Red Randall in Burma

  The Home of Great War Fiction!

  Red Randall and Jimmy Joyce are en route to Calcutta to join the Twelfth Air Force when Japanese dive bombers swoop down out of the sky and send Transport 58 to the bottom of the Indian Ocean. Adrift on a life raft, the two Yanks cling to the hope that they will be rescued. They are…but by a Japanese submarine! In their dank little cell aboard the submarine they find another airman—an R.A.F. officer—more dead than alive. The story of his escape from Burma in a Japanese plane, and of the plight of Allied men trapped there behind the enemy’s lines, fires Red and Jimmy with a grim determination to finish the work he had set out to do. How Red and Jimmy will escape and carry out the daring finish to the R.A.F. officer’s incomplete mission makes for a high-powered story of flying and adventure.

  RED RANDALL 7:

  RED RANDALL IN BURMA

  By R. Sidney Bowen

  First Published by Grosset and Dunlap in 1945

  Copyright © 1945, 2021 Robert Sidney Bowen

  First Electronic Edition: December 2021

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with Cosmos Literary Agency.

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  Chapter One – Destination: Calcutta

  HIS CHIN CUPPED in his hands, and his elbows propped on the railing, Red Randall stared out over the port bow of Transport 58 at the flat glassy smooth surface of the Indian Ocean.

  At one time Transport 58 had been a creamy white luxury tourist liner that cleaved the waters between Melbourne, Australia and Calcutta, India. Now she was a dirty gray, with rust patches splattered all over her hull. In her hold were crated airplanes destined for the United States Twelfth Army Air Force operating in the India Burma-China theater of war. As a matter of fact, she had even seen her best days as a transport, and were her skipper to push her above ten knots he would most certainly blow her boilers sky-high. However, she was sorely needed, and so she was still in service, quivering and shaking from stem to stern with every revolution of her twin screws.

  Beside Randall stood his flying mate and best friend, Jimmy Joyce. He, too, was staring out at the water and at the six other ships that made up the convoy. For several minutes neither had said a word. Each seemed to be busy with his own thoughts, most of which were troubled and speculative. Presently, though, Joyce spoke.

  “Sweet pickings for the Japs, if you ask me,” he said with a nod that included the other ships. “And you can bet your shirt that they’re in these parts somewhere.”

  Randall turned his head slightly and looked at Jimmy out of the corner of his eye.

  “You still here, Jimmy?” he murmured. “Thought you’d gone below to leave me alone to commune with Nature. I mean, Neptune. I agree with you; these ships are sitting ducks for a Jap sub or carrier-based dive bombers and torpedo planes. But I’m trying not to think about it.”

  “And just what are you thinking about?” Jimmy Joyce wanted to know.

  Randall removed one elbow from the rail and shifted around so that he faced his comrade.

  “I’m thinking that Columbus must have felt a little like the way I feel now,” he said with a wry grin. “Days and weeks with nothing to look at but water and ships. Do you suppose we’re just going in circles?”

  “Could be,” Joyce replied with a shrug. “But scuttlebutt has it that we make Calcutta the day after tomorrow.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” Randall declared. “Ten long days of this SS Snafu-Maru is too much. It gets a guy down.”

  “Well, it was your idea, pal,” Joyce reminded him.

  “What was my idea?” Randall snapped.

  “That we put in for Far East service,” Jimmy retorted. “Remember? After that business up in the Aleutians, you swore you were going to ask for service in a hot climate. You heard about the forming of the Twelfth Air Force. You signed up and talked me into doing the same. Besides, I couldn’t let you run around loose with nobody to keep an eye on you.”

  “Nice of you to take so much interest in me,” Randall snorted. “But the point is something went wrong, somewhere along the line. I was counting on being a pilot, not a working passenger on a mud scow like this. Fact is, I was figuring they’d fly us from Melbourne to Calcutta in Forts or Liberators.”

  “So you figured wrong, and got a boat ride instead,” Joyce said with a shrug. Then changing the subject he added, “I wonder what they plan to do with this new Twelfth Air Force? The Japs have all of Burma now. The Yank Forces got out by the skin of their teeth. Seems to me it will take some time before they can reorganize and go back in. I guess our job will be bombing and making things miserable for the Japs. Or maybe we’ll go into China and work out of there.”

  “We’ll know the answer after we reach Calcutta, if we ever get there,” Randall replied. He turned and looked out over the water again. “Hey! Aren’t those other ships pulling away from us? Sure they are! We weren’t tail end a while ago.”

  “Could be a change of formation and it’s our turn to take up the rear,” Joyce opined as he, too, looked across at the other ships in the convoy. “There’s an awful lot of open water between us, though.”

  “You telling me?” Randall said with a worried frown. “Feel this thing under your feet. It’s shaking and heaving more than ever. It would be just our luck to have the thing come apart at the seams and sink.”

  “Don’t be so pessimistic!” Jimmy chided. “This boat may be old but she’s still got what it takes. Night is due soon, and ten to one we’re just spreading out a little so as not to ram each other in the dark.”

  “O.K., have it your way, Navy Man,” Randall said. “But I still don’t like it. Those other tubs are either putting on the pressure, or else our skipper has hauled back on the throttle. And where are those two destroyers that were supposed to be our escort? I haven’t seen them for hours.”

  “Oh, they’re around some place,” Joyce said airily. “Don’t be so jittery, everything’s going to be O.K.”

  Joyce hardly had got the last word out when a shudder went through the ship. There was no sound, just a shudder that was transmitted to them through the soles of their boots. Randall instantly cocked an inquiring eye at Jimmy.

  “Did you feel that?” he demanded. “No doubt somebody dropped his watch on the deck. If we’re making more than two knots, I’ll eat the bow off this thing.”

  Jimmy glanced at the ever-widening space between Transport 58 and the other ships, and then leaned over the rail and stared down at the bow moving through the water. There were no bow waves now—only wide ripples that pushed outward to port and starboard.

  “We have cut speed,” he admitted. “But that’s no cause for alarm. Wee not running this ship, the Skipper is. He may have his reasons.”

  “Here’s hoping they are his reasons,” Red retorted.

  Randall and Joyce lapsed into silence and stood at the rail watching the six other ships pull farther and farther away from Transport 58. Finally Randall let out a grunt and turned from the rail.

  “Let’s go see what we
can find out,” he suggested. “Something’s gone wrong with this tub. Knowing what it is will make me feel better.”

  “The Skipper on the bridge might tell you, if you asked,” Jimmy said. “Or toss you overboard for sticking your nose into his business.”

  They walked along the deck toward the ladder leading up to the cabin deck. A young ensign with a war-weary face had just come down the ladder. His name was Billings. Red and Jimmy had become friendly with him at the outset of their voyage. Red halted in his tracks and gave the Navy man a questioning look.

  “Has the bottom fallen out of this thing, Billings?” he asked. “Is that why we’ve slowed down?”

  The ensign came up to them and, though there was a faint grin on his lips, there was no mirth in his eyes.

  “Just a minor detail, Air Forces,” he said. “The bearings on the starboard propeller shaft are trying to burn up. The Chief is turning over half revs on the other screw until he finds out what can be done.”

  “And if nothing can be done?” Randall pressed the point.

  Billings shrugged and peered ahead into the crimson glow that now silhouetted the other ships in the convoy.

  “The Chief knows his stuff, and he’ll work out something,” he said. “He’s got all night in which to do it, so that’s a break. Don’t worry, my friends, the Navy always gets you there.”

  “Sure, but when?” Randall said chaffingly. “Also, where are those destroyers that were going to keep us from harm?” he grinned.

  “Here and there,” Billings said, gesturing with his hand. “One of them may come back to tag along with us, but I doubt it. They’ve got a big enough job watching the other ships.”

  “In short, things really are tough below, eh?” Jimmy asked as he studied Billings’ face intently.

  The ensign hesitated, frowning.

  “They’re not so good,” he said frankly. “This tub should have been scrapped even before Pearl Harbor. But she wasn’t, and so we’re getting what we can out of her. Those bearings are a mess, and if the Chief does get things fixed up, he ought to get the Medal of Honor. Well, I’ve got work to do. See you later.”

  With a grin and a nod, the ensign hurried along the deck, and Randall and Joyce stood silently staring at his retreating figure.

  “Save your breath, Master Mind,” Jimmy presently grunted. “Don’t say it.”

  “Don’t say what?” Red asked.

  “Don’t say I told you so. There are other things to think about now. Two of them are the Chief Engineer and seven or eight hours of darkness.”

  “I get what you mean,” Randall echoed and ran his tongue across his lips. “Your crack about us being easy pickings for the Japs sure goes double in spades if daylight finds us squatting here.”

  As though by mutual accord, both air aces peered intently at the limitless expanse of ocean and at the broad canopy of blue sky that was swiftly changing to inky black.

  Chapter Two – Two-Way Attack

  THE FIRST FAINT gray streak of the new dawn that etched the eastern rim of the world found Transport 58 barely making headway on one propeller. All night long the Chief and his black gang had sweated and slaved without success to repair the burned-out bearings of the other propeller shaft. Transport 58 was doomed to plow slowly forward on half her power, at a time when even her full power fell far short of what a lone boat needed in those Japanese-infested waters.

  Not a man aboard had caught a wink of sleep. Officers, crew members, and Air Forces passengers alike, had maintained a constant vigil throughout the dark hours. Faces were drawn and haggard, and nerves taut, when dawn finally broke. Gradually the light crept far enough across the still water to reveal to the men that no destroyer had been sent back to aid Transport 58. They all realized, however, that the main convoy needed the protection of those destroyers against any Japanese subs that might be trying to blockade Calcutta. It was better to sacrifice one lone ship than to take the chance of leaving the whole convoy inadequately defended.

  Just the same, cold logic was no balm to those aboard the transport. As the day grew brighter and brighter, tired eyes searching the glassy surface and the towering dome of the sky grew sharper and sharper. Twin machine guns, mounted fore and aft, constituted the ship’s only armament, and more than one scornful look was flung their way.

  “Certainly was a bright boy who thought of putting those things aboard,” Red Randall grunted with a nod toward the bow guns. “What did he think we might run into? Ducks? Better to have given them to the infantry.”

  Jimmy Joyce, sitting beside him on the forward hatch, grinned.

  “Easy does it, kid,” he, said quietly. “They aren’t much use, but they’re probably all that could be spared. Why not try thinking of something cheerful for a change?”

  Randall flashed him an angry look and then suddenly broke out with a grin.

  “You win, I’m a heel, Jimmy,” he said. “Just can’t help myself, I guess. I feel as nervous as a guy about to make his first solo. I just can’t shake off the feeling that trouble is heading our way fast and we can’t do a doggone thing about it. Maybe that’s the way all pilots feel when they’re not in a plane. I never did play much in the rowboat league. But you’ve got Navy blood in you, so of course you’d feel different.”

  “Well, if you mean calm and collected, you’re crazy!” Joyce said with a tight laugh. “I’m wound up as tight as you are. The only difference is that I’m hoping hard we’ll get through regardless.”

  “Well, you do the hoping, and I’ll...” Randall began, then broke off abruptly. He sat motionless, staring at the sky.

  Jimmy gave Red a sharp look and a frown creased his forehead.

  “What’s up?” he demanded when Randall continued to sit motionless. “You hear something, Red?”

  Randall waited a few more seconds and then relaxed a little.

  “My ears playing tricks, probably,” he mumbled. “For a second I thought I heard a plane engine. Down there to the south. Listen! Can you hear anything?”

  Joyce leaned forward as though doing so would make his sense of hearing keener. He remained that way for a full minute. Then he straightened up and shook his head.

  “Must be your ears all right,” he said. “I can’t hear a thing that isn’t connected with this ship. I...”

  The rest of his words froze on his lips as the lookout up in the crow’s nest on the forward mast let go with an excited roar.

  “Bridge ahoy! Planes approaching dead south. I can count six of them, and I think there’re more behind.”

  “Keep your eye on them!” somebody on the bridge bellowed back. Then practically in the same breath, “All hands, battle stations!”

  A second later the ship’s alarm bell sounded its clanging note, and the decks shook with the scurrying of many feet. The gun crews both fore and aft checked their weapons and swung them around to the south. Fire crews raced for coiled hoses and made ready for any emergency. Men not having specific jobs moved quickly to points of possible shelter in the event that the approaching planes were Japanese.

  And they were Japanese planes. Both Randall and Joyce knew it when they were little more than dots racing up out of the southern sky. There were twelve in all, flying in two groups of six each.

  “Mitsubishi Karigane MK-11’s!” Jimmy hissed between clenched teeth. “Carrier-based jobs, and they’ve spotted us! They’re starting to slide down!”

  “The rats!” Randall grated and pressed closer to some deck cargo behind which Jimmy and he had taken shelter. “Twelve of them against the four peashooters we’ve got aboard. Know any good prayers, Jimmy?”

  Joyce did not answer. His lips were pressed tightly together as he stared helplessly at the two groups of Japanese planes sweeping up from the south. Suddenly the leading group swerved sharply to the west and every heart aboard Transport 58 started pounding with feverish hope. But when the trailing group swerved toward the east, Randall groaned softly and pressed his two clenched fists together.
br />   “They’re not passing us up, not a chance!” he muttered. “That maneuver is for a two-way attack. They just want to have their fun, that’s all. Catch us from two sides when they know darn well we can’t do a thing against any kind of maneuver. If only I were with one or the other of those machine-gun crews! Just standing here and taking it is...”

  Randall let the rest of his words die unspoken and licked his lips and swallowed hard. The two Japanese flights continued on their east and west courses for a couple of minutes. Then they swung around toward the north again, but the flight that had flown westward lagged back a little to give the other flight a chance to get well ahead. All eyes aboard the transport followed the first group as it moved farther northward past the stern of the ship and then veered to the west to get into attack position to starboard.

  All the while the lagging flight could have made its attack, but it continued to throttle until its accompanying flight was in position. Boiling rage mounting steadily within him, Randall watched helplessly as the vultures from Nippon wheeled into position.

  “Just a cloud hopper is all I want,” he muttered more to himself. “Just anything with wings and a couple of guns, so that I could slam into those devils.”

  “Yeah, but neither of us has a cloud hopper,” Joyce cut in, tight-lipped. “Concentrate on praying they don’t get the load of ammo we have aboard, first run. Watch it! Here they come!”

  Simultaneously the two flights of Kariganes dropped their noses and came slanting down toward the helpless transport. Sea and air trembled and shook with the savage yammer of multiple aerial machine-gun fire. The forward and aft guns of Transport 58 answered back but their sound was like a whisper in a boiler factory.

  “Down, Red, down! Do you want to be clipped?”

  Randall paid no attention to Joyce’s warning. He was too fired with anger to give any thought to his own safety. The Japanese planes were thundering down and plastering the decks of the transport from bow to stern. Three of them, fitted as dive bombers, ripped down and released their deadly loads, but all three bombs hurtled harmlessly down into the sea, well clear of the transport, and sent great geysers of foaming water spewing skyward.