June 14, 3 o'clock sharp.

It's a normal early morning in northeastern India, the sun hasn't come out yet, and not even a single color has appeared on the eastern horizon. The sky is full of stars, and under the faint light of the stars, the vast fields and mountains are still asleep in dreams. Except for the occasional sound from some songworms, everything was shrouded in the darkness and silence of the limitless.

But the darkness was cut right away, and the light that tore through the darkness was not the sun from the east, but the lights of the airport. As the lights came on, the roar of various machines quickly broke the pre-dawn silence.

Large groups of P-51s lined up in a neat line at one end of the runway. One by one, they rose into the air at the command of the tower, and then merged into the dark night sky, only the wingtips of the navigation lights flickered on.

Two hours later, the sun rises here, and swarms of transport planes take off from here loaded with fuel and supplies, and then go around the majestic snow-capped mountains, over the reckless jungles, and brave enemy artillery fire to deliver those precious supplies to China along the route strewn with the wreckage of the crash. Most of these supplies would then remain in the warehouses of the 14th Air Force to support this air offensive. The remaining small half, part of it will appear in the hands of the army confronting Japan, and some will appear in the mouths of those hungry and thirsty people in the rear, of course, there will be a large part of it will flow into the black market, in