Chapter 3

The rain came down in torrents the next day, but we continued on. At dusk we reached the top of the seventh peak, the highest and steepest of all. Fortunately, this was the last. We descended the other side a short distance and soon came to a dirt road. I was overcome with joy, for there on the road were tire tracks deeply imprinted in the mud--American jeep tracks.

Burkhardt was doing well on the elephant's back by now, and after we had walked up the road a mile or two we heard a jeep approaching. Sure enough, at the next bend there was a sturdy little Willys plowing its way through the mud, which was over the hub of the wheels. A white man was driving---an Englishman. As soon as he saw us he jumped out of the jeep and ran forward to greet us. After the usual formalities of introductions and such, the Englishman, the little Kachin chief, Burkhardt, and I piled into the jeep and set off for camp.

Just as we approached the clearing where the village was situated, we noticed a C-47 overhead. It was the weekly "dropping" plane. American troop carrier squadrons dropped bags of rice and other supplies to the village once a week. The Englishman told us there was an American liaison station near-by, consisting of a five-man radio team, and that supplies for them were also included in that dropping.

Then the Englishman gave us the good news that Anderson had arrived there two days before us; and as we crossed the clearing, Anderson ran out to meet us. About noon of the next day, a runner brought in the sad news that the co-pilot's body had been found in a tree. From the native's description of his chute, we knew it had been riddled with bullets. The news set us back a pace or two and made us realize just how lucky we three had been.

There were two jeeps at this camp, which we used to get to Fort Hertz, where a C-47 picked us up and took us back to Chabua.