FUNG PAII PROVINCE， NORTttERN CHINA.，\"
Late September， 1948
The olive-green DC-3， props glinting silver， sliced
through pools of sunlight as it dropped from the mass
of dark clouds， then bounced down in the plowed
field. Dust erupted in whirlwinds behind its engines.
The plane skidded sideways， then settled into two
plowed furrows.
When the Red Cross insignia on the side was
dearly visible， a Chinese man and two women in
coolie bats broke from the cover of the elm trees near
the hill and dashed toward the plane.
The nan-ow， curved exit door on the DC-3 jiggled
and fell inward. A round-faced， horse-toothed young
man jumped out.
\"Hope this is it，\" he said. \"It sure don t look like no
Valley of the DeadI\"
A tall man with an aquiline， aristocratie face ap-
peared in the doorway. I-Ie was about fifty.
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