb landed ten feet in front of the command vehicle. That was close enough to rip it apart, killing everyone inside. The lead truck’s engine was peppered with shrapnel, disabling it. The truck’s windshield imploded into the faces of the driver and passenger, but it was the bomb’s shockwave that killed them, turning their insides to mush.

  McGoon did not waste his machinegun ammunition on the first pass. Instead, he studied the disposition of the Japanese troops abandoning the vehicles and diving for cover along the roadside. He also got a good look at the anti-aircraft battery mounted on the back of a truck. It was a twin-barrel Type 96 based on the French 25mm Hotchkiss gun. Very effective. Very deadly. “Block ’em in good, Smitty,” said McGoon over the radio. “They got a Type 96, and we’re low on fuel. We’re only gonna get one more run at ’em.”

  “Got it, Boss,” said Smitty.

  As the two aircraft approached the end of the convoy, McGoon peeled off, giving Smitty a clear shot at the last vehicle. Smitty released his bomb.

  It was a direct hit and annihilated the truck. Only one of the three axles remained with the left tire still attached and burning. If it weren’t for the huge crater in the road, the truck’s debris would not have been enough to keep the convoy from escaping.

  The remaining trucks were sandwiched between two bomb craters and burning wreckage. There wasn’t enough room on the road to turn around, and the heavy vegetation prevented them from driving off-road. They were trapped and at the mercy of the Americans. Their only hope was the anti-aircraft battery in the middle of the convoy. The gun crew scrambled to get the battery operational and return fire.

  McGoon banked his aircraft and lined up his strafing run. It was a bit like sewing – once he started, he didn’t want to stop. He would only have a fifteen-second burst. He needed to leave a small amount of ammunition in his guns in case they encountered enemy aircraft on their way back to the base. As he approached the last vehicle in the convoy, he opened fire down the left side of the road where half of the troops were hiding. Troops were more important than trucks, especially when they were lined up nicely like these were. All six of the Warhawk’s machineguns fired in unison; seventy-five-bullets per second. They laid out a ribbon of death, twenty feet wide and moving at three hundred miles per hour.

  There was no time for the Japanese troops to avoid the fusillade. They just closed their eyes and hoped for the best.

  As the barrage of bullets approached the middle of the convoy, McGoon nudged his plane over toward the center of the road and strafed the anti-aircraft battery on the back of the truck, killing
the gunner, two loaders and damaging the weapon. It never got a shot off. Satisfied with the result, McGoon jogged his plane back to the troops hiding along the left side of the road and finished his run.

  Smitty was next. He lined up his aircraft down the right side of the road and unleashed hell on the surviving Japanese troops. The results were similar to McGoon’s, but Smitty skipped the anti-aircraft battery, which already looked disabled. Instead, he saved the last of his run for the lead truck where he saw someone trying to climb out of the back. He zigged over and strafed the truck, tearing holes in the canvas used to shade the troops from the hot sun. The burning phosphate from the tracer rounds set the vehicle ablaze.

  “Sorry, boys. We’re outta bullets. But don’t worry… We’ll catch up with ya real soon. You can count on it,” said McGoon over the radio for Smitty’s enjoyment.

  In all, twenty-two Japanese soldiers were killed or critically wounded in less than a minute. Most of the vehicles in the convoy were badly damaged, and several were on fire. It would take two extra days for the rest of the troops to reach the front lines. It was a good day’s work for McGoon and Smitty. They formed up, banked south and headed for home.

  The air was muggy and smelled of gasoline mixed with decaying vegetation around the airfield. The sun hung low on the horizon, and the shadows were long. Almost all the planes out on patrol had landed for the day. But the Allied airbase was still abuzz. The mechanics were hard at work performing maintenance on the aircraft engines and patching Japanese bullet holes in the wings and fuselages. The fighters had to be patched up, rearmed, and refueled for takeoff by sunup. That meant a long night for the ground crews under the work lights.

  McGoon frowned as he watched a Chinese artist carefully paint a red circle on the side of the Douglas DC-3 transport plane. “Now that’s a crying shame,” said McGoon. “Perfectly good aircraft being defaced like that.”

  “You think the japs will buy it?” said Smitty standing beside him, watching.

  “Why wouldn’t they? It’s the same airframe as the Showa. ’Sides, I don’t plan on getting close enough for them to get a good look at it.”

  “The best-laid plans of mice and men…”

  “Smitty, you been reading again?”

  “Yeah. Steinbeck.”

  “You really gotta knock that off. A brain can only remember so much. You’re filling yours up with literature.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “What’s the fuel consumption rate of a DC-3?”

  “I don’t know… eighty… maybe a hundred gallons per hour?”

  “Now, ya see… that’s my point. You can’t remember cuz you replaced that knowledge with useless fiction.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Good. No more reading till the war’s over.”

  McGoon was in an unusually foul mood. After their successful assault on the Japanese convoy, he and Smitty had been taken off the flight roster. “Don’t make no sense grounding your two best pilots,” said McGoon.

  “The commandant didn’t ground us. We’re still gonna fly,” said Smitty.

  “I don’t know about you, but I ain’t no taxi service.”

  “Come on, McGoon. It’s a cakewalk. We should be thankful we’re not gonna be shot at.”

  “Damn it, Smitty. We’re fighter pilots. They pay us to get shot at.”

  “Pay’s the same, McGoon. It’s a couple of missions. And they must be pretty important if they want guys like us to fly ’em.”

  “I guess. I do know the area pretty well. I flew over it a buncha times when I was stationed in Burma.”

  “There you go. Your expertise is needed.”

  “You think these guys we’re gonna drop are pretty important, huh?”

  “Must be. Donovan called Chennault directly and asked for his two best pilots.”

  “Really?”

  “Would I lie to you, McGoon?”

  “You might just to shut me up.”

  “Fair enough,” said Smitty with a shrug. “I’ll see ya later. I got a letter to write to my wife.”

  Smitty headed for his tent while McGoon stayed to supervise the artist as the sun set.

  McGoon and Smitty flew for the 14th Air Force's 118th Tactical Reconnaissance Squadron, 23rd Fighter Group. The pilots of the 118th were supposed to be flying the newer P-51 Mustangs, but their shipment of the aircraft was diverted after the Japanese Navy bombed Pearl Harbor. The P-51s were faster, turned tighter, and were better armed than the P-40s, but it didn’t seem to bother McGoon too much as long as he got to kill japs. The Warhawks could out dive the Japanese Zeros, and that was all the advantage McGoon needed. He had been credited with downing four Zeros in dogfights and destroying an additional five on the ground. That made him an ace, which he mentioned as often as possible when meeting young ladies.

  The airfield at Laohwangping was shared with 35th Reconnaissance Squadron. The 35th flew P-38s because of their range. McGoon liked the P-38. It was fast, plus it looked real slick with its twin engines and tail booms. He had trained on them before the war but was politely asked to train on the cheaper Mustang after he crashed a P-38 during a dive bomb exercise. It wasn’t his fault. The plane had stalled. But it didn’t matter to the brass. Besides, McGoon wanted to fly for the Chinese, and they were going to use the Mustang anyway. The Chinese were already in the war with Japan, and the pay was three times that of a US Air Force pilot. And to top it off, he already liked eggrolls. The three hundred Americans in the Chinese Air Force were under the command of Major General Claire Lee Chennault, nicknamed “Old Leatherface.”

  The entire Laohwangping airfield compound wasn’t more than a compressed earth runway with a line of aircraft on the edge. There were a couple of dozen tents used by the pilots and ground crews, plus a few small wooden buildings used as support facilities. The smallest building had been converted into an officers’ club at the insistence of McGoon. “It ain’t American if there ain’t a bar,” he said to his squadron commander. “We don’t mind getting our asses shot off as long as we can come back to a cold beer at the end of the day.”

  “And where do you plan on getting the ice?” said his commander.

  “Let me worry about that. You just give us the building. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  It took some doing, but McGoon got his officers club and the ice that kept the beer cold. He trained a local man to be the bartender and only made him pay half his tips for the privilege. He liked the Chinese, at least the ones that weren’t communists. He could see that they were really smart. They picked up the things that they were taught quickly, and they remembered them. He didn’t think they would make good fighter pilots. He had seen a lot of Chinese paintings. They were two-dimensional. Flying in combat took a certain amount of creativity, and you had to think in three dimensions. In his opinion, that was not the strong suit of the Chinese.

  When the Chinese artist finished painting the transport plane’s insignia, McGoon headed for the bar. His bar. That’s the way he saw it. The officers club had a Polynesian décor with tiki torches, native masks and tasteful posters of topless native women from a Frenchie artist named ‘Paul Gauguin.’ The bartender was Tian Xinyou, but McGoon couldn’t remember it, so he just started calling him Kwon.

  Kwon opened a cold beer the moment he saw McGoon walk through the door. Being the boss man, McGoon drank for free. Everyone else paid, even the squadron commanders. McGoon kept up appearances by always saying, “Thanks, Kwon. Put it on my tab.” Kwon would make an X on whatever piece of paper was lying around at the time, then throw it away when the officer’s club closed for the night.

  There were six men already seated at one of the bamboo tables when McGoon arrived. They wore jungle fatigues but without insignia so nobody could tell their rank or country. McGoon walked over and said, “You guys must be the package I’m delivering tomorrow.”

  The six men went quiet like some sort of etiquette had been broken. “You might no
t want to say that too loud,” said Peter Dewey, the commander of the group.

  “Why is that? We’re all on the same side here.”

  “Discretion is the better part of valor in our line of work.”

  “And what line of work would that be?”

  “Like I said… discretion.”

  “Must be spooks then.”

  One of the men rose from his chair and moved toward McGoon. He was tall like McGoon, but his body was tight and fit. His name was René Granier, but the men in his unit called him “Buck” because he liked deer hunting. His dead eyes locked with McGoon’s. He said nothing but McGoon could tell he was a serious man and meant to do him harm. “Buck,” said Dewey. “…order another round, will you? And one for the good captain.”

  “Much obliged, but I already got one,” said McGoon keeping his eyes on Granier.

  “Then you’ll have two, and we’ll be happier for it.”

  “Alright. If you insist.”

  “We do. Please sit with us.”

  Granier moved off to the bar and McGoon pulled up a chair at the table. “You’re familiar with where we are going tomorrow?” said Dewey in a hushed voice.

  “I’ve been in the area a few times. Chased a Zero across the border last month. Japs got plenty of flak.”

  “Which you will avoid?”

  “Best I can. That’s why they picked me. I don’t usually fly transport. I’m a fighter pilot. But we all do what we gotta do for the cause, right?”

  “We appreciate the sacrifice.”

  “Ain’t no sacrifice. Those Vietnamese have saved a lot of downed American pilots. Prevented them from being captured by the Japs. If we can help ’em, we should.”

  “Good to know. Now, about the drop…?”