Page Six                          
 
                                                            
 
 
Word came over from the ether clearing station that there 
      would a burial of British and Americans shortly because the Jackals 
      were already howling - the first time I have over heard them 
      howl in daylight. There was a burial in one grave regardless 
      of rank or nation, with John Michael Matthew, the little Burmese 
      Chaplain from Rangoon diocese attached to the Kingts; reading 
      the service and everyone fervently following in the Lord's prayer 
      - with motors high in the air suddenly but nobody looking up 
      or moving to take cover until the rough wooden cross was planted 
      and the last spadeful of earth was in - then scattering in all 
      directions. But it was only our top cover, cruising far above, 
      during the daylight hours, according to careful plan. 
 
                                                            
 
 
All through the forenoon the engineers toiled in the gathering 
      heat. Doc Tullboch was back empty handed. The captain with the 
      broken foot had been too dazed to keep his directions straight. 
      Doc got another set of directions from the injured sergeant and 
      went in again. But again the directions were wrong and again 
      Tulloch came out empty handed and dead-beat with cutting through 
              Jungle growth for upward of ten miles.        
 
                                                            
 
 
Brig Calvert roughed in the casualty list as it was known 
      to us and as we could guess it farther from known factors of 
      missing gliders and suddenly it was amazingly small for what 
      it had purchased. In another six hours thousands of troops would 
      pour in power ships on this airport of ours - that some of the 
                first wave men had died to secure.          
 
                                                            
 
 
There was the hum of light motors in the sky suddenly and 
      over the treetops came the tiny planes off Major Rebori, jaunty, 
      frail and insolent in their perfect formation. They have come 
      across the vast enemy-held terrain at tree-top level, with belly 
      tanks to get them there - the Maytag Helldivers come to take 
      out the injured. We got one of them to cruise the jungle and 
      located Doc crash. He brought in the exact bearing. We  %shot the 
      azimuth and cut into the rank growth of jungle and after an hour 
      of it, we found the crash. Two men had survived it and we got 
      them out. Jerry Dunn was in there - to stay. So were the rest. 
      He had been wrong - you mustn't talk about it - you mustn't think 
      about it. When you have an appointment in Samara, you will keep 
                   it, whether you talk or not.             
 
      The American Engineers toiled on throughout the long, stessing 
      afternoon, smoothing the strip for the power ships, lengthening 
      it - making the airport. Their officer lay in there in that jungle 
      crash with the rest of them - the third officer they have lost 
      to date. " Every time we get a job in Burma we lose an officer". 
      They stood around for a moment, helpless, bewildered, angry deep 
      inside themselves, then young Brackett, the last lieutenant they 
     had, said "O.K. - two more hours of daylight, Get going
 
      The Combat Engineers - shovels and machine guns and all the toughest 
      jobs in war to do - but with the holy fires of something in their 
      souls to carry them on without something that only a combat engineer 
          can understand - and nobody else need try to,     
 
                                                            
 
 
The sun was tow, sinking to the tree toes sad the shadows 
      were pooling deep across the clearing - them clearing far in 
      enemy territory - so far that when you looked at it on a map 
      you still couldn't quite believe that you were there. But you 
      were - and it was no longer enemy territory - it belonged to 
      us| It was an airport, ringed now with enough men to hold it 
      for the time that was left to wait - test listed for the troop-carrying 
     power ships as the sun went down- and the lights worked
 
      A wrecked glider was the control tower - John Allison was ready 
      in it, with his control radio.